Easter will never be the same for me.

I grew up in the church. Among my earliest memories are pictures of getting up before dark and attending the Sunrise Worship Service on Easter morning at church. I remember seeing the deacons stirring the eggs in the kitchen for the breakfast afterwards.

But as I grew, Easter became more about fashion than about Jesus. New dresses, white hats, curled hair—it all had to be perfect for Easter morning.

I had been taught that Jesus rose again. And I believed it. I didn’t understand it. Didn’t see how it could be possible, but I said I believed it. For years, I simply believed it on faith. As an adult, I had read such great books as Josh McDowell’s Evidence that Demands a Verdict (whew! tough to slog through, but worth it!) and D. James Kennedy’s What if Jesus Had Never Been Born (very thought provoking, looking at the incredible impact Jesus has made in every bit of culture). Logically, I believed in the Resurrection. Evidence from history showed it was true.

But it just wasn’t really real to me. It was on par with the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The evidence was there, and I was grateful for its impact in my life. I lived as a free person. But I didn’t get to see it being signed, so it was just an interesting and important fact of my life.

Then, my daughter was born.

It was the early morning of July 19. I had been in labor all night. Finally, around dawn, I entered transition, and I knew it wouldn’t be long now. Around 6 am, I started really pushing. I was so tired … but encouraged by the bright sunrise. Just before 7 am, disaster struck. Her shoulders became stuck. It took about 3-4 minutes for them to get her out. Modesty requires that I spare you the details, but if you’re a mom, you understand.

Then I heard the absolute worst words in the world: “She doesn’t have a heartbeat.”

Physiologically, I was going into shock from loss of blood and exhaustion. I can only remember laying there, saying the words over and over again, “Lord, please resurrect my baby.”

Let’s back-track a bit… We chose our baby’s name several months before she was born. At that point, we didn’t even know if it would be a girl or a boy. We settled on a girl’s name rather quickly. I was in labor, though, before we settled on a boy’s name. (“Honey, don’t you think it’s time to decide?”) We are Christians. We believe that our faith should permeate all areas of our lives. Since we had so much trouble even having children, we knew that any children we were given on this earth were precious gifts of God. From the moment we saw that little blue line on the pregnancy test, we dedicated each child to God. We wanted our children’s very names to testify to our belief in Jesus. God required our first three children right away. In earthly terms, I suffered three miscarriages. Finally, God blessed us with a child the He would let us keep for a while. Our first daughter’s name means “Grace of Christ,” because we knew we had her only through the grace of Christ. This second child, though, we decided to name “Resurrection.” Obviously, those aren’t their real names, but the meanings of their names. (This is the internet, after all. I want to protect my children’s identities.)

So, this was baby “Resurrection.” And her heart had stopped. Ironic, isn’t it? So there I lay, going into shock, praying, “Lord, please resurrect my baby. We chose her name because of You. Now please resurrect my baby.”

I always thought that when I would be faced with such a crisis situation, that I would be able to offer fervent, heartfelt, soul-depth prayers. But in that moment of physical exhaustion and medical shock, I could only pray woodenly. I felt very much like I was simply doing what was expected. I had no feelings. I felt as if I too had died. At that moment, I almost wished I had.

The medical personnel tell me it was only another 3-4 minutes of CPR before her heart restarted. But for me, it was an eternity of numbness. That started us down a very rough, rocky, bitter road that has yielded joy and strength and faith like I never thought possible. After two weeks in NICU, the doctors gave us very little hope because of the lack of oxygen she suffered. They said it was simply too early to tell. Not in so many words, but they couldn’t tell us if we had a vegetable or a baby.

But they didn’t know about the Man who deals in Resurrections.

This is now the 4th Easter since she was born. The baby that they said would probably never walk or talk is running up and down the hall right now, chattering away about her various toys, my pet doves, the laundry that needs to be done, the fish tank, her rainbow blanket, her sister doing her schoolwork, how sweet the rain smells, and a host of other 2 second topics.

In retrospect, I’ve learned some things.

First, she really was dead. Shortly after this baby turned 2 years old, I watched my father die. After they removed the ventilator, his coloring went from pink to blue to white, and finally to a pasty yellow color. Up until that time, I didn’t realize that my baby was really dead. I thought she was just … well, I don’t know. Very unconscious? Paused? I had no idea. The idea of my baby being actually dead was too horrible to imagine. But seeing my father slip away and then remembering how strangely yellow–-not blue, not white--my daughter looked, really made it clear to me how grave (not a pun) the situation was.

Further, I learned The Born Alive Infants Protection Act (PL 107-207—a law designed to protect infants who are born alive, even after an abortion attempt) defines a live birth with four criteria: “breathes or has a beating heart, pulsation of the umbilical cord, or definite movement of voluntary muscles.” Under that definition, my baby was dead. No breathing, no heart beat, no pulsing cord, no movement at all. D.E.A.D., dead. Had her birth been from an abortion, there would have been no attempt to medically treat her.

She was dead, no denying it. She was completely beyond my reach. Nothing I said or did at that point could have changed anything. No amount of money in the world would have started her heart again. Nothing. I never felt so completely powerless in my life. I pray I never feel that helpless again.

The doctors theorize that the birth trauma of getting her shoulders stuck for such an extended time caused her heart to stop. For weeks I underwent the mental anguish of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” I struggled to find meaning and purpose in such a horrible situation. Finally, a dear, Godly sister-friend helped me realize in a very real way that God had complete control of that situation. God started this baby’s heart beating in the first place. He chose the exact moment to stop her heart, and He chose the exact moment to re-start her heart. His ways are perfect, and I had to trust in those ways. His meaning and His purposes are perfect, and I am greatly privileged to be part of His miracles. Perhaps part of the purpose is your reading this article right now, hearing about Jesus, perhaps for the first time.

She was dead. And Jesus resurrected her. No denying that. I don’t understand it. Don’t see how it could be possible, but I believe it. This time, though, I was there. It was really, really, really real to me. I may not have stood before the cross or peeked into the empty tomb, but I experienced a resurrection, nonetheless. I had read about Lazarus, and son of the widow of Nain, and the little girl--but that was long ago and far away. This was my baby, my own little Resurrection baby. I may have been praying woodenly, barely alive myself. But I was praying to the One who is Life, the One who is the Resurrection.

Easter will never be the same.

Postscript: The 3-½ years since the worst day of my life have been filled with countless therapy sessions—physical, occupational, speech. We’ve spent untold hours working with this special little girl. Jesus has healed her beyond our wildest hopes. If you could see her now, you’d never know there was ever anything wrong with her. She still has some challenges, but they are seeming less and less of a problem every day. Jesus continues to amaze us. Jesus is all the world to me. I pray He becomes all the world to you.

Copyright © 2007 by Anni Welborne Share

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