 
The Blood Cried Out

Deborah Stewart Contributions by Scott Johnson

Copyright 2012 by Deborah Stewart and Scott Johnson  
Smashwords Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication  
Chapter One  
Chapter Two  
Chapter Three  
Chapter Four  
Chapter Five  
Chapter Six  
Chapter Seven  
Chapter Eight  
Chapter Nine  
Chapter Ten  
Chapter Eleven  
Chapter Twelve  
Chapter Thirteen  
Chapter Fourteen  
Chapter Fifteen  
Chapter Sixteen  
Chapter Seventeen  
Chapter Eighteen  
Chapter Nineteen  
Chapter Twenty  
Postscript

THE BLOOD CRIED OUT by Deborah Stewart.  
This is a true story, related just as it happened.  
However, for obvious reasons, names have been changed and omitted.

Dedication  
This book is dedicated to my mother, Macie Frye, Whose prayers and constant encouragement helped sustain me through a trauma that stretched, first through an hour, then extended into days, weeks, and finally months.

It is further dedicated to the many Christian friends, relatives and even strangers, whose fervent and continuous prayers helped bring the mercy of a loving God to my son and myself.

**ACKNOWEDGEMENT**  
Much love to Edward L.Johnson.  
My writing coach, mentor and faithful friend.  
Thank you for believeing in me.

**Forward  
** As I attempt to tell this story I pray for guidance from the Holy Spirit that I may tell it in a way that will be pleasing to God; that I may glorify him in such a way that everyone who reads it will be touched. My one goal being neither pity for my son nor recognition for myself but rather to fulfill a promise I made to God; to witness and testify of the miracle I am about to share with you.

I pray that, after reading my story, those who are weak in faith become renewed. Those weak in spirit are revived. Those in need of a miracle will be reassured, and, above all, those who have never met God will want to meet him.

I pray that everyone who reads this will be blessed and give praise to His precious name, as I do daily; every time I see my son smile, hear him laugh, and have the privilege of putting my arms around him, I am reminded of what a loving, merciful and awe-inspiring God I serve.

MIRACLE:  
AN EVENT OR ACTION THAT APPARENTLY CONTRADICTS KNOWN SCIENTIFIC LAWS.

ANY OCCURENCE THAT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED BY THE LAWS OF NATURE.A MARVEL --Webster

CHAPTER ONE

The massive words TRAUMA CENTER split the black velvet sky and glistened like rubies in the darkness of night.

Glaring at us. Taunting us. Beckoning to us as we neared Harris Methodist Hospital in Ft.Worth, Texas.

The glow of the lights pierced my heart as the huge letters quivered and blurred before dissolving into a pool of red; a red as crimson as the blood-soaked sheets I had, only minutes earlier, saw covering my son's body.  
I should not be coming here, I thought. I do not belong here.

My child does not belong here. This is a nightmare; something one reads about in the newspaper and says "How terrible! How could this happen, and why?" a million times, "Why?" But this is where the police had directed us to come. The grim look on my husband, James' face, the wet tears on my own, and the stark reality of that sign told me it was true; we should be coming here, we did belong here, and our son was here!

May 3, 1992, had started out like most days in Texas, sunny and warm. Our Arlington neighborhood was coming alive with sights and sounds of spring.  
"Later, Mom," my son, Scott, yelled as he hurried out the door en route to his part-time evening job at a local grocery.

I did not hear the phone ring that night.  
I was awakened by my husband James' cries.  
"Get up! Get up quick!" he cried out, "Scott's been hurt!"

"Hurt? Hurt how?" I questioned. "He's supposed to be working." I said, confused. "He is at work." James replied, as he handed me the telephone receiver.

"Your son has been injured," the store manager stated. "You need to get here immediately." The urgency in his voice betrayed his composure, and with a multitude of questions running through my mind, I only took the time to ask one: "Is he hurt badly?" I stammered.

"Yes, ma'am", he answered, "He's very bad. He's been stabbed, and Care flight is on their way."

He spoke those words like a burden of guilt he had been harboring and the weight of them brought me to my knees.

One does not have to be an EMT to know that when a helicopter has been called to transport a patient, they are in grave danger of losing their life.

Fortunately, King Saver Grocery, where Scott worked, was only a few blocks from our home. It was situated across from a multi-complex apartment building, and as James and I  
approached the parking lot, all we could see were people; seemingly hundreds of people everywhere.

The ambulance sirens had attracted the apartment residents as well as curious neighbors and onlookers. The police had already barricaded the store entrance and the helicopter was circling over-head looking for a spot to land.

I jumped from our (still moving) van and began running towards the store. The unimaginable had just happened, and my heart was pounding with fear of the unknown.  
As I was making my way through the crowd, a police officer suddenly grabbed me from behind, spinning me around.

"You can't go in there!" he said sharply.

"I have to!" I screamed. "My son is in there. He's hurt. I have to get to him! I have to see him!" I cried, as I struggled to free myself from his grip.

"Ma'am, listen to me!" the officer demanded, as he tightened his grasp.  
"You don't want to see him like that. His Intestine is protruding from his stomach. There is a large hunting knife lodged in his face...  
Trust me; he is not a pretty sight. It's best if you don't see him," he said flatly.

Sheer terror took my breath away as I clutched the front of his shirt with both hands and looked at him directly, eye to eye.  
I felt my throat constrict as I attempted to speak. "That's my baby in there," I sobbed. "My only child. This might be the last time I see him alive. Don't deprive me of that chance," I pleaded. "Please don't take that from me!"

For what felt like an eternity, he held my gaze but said nothing, and then I saw a hint of compassion in his eyes. He knew what I said was true. Perhaps, he did not expect me to see him alive again either, or maybe he did not want the burden of guilt I had just dropped into his lap. Whatever the reason, he agreed to let me see him for one second when they brought him out.

"One second," he stressed. "But you've got to calm down." "I will. I will." I promised, bargaining like a child.

Time stood still as the officer continued to hold on to me while answering James' questions: "No, they did not catch the attacker. No, they had no idea who did it. Yes, he was in critical condition. No, they didn't know why it happened...did we?"

I stared blindly into the crowd. My eyes wide open and yet disbelieving. It was surreal. Like an out-of-body experience.

The rapid beating of my heart pounded in my ears, and my thoughts became a whirlwind of emotion as I tried desperately to comprehend what had, and was still, happening.

I wanted to scream and run away, but I was grounded in fear.

"Now stay calm!" the officer ordered, as the paramedics came running towards the helicopter, carrying Scott, securely strapped to a stretcher.

Throwing his hand up to stop them, he released me. "This is his mother," he told them. "Give her one second."

"I'm here baby", I told him, as I gently kissed him.  
My breath caught in my throat, and a terrible foreboding swept through me at the touch of his skin.  
Drained of color, Cold and clammy. In a word: lifeless.  
In my heart, I felt that he was almost gone.

"Don't give up, honey. Please, don't give up." I pleaded, "I love you."

Eyes closed and barely conscious, he attempted to nod his head as a gesture that he had heard me.

I stepped aside and the EMTs continued running towards the careflight copter with him.

I never saw them load him; I never saw them leave with him.  
The cruel reality of it all overwhelmed me.

My mind succumbed to the mental anguish I was feeling, throwing me (heart-first) into a bout of hysteria.

My body wretched with convulsive sobs as I attempted to make my way back through the crowd to our Suburban...

Crying aloud. Praying aloud. Pleading with God...  
Pleading with God not to take my sons life- aloud.  
I was oblivious to everyone and everything around me.  
I was in my own world, a world of hurt.

"Take me home!" I cried frantically, as James helped me back into the vehicle.

"Home? Home for what?" he asked anxiously.

"I have to call mother," I explained, "She's my only link with God and I've got to know that she's praying."

"He needs prayer now," I told him, "This very minute!"

James could not imagine making a phone call at this crucial moment. I could not imagine not making it.  
As hard as it was to admit, and especially at a time like this, I was not sure if my prayers would be heard, but I had no doubt about my mother's.

I had witnessed the power of prayer many times in her life.  
She had faith to move mountains.

After years of watching her walk with the Lord, seeing him at work in her life, and her never-failing love and devotion to him, I never doubted that He was real.

However, that did not lessen the fact that I did not know him as my own personal Savior.

In other words, I was "lost". I was un-saved.  
In the eyes of God, I was a sinner.  
As my Bible teaches me, the only "Sinner's prayer" that God acknowledges, is that of repentance.

As St.John 9:31 reads:

King James Version (KJV)  
31 Now we know that God heareth not sinners: but if any man be a worshipper of God, and doeth his will, him he heareth.

Therefore, I felt that I could not pray for my own child. My dying child, and expect God to hear and answer.

Ever been there? Trust me; you do not want to be.

My conversation with my mother was short and one-sided: "Scott's been hurt. He was stabbed. He is in critical condition." I cried.

"Mom, pray as you've never prayed before. We could lose him."  
Mother was crushed. Scott was her first grandchild and they treasured one another. Moreover, as always, she knew just what to do; within minutes, she would have her Pastor on the phone getting a prayer chain started.

Proverbs 15:29

King James Version (KJV)  
29 The LORD is far from the wicked: but he heareth the prayer of the righteous.

CHAPTER TWO

"I'm Scott Johnson's mother," I told the receptionist.

"He was brought in by careflight with stab wounds."

"Oh, yes ma'am," she replied. "I just need you to sign..."

I followed her gaze as she looked up at a chaplain approaching us.  
Their eyes met as she searched his face and without either of them uttering a word, they spoke volumes.

"We can do this later," she said softly, laying the papers aside.

The sickening feeling that pervaded my entire being was over-whelming. I felt faint and sank into a chair.  
My husband, along with my friend, Denise, at my side.

The Chaplain introduced himself, but I only remember him as "Mike". He was a young man in his early twenties.  
Very courteous and kind.  
"They took your son directly to surgery," he told us. "They couldn't wait."

"Do you know the extent of his injuries?" I managed to ask..."Did you see him?"

Nodding, as he spoke, he informed us that he had stayed with him until he was taken to the operating room.

"As you may already know, he was stabbed more than once.  
Actually, he was stabbed several times," he stated.  
Pausing briefly, he looked from James to me, and back to James before continuing.  
"I must tell you he is extremely critical," he said with a sigh. "I'm very sorry."

I willed my eyes to look away from his grave face and yet they lingered, as I stared wordlessly - to numb now to respond.  
I knew for a chaplain to meet you at the door and end the conversation with "I'm sorry," could only mean one thing, the unthinkable. We were not prepared for that.

Webster describes the word "Shock" as "A violent disturbance of the feelings," And being in what the Doctors refer to as "A state of shock" is a blessing in disguise, since shock is our body's way of helping us cope, when we otherwise could not.

Yet, I felt not even Webster had come up with the word to describe what I was feeling at that moment.  
It is a feeling that only another parent in the same situation could identify with.  
A combination of fear, anger, confusion, and the worst gut-wrenching pain imaginable.  
I cannot remember ever feeling so helpless.

Denise looked away and covered her mouth to muffle her cries. James and I clung to each other- paralyzed.  
Unable to move- to speak- to cry.  
Tears welled up and simply stood in our eyes, as if they too, were frozen in place.

"I'll be checking back with you often," the Chaplain told us, as he directed us to the surgery waiting room.  
"If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know," he added.

"You can pray." I said earnestly.  
"Will you pray with me, please? Will you ask God not to take my child from me?" I pleaded.  
"God said where two or three are gathered in his name, He would be in the midst of them," I quoted from Matthew 18:20. "God is my only hope," I told him.  
And I believe in the power of prayer."

At that point, we all held hands and prayed together. Afterwards, James shook his hand and thanked him. I hugged him, almost clinging to him. I needed to "touch the hem of his garment" so to speak, and at the moment, I felt this was as close as I could get.  
The fact that he was so young and yet so devoted to Christ filled me with a sense of admiration.  
I thought how proud his parents must be.

"Please promise me that you'll continue to pray for Scott," I urged, as he turned to go. "He'll need constant prayer."  
"I promise you I will," he said warmly.  
I knew in my heart that he would.

My heart also told me that he was trying to prepare us for our son's death. I felt certain of it. "He's going to die," I murmured aloud. "They don't expect him to live or they wouldn't have called a Chaplain for him. We may never see him alive again."  
I searched James' faces for even a hint of reassurance; any expression that might say I was wrong-over reacting-too emotional-anything but right... I saw nothing.

He said nothing. We just stared at one another, stone- faced and silent, until at last the dam broke and a torrent of hot, bitter tears gushed forth, as the reality of our worst nightmare surfaced, and we collapsed into one another's arms.

The surgery waiting area was a large, strategically arranged room, designed to accommodate a hospital the size of Harris Methodist. The largest hospital I had ever seen.  
Beautiful, with huge skylights, lovely trees, ferns and flowers everywhere. They even had a huge in-ground aquarium. The warmly decorated interiors could easily give one the impression of being somewhere other than a hospital. I welcomed that.  
The waiting room was vacant at the time except for James, Denise and I. It felt as empty as my soul.

The silence was deafening with each of us still struggling to grasp the reality of the moment. No one knew what to say or do. We were still in disbelief and simply numb.

I squeezed Denise's hand as she took a seat beside me, thankful that she too, was there with me.  
Words were not necessary. Our friendship spanned over ten years, and during that time we had become like sisters.  
I had two best friends; Patty, my oldest and dearest friend of thirty years, who lived in West Virginia, and Denise, who lived near to us in Arlington.

Throughout the years, we had shared every aspect of one another's lives: marriage, children, death and divorce. We were there for each other through the bad times as well as the good. This was one crisis that would definitely strengthen the bond.

To nervous to sit, I began to pace. Pace and pray.  
I felt Unworthy of God's grace, so I prayed for God's mercy.  
The clock above the door read 9:45 p.m.  
Scott had been in surgery almost an hour now. From what the Chaplain had told us, we knew it would be a long night.

For the first time since this trauma began, we were alone with our thoughts.  
We had time to think. Hours to wonder - to fear - to cry. Time to get angry and ask "why?" Why had this happened?  
Still we had no answers, no explanations, and no reason, whatsoever.  
The fact that someone had actually tried to kill my only child, intentionally attempted to take his life - to take him from me, was more than my mind could comprehend.  
I could not accept it.

The local television stations aired the story on the ten o'clock news, along with a video of the paramedics running to the helicopter with Scott strapped on a gurney.

They stressed the fact that he was in critical condition. Then they added, "Police are saying the attack is possibly gang related."

"Oh.my.God." I gasped. That was the last thing we needed to hear!  
I felt a new fear suddenly rise up and linger as if wanting to take its rightful place among all the others that were already torturing our weary minds. And it did. Quickly.

We could not deny the past year had been a tumultuous one. It seemed he had done an about face over night.  
We attributed it to the usual teenager growing pains; the rebellious, know it all, wanting his independence stage.

Then came the arrests, getting in trouble with the law, skipping school, etc...  
A probation officer had even said to him "You're not the typical kid we usually see in here. You must be running with the wrong crowd."

That was a no-brainer and James and I had already figured that one out and were doing all we could to correct it.  
We had even suspected drug use and confronted him about it.  
We knew there had to be a reason for the drastic change in him,  
and had been striving to find out what it was, but gang association had not even crossed our minds.  
We knew little about gang activity but from what we did know, made it unthinkable.

"Did you hear what that man said?" James asked looking both stunned and offended. "Can you believe that?"

"I can't even go there right now," I told him, bleakly.

"My mind won't let me."

All that mattered at the moment now was Scott's life hanging in the balance. The unanswered questions would have to wait.

Soon, the room began to fill with Scott's friends.  
Pain and horror written on every face.  
Most had learned of the incident on the nightly news, and seeing him carried out of the grocery store "With a hunting knife lodged in his head", had been as shocking to them, as it had been to us.

One friend came through the waiting room door and straight into my arms.  
His eyes were red and swollen from crying.  
He had learned of the stabbing first hand.  
He recalled stopping by King Saver just after Scott had been transported out.  
The store entrance was still taped off and a large crowd was still lingering about.

Curious as to what had taken place there, and still unaware that Scott had been involved, he recalled peering through a side window to look upon what we often hear described as "The bloody crime scene."

Police were everywhere inside.  
Witnesses were being interviewed. Photos were being taken.  
Store employees were still visibly shaken; women were crying, and men running about in a state of chaos.  
And in the midst of it all was the blood: more blood than he had ever seen. A trail of blood; Scott's blood!

And the blood told a story: from the very second the tip of that cold steel blade first pierced the skin, plunging deep into the flesh, causing every nerve and fiber of his being to scream aloud in sheer agony-to the tepid pool that had formed a crimson silhouette around him.

That precious red fluid now forever separated from the body it once nourished; the heart it once supplied; the life it once sustained.

Upon being told of the stabbing and realizing that it was Scott's blood he was watching the attendants mop up, he became physically ill and vomited.  
For a moment, my thoughts took me back to the Biblical days; Genesis 4:10, when Cain slew Able and his blood cried out to God from the ground. I could almost hear it!

"He'll be Ok. He'll make it," his friend said.  
"He's GOT to!"

"Call your mother, honey." I urged.  
"Tell her to call every believer she knows and ask them to pray for him".  
He went directly to the phone, and others followed suit.

Jessica had arrived by now. Her face a mask of fear and anxiety.  
She and Scott had been dating for six months and were passionate about one another. It was then we learned that he had been on his lunch break, and was actually talking with her on the phone when the stabbing occurred.  
She stated that he had just told her that he thought "someone was after him" when he dropped the receiver and she began to hear people screaming and a loud commotion.  
She had no idea what had happened until one of Scott's friends came to her home to inform her of the assault and take her to the hospital. She was horrified!

Soon, Scott's friend, Mike, and his wife, Vonda, arrived.  
Scott and Mike met when we moved to Texas in 1982 and had been close friends ever since.  
Mike's mother, Bea, was a devout Christian, and upon hearing the horrible news admitted that she had actually begun praying very hard for Scott hours before the incident even occurred, stating that God had placed a burden for Scott upon her heart.  
She did not know "why", but felt the overwhelming need to pray for him.  
She was in a spiritual battle long before there was a physical one.  
Mike phoned her immediately, she proceeded to phone members of her church, and once again, the prayer chain was growing.  
Bea was devastated at the news. She loved Scott just as James and I loved Mike.

I phoned two very dear friends, and former employers of mine, John and Jan.  
They were also very sincere and dedicated Christians, for whom I had the utmost respect.  
I trusted their relationship with the Lord, and I needed them to lean on.  
I cannot recall a time in my life when I felt such an overwhelming need for prayer. I cannot even explain it.  
I just knew in my heart that prayer was the only thing that would make a difference.

James 5:16

King James Version (KJV)  
16 Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.

CHAPTER THREE

It was now midnight.  
I continued to watch as the hours passed.  
The Chaplain had stopped by to check on us a few times, but there had been no word from surgery.

No news is good news, we agreed, trying to think positive.  
Yet, the silence alone felt threatening.

Considering the negative factors we were already aware of, keeping a positive attitude was a definite struggle to say the least. Fear does not need an invitation into one's mind. It often appears unbidden.

Everyone held his or her breath as a man dressed in White approached me. "This is the chain your son was wearing," he  
said, as he handed it to me. "And these are his shoes," he continued, placing a brown paper bag in my arms.  
"They were removed in the E.R."

Denise and I both burst into tears. I pressed the medallion to my lips, a gold Mercedes Benz emblem that Jessica had given to him. Then I put it around my neck.  
"I'll wear it for good luck," I told her.

I looked at James. His face was rigid.  
He did not say a lot, but I knew his mind was racing.  
He was as hurt, angry and afraid as I was, but he was trying to be strong for me and I loved him all the more for it. He was my rock.

Scott was eight years old when I married, James Evans, in 1983; and it wasn't long, before we were really a family.  
James truly accepted him as his own.  
He never once referred to him as a stepson; but rather, "My boy". I admired him for that.  
Early in the marriage, Scott chose to call him "Dad", even giving him a plaque that read, "Anyone can be a Father, but it takes someone special to be a daddy".

Through the years their relationship deepened, as James truly became the father figure Scott had never known.  
They shared a genuine love for one another, and James' heart was breaking right along with mine.

The mere weight of the bag in my lap felt as heavy as my heart.  
I squeezed my eyes shut and silently promised I would not open them until I had convinced myself that once I did, I would see that I was only dreaming; that this really was a nightmare; that a pair of blood-soaked sneakers was not to be the sum of my son's life, as I feared.

I gasped loudly, and my body flinched, as a police officer spoke my name, jolting me back into reality.

A bloody footprint had been found at the grocery store, and they were not sure if it belonged to Scott or his assailant.  
He wanted the shoes for a comparison.  
Frankly, I was relieved to give them back.  
I never wanted to see them again, I had decided.  
I could not bear to look at them.

The kids kept the phone busy and talked among themselves.  
We begged them to tell us anything they knew that might explain why this happened.  
They assured us they knew nothing.

Scott had always been the class clown; always making everyone laugh. He was popular and he was loved.  
I had not realized just how much, until I looked around the room at all his friends who had gathered to offer their love and support. Not only for him, but to James and I as well.

As I sat there lost in my thoughts, I suddenly imagined his attacker watching the ten o'clock news, hoping for word of Scott's death and cursing because he had not died.  
After all, his intentions were to kill him; he left him for dead!  
The very thought of it nauseated me; not to mention the burning rage it fueled - that any parent would feel.

What kind of monster was he? I wondered. Was there anything human about him?  
I tried (against my own will) to imagine what he must look like; my son's would-be-murderer.  
Yet I couldn't envision a face-only eyes- a cold-blooded killers eyes. Dark, menacing, and evil.

How anyone could willingly, and so brutally take another persons life, was simply beyond my comprehension.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was about 1:00 A.M. when a doctor came into the room.

James was talking on the phone with my mother.  
He dropped the receiver and ran to my side.  
Everyone gathered in close as the doctor began to speak, and a hush fell over the room.  
He introduced himself as Dr.Smithson. A trauma surgeon.  
He was strictly professional and straight to the point. Actually, He came across as cold and insensitive.

"Your son has a total of six stab wounds," he began.

"Two in the abdomen, two in the back, one to his left lung and one to the face.  
The weapon used was a (Rambo style) hunting knife with a serrated edge.

As you know, the Intestine was protruding through the stomach when he was brought in, and some of the muscles in his back were ripped out.  
If you've seen the movie, "Jagged edge", that's the kind of knife that was used," he added.

He paused, and we all stood there gasping in horror at what we were hearing, trying to take it all in and at the same time resisting it.  
Totally conscious of what was being said, and subconsciously refusing to believe it.  
As for the movie, we had seen it.  
The images were terrifying!

"I've supplied oxygen to the collapsed lung and repaired the intestine," he continued. "But I had to stop the surgery. He was too cold. I almost lost him once."

He paused, and looked squarely at me. If he was looking for shock in my face, I was well beyond that point.  
If he was looking for devastation, he certainly saw it before he dropped the last bomb on us.

"The liver was completely severed," he said.  
"I've put every stitch I can get into it, and packed it to slow the bleeding, but I cannot stop it.  
He is hemorrhaging and has already received 32 pints of blood, he's bleeding from so many places, it's coming out quicker than we can put it in!" He said in an eerily, matter of fact way.  
Fear had returned and in a violent way.  
My knees trembled as I felt it sweep through me, attaching itself to every nerve of my being as I struggled for composure.

I interrupted him for the first time.  
"But he will make it won't he?" I asked, my voice pleading. "He will be alright won't he?"

"No Ma'am," he said, blatantly.  
"That's what I'm telling you. He will not be all right.  
He's bleeding to death and there is nothing more I can do."

I believe that unless as a parent you have heard those words about your own child, you cannot even imagine what we were feeling, and I cannot even begin to tell you.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered like the breaking of crystal, and the room echoed with mournful sobs.

James looked as if he might faint.

I felt his body stiffen as if he were bracing himself for a physical blow, and I'm not sure which of us was holding the other one up.  
The Doctor's words were every bit as sharp as that jagged-edged knife he had referred to, and cut through me just as easily.  
At that very moment, I was certain that I had felt the depth of my son's pain.

I staggered from the impact as if that same knife had pierced the very core of my heart.

"No!" I screamed. "NO.No.no. You cannot let him die!  
That's my baby. My only child. Please, don't let him die," I begged the Doctor.

Assuring me once more that he had done everything he could do, he turned to go.

I saw those skilled hands that had worked to keep my son alive, giving up. Quitting. Walking away to let him die.  
The fear quickly escalated into panic and I lost control.  
Darting in front of the surgeon as he tried to leave, I grabbed the front of his starched white jacket with clinched fists.

"Then take God with you," I pleaded in desperation.

"Ask God to help you. God can pick up where you leave off," I sobbed, hysterically.  
Obviously annoyed with me, he grasped my arms and pushed me aside.

"He may live another hour," he said flatly.

Then he turned and walked away.

My heart trembled and sank, as hope walked out the door.

Once again, James and I collapsed into each other's arms.

Each of us trying to absorb the pain of the other, while  
buckling beneath the weight of our own.

I recall looking at the clock. It was 1:15 A.M.

Denise followed my gaze, her tear -stained face an open book.  
I knew that she and I were thinking the same thing; that by 2:15 Scott would probably be dead. Deceased. Expired. Gone Forever. Never again to be a part of our lives.  
Never again would we see his smile, hear his laughter, his voice. Feel his touch.  
It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. And it was true.  
Never again would I be able to put my arms around my son. My only child.

Denise was also a mother. She had two children of her own. And the fact that she had known and loved Scott since he was six years old only deepened her pain on a personal level.  
Clutching wet tissues in her hand, she reached for mine.  
Neither of us spoke. Words seemed so futile.

Jessica's Parents had arrived by this time, and I was glad that they were there for her. Her heart was breaking in two.

She and Scott both had many friends.  
The girls were hugging and crying as they comforted her and each other.  
Several of the guys sat with their faces buried in their hands. Their bodies racked with emotion.

Others stood with their faces buried against the wall, crying. Openly and unashamed.  
They were living through this nightmare just as we were, and they were obviously hurting too.

Psalm 31:9

King James Version (KJV)  
9 Have mercy upon me, O LORD, for I am in trouble: mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly.

CHAPTER FIVE

I cursed the clock as I watched the minutes pass.

Time was now my enemy. I felt as if it were taking my child from me. Stealing him like a thief in the night. Robbing me of my most prized possession; the one thing in life I treasured most.  
Oh, God, I sighed, if only time could stand still.

I began to pace the floor again as my thoughts battled between reality and disbelief.  
I could not help but imagine what must have been going through his mind as he lay there on the floor of that grocery store in a puddle of blood.

Still conscious, yet unable to speak, with the blade of a hunting knife completely lodged in his mouth.  
Perhaps seeing, feeling, his intestine as it was outside of his abdomen, like an animal that had been gutted.  
Struggling for every breath as his collapsed lung grew weaker by the minute.

And all the while, the puddle growing larger, as life itself flowed from his body.  
Seeping, spurting, gushing with every beat of his heart.

It was as if the grim reaper had appeared, looked away in disgust and fled.

The blood had cried out and even death was appalled.

I went to the ladies room, fell on my knees and begged God for strength.  
"It's not supposed to be this way," I told him.  
"Parent's aren't supposed to bury their children."

When I returned to the waiting room, James was talking with two men.  
Mr. Ferguson, a clean-cut middle-aged man dressed in a western suit and wearing cowboy boots. He was a detective. The other, a younger, larger, man wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was a juvenile officer with the Arlington Police Department, who went by the nickname of "Beast".

After introducing themselves, they proceeded to ask questions. Most importantly, who would want to kill our son, and why? Unfortunately, we had no idea. We wanted to know even more than they did. Of that, I was certain.

"You know they aren't expecting him to live?"  
I whispered despondently.

There. I had said it. I had clarified it. I made the prognosis real for our son's impending death.

It left a foreign and bitter taste in my mouth.  
"Yes, Ma'am," Mr. Ferguson replied. "I do know. I'm very sorry," he added. And I believed him.

The hour the doctor had given us was almost up before Scott was settled in a room and we were allowed to see him.  
Feeling like cattle being led to slaughter, we were first directed to the I.C.U. waiting area, and then directed to the TRAUMA I.C.U. area.

James and I clasped hands and headed down the corridor.

It was long, dimly lit, and so quiet I could have sworn I heard our hearts breaking.  
I recall thinking it was the longest walk I would ever take, anticipating seeing my son for the first time since he was admitted, and very possibly, the last.  
Our every step grew heavier with dread. And after the picture the doctor had painted us, we could not even imagine what to expect.

The TRAUMA I.C.U. unit was located in a secluded corner of the hospital. The nursing staff and patient area was off limits behind huge double doors.  
Admittance could only be gained through a buzzer and speaker box mounted on a nearby wall.

James and I held one another for a long moment, took a deep breath, and I pressed the buzzer.

After identifying ourselves, the automatic doors opened and we entered into another world; a world centered perfectly between the boundaries of Heaven and Hell.

One of the staff referred to Scott's room as "The miracle room." No one ever questioned that he was in the right one.

Our weary minds had already imagined every (worse case scenario) they were capable of, and we felt that we were somewhat prepared. That is, until we were standing at his bedside literally staring death in the face.

We knew immediately that nothing could have prepared us for that!  
He was barely recognizable to either of us.  
For a brief moment, we even questioned if the person before us was really him.

His head and scalp, so saturated with dried blood that his hair was a mixture of red and black.

A piece of tape covered each eyelid, although they appeared to be swollen shut.

Due to the trauma it had been subjected to, his entire body had begun to swell.

The left side of his face (where the knife had been), as well as that portion of his head, had been heavily packed and wrapped in thick bandages.  
Yet they were so saturated with blood that complete packages of gauze pads were placed over top of them to absorb it from the outer side.

We stared in utter shock and disbelief. Death stared back.

"It's coming out quicker than we can put it in." the Doctor had said.  
His words bounced off the walls of my brain echoing louder and louder as my legs turned into jelly and I clutched the bed rail for support.

"Oh, dear God," I cried. "I can't take this pain. I cannot live without my child. Give me strength!" I pleaded.  
"God, please give me strength."

From the waist down, he wore a pair of blue "inflatable pants" to help force blood flow from the lower extremities to his heart and brain.

A large plastic shield covered his abdomen to protect the surgery area and open wounds to his liver and intestine.

A vinyl blanket designed to vent bursts of warm air and raise his body temperature, stretched across the bed just inches above him.

A life support system was doing its part at sustaining him, and needless to say, he was attached to every kind of machine, monitor, and I. V. possible; all working to keep him alive.  
We were amazed and ever so grateful, for the wonders of medical science.

"Scott, honey, it's mom," I whispered. "Dad and I are here. Can you hear me?" I asked, hopefully.

He lay motionless. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as the machine forced oxygen into his lungs, was the only visible sign of life.  
I reached through the bed rail for his hand.  
It was ice cold and stiff. I rubbed dried blood from his swollen fingers as I pressed them to my lips and warmed them with hot tears of naked anguish.

Never in my lifetime had I known such agony.

James and I took turns at touching, kissing, and whispering, "I love yous".  
How I longed to hold him!

I carried him beneath my heart for nine months.  
I brought him into this world; taught him how to speak and take his first steps.  
I held him in my arms and rocked him to sleep.  
Now they tell me he is dying.  
Seventeen years old and he is dying!

"How can this be?" My mind screamed repeatedly.

Filled with pain, dread, and fear, I had reasoned the walk to the I.C.U area would feel like the longest walk I would ever take... but I was wrong.

Nothing could ever compare with that walk _from_ the I.C.U.  
Saying goodbye for what I feared would be the very last time.  
Leaving my child there - perhaps, to die alone.  
If knowing the Doctor was right in his prediction, we would never see him alive again.

That walk, was without doubt, the longest walk I have ever taken.  
The emptiness I felt was beyond words.

Psalm 55:4-6

King James Version (KJV)  
4 My heart is sore pained within me: and the terrors of death are fallen upon me.  
5Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me.  
6And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away, and be at rest.

CHAPTER SIX

As I looked down on my child drowning in his own blood, I had what some refer to as "a rude awakening".  
If I was to believe in a place called Heaven (and I truly did), then I could not deny a place called Hell.  
The Bible tells us one is as real as the other.  
If the Doctor was correct in his prediction, Scott now had only minutes to live, and I was faced with the reality that if he died he was doomed to hell. As much as my mind refused to accept it, my heart told me it was true.

If I had learned only one thing from my mother, it was that there is only one way to get to heaven - and what one must do to get there. Unfortunately, I had not taken that step myself, and neither had my son. Now, as he hovered at Death's door, the writing was on the wall; his blood was on my hands.  
Oh, I had told him about God, but I did not teach him.  
I had encouraged him to go to church, but I did not take him.  
As parents, we are role models. Our children look up to us. They trust us to do the right thing. As much as it hurt to admit it, the truth of the matter was this: My child could trust me with his life, but he could not trust me with his soul.

I had always imagined losing a child would surely be the greatest pain one could endure. I realized now it was not in losing a child, but in losing a child to Satan!  
God forbid.

Matthew 10:28

King James Version (KJV)  
28 And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.

The realization that he may die lost and without God, was mentally more than I could bear. It caused me to take a long, hard, honest look at my own life- my own soul.  
I truly realized how very foolish I had been and it filled me with regret. I knew what I needed to do. I knew what I should have done long ago.  
It was what my heart had nudged me to do for years ...  
And there in the Ladies room of Harris Methodist Hospital, I gave my life to Christ.

I was crushed and broken. I fell to my knees and cried out to God not only for mercy, but for forgiveness. I repented of my sins and I never once doubted that he had heard _that_ prayer!

I also promised God if he would spare my child's life that I would serve Him as long as I lived, and that I would never fail to give Him the praise and the glory he is so deserving of.  
I prayed for a miracle because I knew nothing short of a miracle would save my son, and no one short of God, Himself, was capable of performing miracles.

I promised that I would witness and testify as long as he gave me breath.  
That is the purpose for writing this story.

I think it is a fair assumption to say that in my desperation perhaps I tried to "Plea bargain" with the Lord; something one does not do.  
God does not "make deals", and I knew that.

Fortunately, he looked beyond my lips to my heart and saw that I was sincere; that I meant every promise I had made. I was ready to give him my all.  
God had knocked at my heart several times over the years but I had pretended not to hear. I did not have time for God; I was busy. Besides, I was having a good time living just as I was. Of course, I knew I wanted to go to Heaven when I died and I had every intention of changing my ways and "getting right with the Lord" - someday.  
Yet, all the while, I was constantly aware of the little voice inside my head - the frequent pull at my heartstrings.  
And today, all those excuses were just that - excuses!  
They didn't even make sense anymore.

Now, I came to Him as not only a lost sinner, but also a distraught mother, feeling helpless and afraid.  
I feared for my child's life. And more importantly, his soul.  
God's love comforted me. And I knew that no matter what happened I was not alone. I had faith that he would give me the strength, courage and comfort that no one in this world could. I must say, it was a good feeling.  
As I said before, God does not make deals... but He does make miracles!  
Psalm 34:18

King James Version (KJV)  
18 The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

The crowd had moved to the I.C.U. waiting area with us and was anxiously awaiting our report.  
Silence fell over the room as we entered.  
Denise searched my face for a glimmer of hope and cried as openly as I did when I described what we had just witnessed.

I phoned Mother to give her an update. She wept bitterly and yet, her faith never waivered.  
"Don't give up," she said. "Nothing is impossible with God. We'll just keep praying." I could always count on mom to offer hope in any situation. She always knew the right thing to say.

The years after my divorce from Scott's father were not good to me. Scott was just turning two years old and I struggled to raise him alone, all the while battling with bouts of severe depression to the point I wanted to die more than I wanted to live at times.  
Nevertheless, Mother was always there for me - offering hope and encouragement when I was hurting inside.  
"It's always the darkest before the dawn," she'd say, (her favorite quote when things were bad).  
Her constant love and support helped me to endure this nightmare. Her faith was the light in all my darkness.  
To me, she is without a doubt, a jewel in God's crown.

They told us we could see Scott every two hours for five minutes now, and it was time for our second visit.  
Praise God he had lived two hours longer than we expected and we were thrilled!  
Of course, that did not prevent the pain and tears at his bedside.

His nurse informed us he was still receiving blood and plasma; that with the injury to the liver his blood-clotting agents had been destroyed. Therefore, he was now a "free-bleeder" and continued to hemorrhage.  
He was literally bleeding to death. Minute-by-minute. Hour by hour. This is what the Doctor had tried to prepare us for. The realization was agonizing as it was finally beginning to sink in.

There was no change in his appearance. He lay still and lifeless. His color, a whiter shade of pale.  
The respirator gurgled quietly as it continued to force life-saving oxygen into his lungs. I looked at the heart monitor to reassure myself that he was still alive.  
How much longer could he hang on?  
My body shook with sobs as I kissed his forehead and pressed my cheek to his {nearly corpse cold} face.

Again, in my entire life I had never known such pain.  
And if there is a greater pain than that of losing a  
Child, I cannot imagine what it would be.  
How does one endure it? My brain questioned, fearfully.  
I'm afraid you're about to find out, my heart answered sadly.

Heavily burdened for his soul, I attempted once again  
to reach him before leaving: "Scott, honey, if you can hear me, talk to Jesus. He hears your every thought."  
I whispered.

I prayed that if it was God's will to take him, that he mercifully give him enough consciousness that he might repent and be saved.  
I truly believed that Scott would do that if given the opportunity.  
I may have fallen short myself in teaching him about the love of God and His plan of salvation, but I was certain that his grandmother had not. And I found comfort in that.

John 3:3

King James Version (KJV)  
3 Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As we sat in the waiting area each lost in our own thoughts, I began to think about a car accident I had witnessed a few years earlier in which a 13-year-old boy was killed.  
I was the first one to the scene and I attempted to get him out of the car for fear it would explode from leaking gasoline.

He was pronounced dead at the scene and I was sick inside.  
I knew some mother had just lost her child and my heart ached deeply for her.

I pictured her receiving the news; the obvious pain and devastation she would feel, and then being at home surrounded by all his things; a house full of memories - that were just those now - memories.  
His clothes, his empty place at the table, his empty bed there to remind her that he was never coming home again.  
What sorrow! How would she live? I pondered. How would she cope?

I drove home crying. Scott was sleeping in his room.  
I woke him and held him close to me as I told him about the accident. He was the same age as the young boy - only he was alive \- and the other boy was dead. I almost felt guilty. Yet, I thanked God with all my heart that it was not my child that had died.  
We prayed together for that mother and her family.  
For months, I mourned her loss. I could only imagine her pain. Now, I thought, I too, am about to know such grief as my own. It seemed ironic.

We continued to watch the clock and time was now on our side.  
We rejoiced with each passing hour, praising God and thanking him for his mercy.

Perhaps he will grow a little stronger we told ourselves.  
Perhaps, his blood pressure will stabilize and his blood will begin to clot. And perhaps, just perhaps, he might live.

When I looked up and saw my friend, John, I began to cry as a sense of relief swept through me. He was a dear friend and an elder in his church. I immediately took him to Scott's room.  
I wanted him to lay hands on him; anoint him with oil and pray for him as the Bible instructs us to do. And he did.  
He not only prayed _with_ me, he prayed _for_ me.  
I trusted his relationship with the Lord and his prayers were important to me. He sat with James and I for hours and was such a comfort to us.

Mother later told me that she had specifically asked God to send someone to be with me, to give me strength and comfort, a Christian.  
I knew then why John had arrived at 4:00 A.M. unexpectedly.

James 5:14 - 15

King James Version (KJV)  
14 Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:  
15 And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.

One by one, the hours rolled by; three, four, five hours longer than the doctor had given him. We were thrilled and yet afraid to hope. According to the nurses, there had been no improvement whatsoever.  
He was still critical. Still unconscious. And he was still hemorrhaging. Both internally and externally.  
His blood pressure barely audible, and yet, he continued to live!

We cherished every visit and the nurses were very lenient, always letting us stay beyond the allotted five minutes.  
We were grateful too. We knew they expected each visit would be our last.

That made it so hard to leave.

One more kiss. One more touch. One more "I love you".  
There was never enough. But then, how many is enough when you're saying goodbye to your child for the last time?  
Each time I visited him, I touched his body as I prayed and recited a verse, my brother, Don, another of God's faithful servants, had given me:

"I passed by thy body polluted in thine own blood, and I cried out - live!" Ezekiel 16:6

The theory being, the scripture was used in days of old to stop bleeding.  
I had no idea where the idea originated, or the story behind it, but I was desperate enough to try anything.

It was now Monday, May 04.  
By the sheer grace of God Scott had survived the night.  
Defying all odds he had lived twelve hours since the attack- eleven hours longer than anyone expected.

Still hemorrhaging, he had received another twenty units of blood - a total of 52 pints!  
Considering the body only has 10-12 pints (if that), I guess one could say that he literally bled to death five times over.

Six stab wounds to his body and not one stitch,  
with the exception of the internal ones to the intestine, bowel and liver, which still was not enough to stop the bleeding.  
We were informed that due to the high risk of infection, gunshot and stab wounds must be allowed to heal from the inside out. They cannot be closed. That was understandable. However, the fact remained that other than packing, little could be done to control the hemorrhaging. Therefore, to critical to continue surgery, he lay there bleeding profusely. A sight I will never forget.

We had just survived the longest night of our lives.  
The sun was shining on a new day, and having given my heart to the Lord, my strength was renewed. I had hope.  
I knew God's love would see me through.  
How I thanked Him, and praised Him for His Mercy!

"Always the darkest before the dawn." whispered that familiar little voice in my head. "The darkest hour is just before dawn." I smiled to myself because I knew my mother was holding me in her heart and her spirit was with me.  
She, my brother, Don, and his family had kept a prayer vigil through the night. They stayed on their knees hour after hour crying out to God on Scott's behalf.  
In short, they prayed through the night and Scott lived through the night. That, my friend, is the power of prayer! I believe it.

The kids also kept a vigil through the night, clinging to a thread of hope right along with me and James.  
Often, we all joined hands and prayed together.  
I witnessed many clutching rosaries or Bibles with their heads bowed low.

"He'll make it.," they would tell me. "He's GOT to. He's got to," they stressed, refusing to see it any other way.  
James and I were physically and mentally drained.  
The pain and horror we had lived through in the past twelve hours... would last a lifetime.

Denise finally gained the courage to see Scott.

It was during that visit I first smelled the stench of blood.

Until then, I had never thought about blood having an odor.  
However, when the large double doors opened permitting our entrance to the Intensive Care Unit, a horrible, putrid smell immediately filled our nostrils.

"EEWWW what is that?" We asked simultaneously, frowning.  
"Whatever it is, it's sickening." I stated.

Then I began to notice that the odor seemed to intensify with each visit. Until it literally filled the air; permeating through the entire unit.  
To my horror, I soon realized that it was coming from Scott's room! His blood-soaked body was the source of that horrible odor!  
Apparently, due to the fact that he was expected to die, rather than change the packing and bandages in the numerous wounds, new packing was simply added on to the old to absorb the blood, as we had already witnessed on his face.

His body was saturated!

However, considering the fact that he was bleeding profusely, and the blood was not even clotting, I assume that was to be expected. And could not be prevented.  
The odor, as well as the memory of it, is something I will never forget.

Denise was broken-hearted. Smiling through tears, she reminded me how, at the tender age of six, Scott had decided that she was to be his "girlfriend", and was not the least bit shy in saying so.  
At that time, Denise was only eighteen years old herself, and dating my younger brother, David.  
That is how we became friends.  
To say that she was fond of Scott would be an understatement. She loved him, and to see him in this state was very painful for her too.

I now realized the many sofas and love seats were for the comfort of the families at night, like us, who would be making the TRAUMA I.C.U. waiting area their home for days, sometimes weeks at a time, as their loved ones hovered between life and death.  
Refusing to leave regardless, I, for one, welcomed the idea.

I chose a cubbyhole in the far corner of the room. For the next two weeks, I would live there. Day and Night.  
It had both a sofa and love seat, therefore, James and I each had a bed. This is where we slept...when we slept.

Often, the room would be so crowded at night every available space would be occupied, and others would be sleeping on the floor.  
At the time there was only one other family there as long as we were. Most were there for at least three days.  
Their loved ones either improved enough to be moved out, or unfortunately, did not make it.  
Each day new people would come and others would go.

We all became friends as we shared our one common thread; we each had a loved one clinging to life. We were hurting and afraid. We shared our feelings - often crying together. We prayed for one another - rejoicing with each sign of hope, offering hope itself, when things looked grim.  
We grew strength from one another, as we became a "Unit family". The genuine sympathy and concern we felt for one another was beautiful.

Scott's friends continued to arrive as the news spread.  
Many of their parents called and came to offer us their support as well.  
I did not have any family in Texas, but James' family was there for us. Such as my sister-in-law, Faye, whom I considered a sister rather than an in-law.  
We were extremely close and she spent many long hours with me - even taking off work to be at my side, as did Angie, the mother of another of Scott's friends.

In addition, my faithful and loyal friend, Patty.  
Although she was over a thousand miles away, she was a constant source of strength and support. Keeping in touch at all hours, starting a prayer chain at her church, hurting with me, and praying for me. Keeping the faith!  
Patty had shared every joy and heartache in my life since we were twelve yr's. old. We were close enough to have been joined at the hip. She had known and loved Scott since he was an infant. She knew what he meant to me.  
She knew what I was feeling. She was feeling it too.  
I thanked God for her.

There were so many people putting our needs before their own!  
We appreciated every one of them.  
The display of love and empathy was wonderful!  
We were grateful for every word of encouragement.  
Every prayer. Every hug that said, "I care."

At 10:00 P.M., the lights in the waiting area were turned off. It was time to put our fears to rest. Everyone settled in his or her chosen areas (Including James and I).  
The room grew silent- except for the whisper of prayer...and often, the tender weeping of a broken heart.

Psalm 9:10

King James Version (KJV)  
10 And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, LORD, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.

CHAPTER EIGHT

May 05, 92  
Another day was dawning and Praise God Scott was still alive!  
The doctors and nurses were literally amazed!  
They simply could not believe it! And they didn't hesitate to tell us that in all honesty they did not know how he could have survived this long.  
But I knew.  
I knew the hand of God was upon him.  
I knew that without a doubt, at some point during the still of night, unseen, undetected, and totally unexpected, Jesus had passed by!  
There was simply no other explanation.  
There was a physician at work here with capabilities far greater than man; The Devine Healer.  
It is a proven fact that God likes to work when nothing else will!

Aside from slipping out for a quick shower and change of clothes, the nights had been spent walking the halls, on my knees in the chapel, and on the phone with the I.C.U nurses.  
Sleep was still out of the question and since we could not visit through the night, I called every two hours for an update.  
We were informed the packing in the liver must be removed and he would be going to surgery today.  
Our stomachs tied in knots. Could he survive it?  
We were frantic!

Our visits were limited to three a day now and he would be in surgery when the first one was due. Considering this, I hurried to the I.C.U. and rang the buzzer.  
"May I please just see him for one moment?" I begged.

"I want to pray for him." I explained.

The nurse let me in and I used my brief moments for all they were worth.  
Taking every opportunity to put my faith to use.

Denise had been at the hospital almost as long as we had.  
Her Mother was watching her children and I insisted she go home for a while. I still had beautiful support even in her absence. Faye had come early that morning to spend the day with me, and I was so very grateful. She was such a comfort. A true and loyal friend.

Scott was in surgery four hours with Dr.Smithson.  
He reported that he had removed the packing and stitched  
and cauterized all that he could to help control the bleeding from his liver.

Afterwards, Dr.Samuelson (The E.N.T Specialist) took over.  
He worked for another three hours repairing the injuries to his mouth. Seventy percent of his pallet had been torn out as the blade of the knife was fully embedded in his face - lodged in his cheekbone.  
When the Officer at the crime scene told me of the knife being in his face, I just assumed that his tongue had been severed and he would never speak again.  
How the blade went through his mouth and completely missed his tongue, is a miracle in itself...  
Dr. Samuelson assured us he had done the best he could; that Scott was stable and being returned to his room in I.C.U.

Relieved, thankful and feeling triumphant, we left the hospital for the first time to go across the street to a restaurant.  
I told the volunteer at the desk where we would be (Just in case), it was fortunate that I did because we had just been seated when I looked up to see Mike, the Chaplain, approaching us. He looked worried and I knew instantly that something was wrong.

"They've taken your son back to surgery," he told us.  
"He began hemorrhaging from the mouth and nose."

Needless to say, our elation was short-lived, as once again we were staring death in the face!  
The icy hand of fear gripped our hearts, bringing us to our knees as we headed for the chapel to pray.  
Satan was determined he would have my child's soul...  
I was determined he would not!

Prayer is without doubt, the greatest weapon the good Lord ever gave us.

It is through and by the power of prayer that we can reach the throne of Grace.

It was 9:00 P.M. before we knew anything.  
He had been in and out of surgery for twelve hours.  
An arteriogram identified the bleeding from a vessel in the throat \- as well as the carotid artery, which had been punctured by the tip of the knife.

The artery was clamped, and a "balloon" had been inserted through the nose to put pressure on it and encourage clotting.  
"Had I not been standing right there with the materials that I needed when he began to hemorrhage, he would have died," the doctor told us...  
"He lost a pint of blood in seconds, " he added.  
"He's Lucky." ...

He was not "lucky" he was blessed!  
Blessed by the grace of God! It was no coincidence that the doctor "Just happened to be standing there at the right moment." God's timing is never off.  
Before he was returned to his room, a plastic surgeon examined his back but said the surgery was too serious to attempt at this time. We were not permitted to see him at all that day.  
He was too weak and critical, which only added to our anxiety.

In addition, as if the day had not been stressful enough, I received the first of many calls from reporters.  
The call came in to the waiting area "For the mother of Scott Johnson".  
"Was he still alive?" they asked."How long was he expected to live?" "Was he a "vegetable?" "Was it true the knife had lodged in his brain?" they wanted to know.  
"Leave me alone!" I screamed.  
"What kind of people are you?"  
I hung up the phone crying and shaking with anger.

I made contact with my family several times each day.  
They were planning to come to me, and as desperately as I needed them, I encouraged them to wait.  
Once again, I felt we were not only living day-to-day, but hour -to-hour. Just knowing they were praying, and being able to reach them at any given moment was a comfort in itself.  
By now, Mother had contacted two of the Christian radio stations in our hometown, and both were requesting prayer for Scott. There again, the prayer chain continued to grow.

Before the week was over a blood drive had been set up at Kerr Glass, where James was employed, and co-workers took up a donation to help compensate for the work he had missed.

My immediate family and many friends in my hometown donated at the local blood bank in Scott's name.  
Mother also started a trust fund for him at her bank.  
Hundreds of dollars were collected - much from total strangers. Again, the outpour of human love and compassion was beautiful.  
Every day, the love grew deeper and stronger as cards and letters poured in - not just for Scott, but for James and I as well.

Each of them offering hope, encouragement and prayers.  
Many of them with money tucked inside "for coffee and snacks".  
Their thoughtfulness touched my heart in a way I shall never forget!

Psalm 50:15

King James Version (KJV)  
15 And call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.

It was now Wednesday, May 06, and we saw Dr.Smithson for the first time since he had given Scott a "death sentence".  
He had continued to examine him each day and care for him, but had avoided us entirely.  
And even now, he was quick and to the point:  
"I'm a tiny bit optimistic that he might live now," "a tiny bit." he stressed, holding his thumb and forefinger barely apart to give emphasis to his statement.  
"Oh, thank God!" I sighed... and he was gone.

His words were, to quote proverbs: "Salve to my wounded heart." We were overjoyed, and oh, so thankful!  
As always, I tried to reach Scott during our visit.  
"If you can hear me honey, squeeze my hand," I'd urge gently. This time he did! Praise God, he did!!!  
It was weak, but I knew it was real. We were ecstatic!

Immediately James tried and got the same response.  
We knew he had heard us. I praised God and wept with joy.

"Sweetheart, have you been talking to Jesus?" I asked.

He gave my hand another squeeze and relief swept over me.  
I knew the Lord had answered my prayer.  
Even if it was his will to take him from me, I knew he had given him that moment of consciousness I had prayed so earnestly for.  
I thanked him with all my heart. How great is his love!  
How tender his mercy!

I had kept in touch with Detective Ferguson daily and I quickly called to tell him the good news.  
"I'll be right there!" he said.  
However, by the time he arrived, Scott had been given a pain injection and was once again in a deep sleep.  
To our disappointment, this would happen many times before Mr. Ferguson would have an opportunity to interview him.

Understandably, he was on the strongest dose of morphine allowable; to the point he appeared comatose most of the time.  
But the good news was the detective now had a lead in the case.  
Apparently, a by-stander had seen his assailant roll into the back of a truck as it sped off, and called crime-stoppers with a partial license plate number.  
Along with what had taken place with Scott, this to, was wonderful news!

Psalm 118:29

King James Version (KJV)  
29 O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.

CHAPTER NINE

Our joy, as promising as it appeared, was short-lived.

The following morning we were told that Scott was still bleeding from the carotid artery and would have to be returned to surgery.  
The thought itself was horrifying.  
We knew the carotid artery was just as threatening, if not more, than the jugular vein.  
The fear of hemorrhaging from the procedure alone was a very real possibility.  
It seemed for every victory God gave us; Satan had a defeat.

It was as if God had one arm and Satan had the other as they battled for Scott's soul.

Praise God, as 1 John 4:4 says, "Greater is he that is in me than he that is in the world." And in the end, God would reign!  
As the battle rages, you will witness the power of our Lord, His infinite love and mercy...and a miracle I pray you will never forget.

My morning visit was a difficult one.

Knowing what he was facing (not to mention what he had already been through).  
He was in his usual "Semi-Coma" state - unresponsive to my voice or touch - and I was hurting badly, anxious and afraid.  
Grief had broken me. While at his bedside, a nurse turned to me - reprimanding me sharply.  
"You've got to stop that crying!" she ordered blatantly.

With emotions running high and obviously on my last nerve, I approached her at the nurse's station. My voice trembled as I spoke; "I don't know if you're a mother or not" I told her, "but that's my child in there - I may never see him alive again. If you can look upon your dying child and not cry lady, then you do it, but don't expect me to!" I was screaming by now and that was before threatening to "put her head through a wall."

I was totally irrational. I was losing control quickly and unfortunately, it showed.

Of course, she attempted to apologize and we were cordial with one another after that incident, but I found her behavior rude and unacceptable. I have often considered that someday she might find herself in my situation (God forbid) and she would choke on her words.  
I wonder how strong she would be under those circumstances.

Possibly spurned by guilt, that same nurse phoned the waiting area an hour later to inform me they were leaving for the O.R. with him.  
"You can see him briefly if you want," she offered.

"God be with you." I whispered, as I stroked his hair and bent to kiss him.  
My emotions took over as they wheeled him away, and the mounting stress finally caught up with me.

"Please, God, don't take him from me," I cried repeatedly as I collapsed to the floor.

"She's exhausted." I heard a nurse say as she knelt beside me - taking me in her arms like a child. She was right.

In the five days since Scott had been admitted I had slept (maybe) eight hours; combined stolen moments when fatigue dominated.

I was not only physically exhausted, I was mentally distraught; on the verge of complete insanity, I was certain.

The nurse called for a Chaplain and ushered me (along with James and Faye) to a private "family room".

"What seems to be your greatest fear?" the Chaplain asked, as I sat there wringing my hands.  
"My greatest fear," I told him, "Is that I'm going to lose my child!" "I can understand that," he answered.  
"None of us wants to give up our children, but God knows best - and we must accept his will," he said softly.

"I can't accept it," I sobbed. "I can't live without him. He's my life!" I cried. "Please, will you pray for him?" I pleaded. "Will you ask God not to take him from me?"

By now, several friends and family members gathered there with us and along with the Chaplain, and we all prayed.

Jessica's grandmother – Martha, a very strong and devout Christian, was among the crowd.  
She had been coming daily and I have always believed that the Lord sent her there - for me.

Before this crisis occurred, I had never met the woman. Knew nothing of her. Nevertheless, it did not take long to see that she was a child of God. I could see Him in her. Feel His presence through her. I gained much strength through her faith and prayers.

Psalm 69:16 – 17

King James Version (KJV)  
16 Hear me, O LORD; for thy loving-kindness is good: turn unto me according to the multitude of thy tender mercies.  
17 And hide not thy face from thy servant; for I am in trouble: hear me speedily.

Scott was returned to "Special procedures" as the E.N.T. specialist, assisted by Dr.Gralino (A neuro- radiologist), attempted to control the bleeding in his head.  
He was in surgery for six hours; as a minimum of fifteen "coils" were placed into every attainable vessel and artery in his face and head - restricting the blood flow 90%.  
Their hope still being the artery would clot itself off.

However, they admitted, they did not expect that to happen- it was simply their only hope. The fact that it was the carotid artery they were dealing with made surgery (In the real sense) out of the question.

"To operate would mean certain death," the Doctor explained. "I don't know of a surgeon in the world that would attempt it," he continued.  
"On the other hand, if the artery does not clot he will hemorrhage from the brain and die. People just don't live with this type of injury," he stated.  
"The fact that he has survived this long is extremely rare."

I could not believe what I was hearing. Therefore, I stared at him in disbelief.  
"So, what you're telling me," I stammered, "is that God will have to take care of it?"

"God will have to," he said sincerely, "because I can't!"  
With that, he offered his apologies and left James and I standing in the hall - once again, numb with fear.  
I felt as if we had reversed back in time to 1:15 A.M. Monday, when Dr.Smithson had given him only one hour to live.

By the grace of God, he had overcome the first death sentence - and now he was being given another!  
Just when we thought we were waking from our nightmare, it had started over! We were devastated to say the least.

My heart heaved deep within me as once again deep gut-wrenching sobs overtook me.

"I can't believe it!" I cried to James. "He's come so far and he's still going to die?" Hope; had betrayed me. Fear; had robbed me. Grief was consuming me. I felt cheated, angry, desperate and afraid, so very afraid.

I never once doubted that God could take care of it - but would he? That was my question.  
He had already given us one miracle. Was is it fair to ask for another?

My mind raced as my thoughts ran wild, trying to weigh hope against reality, faith against fear, and the power of prayer against all odds.  
Yet, in spite of fear and moments of weakness, I never let go of my faith. I knew that without it I had nothing.  
Not even, hope. And faith would sustain me in my darkest hour; I believed that. I had to! I rested my head against James' shoulder, closed my eyes and wondered if the grim reaper wore shoes.

Romans 4:20 - 21

King James Version (KJV)  
20 He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God;  
21 And being fully persuaded that, what he had promised, he was able also to perform.

We returned to our private little world in the waiting area where families of other patients (and our newfound friends) were anxiously waiting to hear how the surgery had gone. When we told them the outcome, they were truly sympathetic.  
Many of them told of Scott's plight as they spoke with relatives of their own - as far away as New York and California, once again, the prayer chain continued to grow.  
Scott's friends were crushed at the news. They too, had thought he was now on the road to recovery, that he had overcome the worst and nothing else could hurt him.

When I told them what Dr.Gralino had predicted I think they to, felt as if they had reverted in time. They could not believe it either.  
Emotions were strong as one friend leaned against the wall - fists clenched and tears streaming down his face.

"I can't get him out of my mind," he sobbed.  
"I can't eat. I can't sleep. Why him? He asked, "Why him?" I put my arms around him and held him as he wept.  
"I know, honey." I said softly. "I know."

"Prayer is all we can rely on," I told them.  
God has kept his hand on him thus far - we can't give up now." At that point, we all joined hands and bowed our hearts in prayer - as we often did.

Denise and I had talked earlier on the phone and she was already aware of the doctor's verdict. The moment she entered the room she burst into tears as she stretched her arms out to me. "I'm so sorry," she cried.  
I knew she was not only hurting for me, but with me - she was truly sharing my grief.

Psalm 121:1-2

King James Version (KJV)  
1 I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.  
2 My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.

CHAPTER TEN

What a difference a day can make! Praise God!

When we visited Scott on Friday, we were completely unprepared for what we would find.  
I spoke his name softly as we entered his room and instantly, he turned to face us - raising his head from the pillow and lifting his hand as if to wave! We were ecstatic! For the first time since the stabbing, both eyes were open and he was alert.  
From the moment he saw us he began to sob uncontrollably. Talk about mentally distraught! This kid was there!

Of course, James and I were crying to, only ours were tears of joy. Pure heartfelt joy! We were so thrilled to see him conscious that we could not keep our hands off him. We hugged, touched and kissed for all it was worth - and believe me it was worth the world! It felt like a long-awaited homecoming...a reunion...definitely something sacred.

He communicated via a Magna-Doodle. He could not speak normally at this time, so he wrote to us.  
The visit was short and sweet as our time was still limited, but oh, how wonderful!  
We left his room floating and counting the minutes until the next one. We praised and thanked God for his blessings! He had brought us so far it was unreal!

I immediately phoned Detective Ferguson to tell him the wonderful news, and he had some for me as well.  
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details with you Mrs. Evans," he said, "but I will tell you that we think we know who did it - we're watching him."  
As I probed him for more information, he informed me that at the age of seventeen, in the state of Texas, My son was considered an adult.  
Therefore, legally, he could not tell me what I wanted to know - namely, who and why?  
"That's absurd!" I argued. "I could care less about what the state of Texas says - this is my child we're talking about! Are you telling me that even as his mother I don't have the right to know who tried to kill him?" I questioned angrily.

"Once we've made an arrest you'll be the first to know - I promise." he said.

Fortunately, an arrest was close at hand, as Scott confirmed their suspicions by identifying his attacker from a stack of mug shots later that day.  
I certainly wasn't pleased that I had to wait for the details, but I was so very thankful that they had made some progress- and above all, that Scott had lived to identify him. Today had been a good day.

Psalm 9

King James Version (KJV)  
1 I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvelous works.

By the next day, he had improved enough to come off the respirator. Praise God that was one more mountain he had conquered! However, the doctor feared pneumonia was setting in and ordered the nurses to get him up into a chair twice a day, for two hours at a time.  
With the muscles still exposed in his back, I knew he must have been in terrible pain.  
The nurses were having to strap him down when he slept due to the horrible nightmares. I could only imagine!

He was sitting up when I saw him at my morning visit.  
For the first time I got a really good look at him.  
A vision I shudder to recall.

Obviously under the effects of morphine, his pupils were largely dilated and he was hallucinating; seeing and talking to people who weren't there - in a voice deep and hoarse (from being on the respirator) ,and nothing like his own. The dark, hollow circles around his eyes were haunting against his pale skin. His (already thin) face was sunken, and seven days of beard growth only accented the stranger before me.

A nurse noticed him "Chewing", and asked what he had in his mouth. He told her he had been eating and had meat stuck between his teeth. In actuality, he had had nothing to eat. During the nightmares and moments of incoherence, he had unconsciously chewed the inside of his mouth, and the "Meat" he referred to, was pieces of flesh.

I could not bear to see him like that. I was horrified and had to leave the room before I fell apart in front of him. Everyone was anxiously awaiting my report and I went to pieces as I described his present state.  
"He's out of his mind!" I sobbed. "He barely recognized me! I'm so afraid." I cried. "I'm so afraid!"

"Debbie!" shouted Mike's mother, Bea. "Fear is not of God! The Lord does not give us the spirit of fear. Fear is of Satan and you must not give in to him. That's what he wants!" she exclaimed. "You must be strong in the Lord. God doesn't want us to fear - he say's "Fear not, I am with you." she quoted knowingly.

I knew what she said was true. I had heard that scripture many times. What I did not know, was how to act on it.

How does one not fear?  
How can we not be afraid when everything within us is screaming with what is probably the most spontaneous, natural, truly overwhelming emotion that we, as humans, can ever know?  
I felt helpless and confused. The last thing I wanted to do was let God down - and yet, I felt that I was betraying him through my fear. I couldn't deny it. I certainly couldn't hide it. I didn't know how to overcome it. It was so much bigger than I was.

Isaiah 41:10

King James Version (KJV)  
10 Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Later that evening, Jessica emerged from her visit with Scott, anxious and visibly shaken.

"He said he saw Jesus standing at the foot of his bed,"  
She told me, alarmed.

Nonbelievers would more than likely attribute that statement to the effects of morphine, while most believers would not only refuse to question the reality of it, but would also choose to embrace it.

Immediately, Bea, spoke up. "I asked God to be there", she said confidently. "I asked him to go to his bedside. All we have to do is believe God will do what we ask for."

Shortly afterwards, I was talking with my mother and told her about the incident. She was not the least bit surprised. "I specifically asked God to go to him," she said thankfully. "I told him, Lord I can't be there, but you can. Please, let him know that you are with him." she quoted.  
Considering the prayer Warriors the requests came from, I do not doubt it was real.

There was another event also involving my mother.

Apparently, afraid I wasn't being totally up front with her; I later learned that she would frequently phone the nurses station and speak with one of Scott's nurses.  
Expressing her concern for his life and the fact that she was a thousand miles away and hesitating to begin the trip to Texas for fear of losing him before completing the journey.  
She stressed her "Need to know" pleading with the nurse for facts on the severity of his condition and the Doctor's prognosis.  
The nurse was always honest with her.

"He's already exceeded our expectations," she confessed during their first conversation only hours after his admittance to the I.C.U. Unit.

"Keep up the prayers" she stressed when they spoke again. "They're all that's keeping him alive."

Mom was so very grateful for the nurse's thoughtfulness and consideration of her situation and continued her calls until she felt it was safe enough to attempt the trip.  
However, before their last conversation the nurse told mother of an incident when she handed Scott an empty cup encouraging him to cough.  
Immediately she observed tears streaming down his face.

"What's wrong, honey?" she asked warmly.  
"I see my grandmothers face in the bottom of this cup and she's smiling at me," he said.  
"Your grandmothers been very worried about you" she told him.  
"She loves you very much and has never stopped praying for you"...

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was now Sunday, May 10th, and Mothers Day.  
I was, without doubt, the happiest mother on God's green earth!

How I praised and thanked him that I still had my child.  
I was certain of one thing - this Mothers Day, I would always remember.

What joy this day would bring. I received cards, flowers and tokens of love from Scott's friends as well as my own.  
As I have said repeatedly, the outpour of love and compassion this tragedy brought about was un-surpassed!  
I must say, however, the highlight of my day was receiving a card from my son.

Scott had overheard the nurses discussing the occasion and asked James to buy a card for him to give to me.  
When I opened it and saw the words "I love you, Mom" scribbled by his own hand, I was moved to tears.  
Needless to say, that is one card that I treasure. And today, it is tucked away between the pages of my Bible.

Although faithful to come to the hospital each evening, by now everyone had returned to their normal routines.  
What kids that were not in school had jobs, and of course, our adult friends and family had children and lives of their own to tend to.  
They had been wonderful though, going out of their way to put our needs first, never hesitating to offer their love and support in our darkest hour.  
We appreciated every one of them.

On Monday, James returned to work. He was working the evening shift (3-11).  
I spent the afternoon reading my Bible, talking with new friends in the waiting area and counting the minutes until the next visitation time.  
After each visit, we all waited anxiously to hear what the other had to report.  
We shared every triumph and defeat with one another, and prayed for each other constantly.  
Every patient in Trauma I.C.U. was clinging to life.  
We were all experiencing the same feelings and could certainly identify with one another.

Although still sitting up twice a day for two-hour periods, Scott was now running a fever of 104 degrees and the doctors suspected a lung infection.  
I did not have to be told how serious that could be. Especially with him recovering from a collapsed lung to begin with.  
The balloon in his nose had been deflated that morning, but left in place (for fear of another hemorrhage).  
Praise God, by nightfall there had been no bleeding.  
I continued with my prayer vigil during each visit- repeating the scripture my brother had given me.

For the convenience of the families, the waiting area was equipped with numerous telephones, as well as the one at the volunteer's desk, which the nurses used to contact relatives whenever necessary.  
Often, throughout the night it would ring.  
Someone would answer and call out a name.  
It did not take long for me to figure out that when those calls came during the wee hours of morning - it usually meant a patient had died. One night we lost three.  
That ringing phone quickly became a bad omen to me.  
Every time it rang, I felt sick inside.

I feared hearing it ring in the middle of the night and my name being called out.  
And wouldn't you know, this night, the very first night I am alone, it happened.  
"Johnson!" someone called out. "Is the mother of Scott Johnson here?"  
I bolted upright. Weakness swept over me so quickly I felt faint.  
I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 A.M.  
"Oh, please God, no." I whispered. "No".  
Unable to accept what I had not even been told yet.

My Voice trembled as I picked up the receiver and identified myself. "Mrs. Johnson," the nurse said, "Your son is awake and wants to see you. "Awake?" I repeated. "He's awake?" "Yes, Ma'am," she said. "He's asking for you." "I'll be right there!" I told her, laughing and crying in the same breath.  
My footsteps echoed as I literally ran down the quiet hall to those huge double doors. Doors, that unfortunately for many, were the doors to eternity.

By Tuesday, he was given his first drink of water - which immediately came back up.  
Twice, he was given the water, and twice, it came up. He was then taken to X-ray and found to have an obstruction. He was blocked with blood from the massive internal bleeding he had experienced.

Still extremely weak and his fever raging, the doctors did not want to attempt surgery. Instead, they inserted a stomach pump, hoping to suction the blockage out rather than operate.  
I prayed to God that it would work - and it did.  
"But what next?" I cried. How much more could he stand?  
I was learning quickly that the journey was somehow easier when we started out on our knees.  
I gave God all the credit, the praise and the glory.  
I shudder to think where we would have been without Him.

Being awake and at himself now, he was extremely depressed. As mentally distraught as I had been myself, I knew that I could not even touch on his emotions.  
I could only imagine the mental anguish he was feeling and my heart ached for him.  
I knew that he must have relived the attack a thousand times over in his mind - not to mention the nightmares when he slept.  
I requested that a counselor be sent to talk with him.  
She explained that what he was experiencing was to be expected and that the worst was yet to come.  
She said that we both would be subject to periods of Post Traumatic stress and would need help in dealing with our emotions.  
It felt good to talk with someone who understood the anger and helplessness, as well as the pain.

There still had not been any bleeding, so the balloon was removed and he was returned for another arteriogram.  
Dr.Gralino took us aside to speak privately with us.  
One look at his troubled face had confirmed our worst fear; the carotid artery had not clotted as they had hoped it would and therefore, remained a constant threat to Scott's life.  
The Dr. compared it to an "air bubble in a tire", explaining that as the blood circulated and flowed past the puncture site, the wall of the artery would grow thinner resulting in a massive hemorrhage.  
"Of course, I can't tell you _when_ it will happen", he said.  
"I can only tell you that it _will_."

James tightened his arm around my shoulder as my body swayed from the gut-level impact of his words. They may as well have been stones; heavy, weight-of-the-world-type stones.  
I grasped the back of a chair for support, trying hard to concentrate on what he was saying rather than what I was feeling; trying hard to breathe normally, to speak sensibly, to not cry aloud, even though my heart was busting within me.  
I could feel the pain seeping through the very pores of my skin, and tears standing in my eyes like wounded soldiers waiting for permission to fall.

I began to pray... silently, earnestly, desperately.

The term Dr.Gralino used to describe the damage to the Carotid artery was "Fistula".  
Defined medically as "An abnormal connection or passageway between two epithelium lined organs or vessels that normally do not connect".

Once again, he expressed his sincere sympathy and offered to send Scott's records anywhere we wished.  
In spite of the fact, as he told us before, "No Doctor in his right mind would attempt to operate."  
"Doctors just aren't experienced in operating on the Carotid artery," he explained.  
"When we do see a patient with an injury to that area, they are already dead."  
That statement alone sent cold chills down my spine.  
It told me two things: 1. How blessed we were to still have Scott, and 2. How soon we could expect to lose him.  
According to Dr.Gralino, he was already living on borrowed time.

Our hearts buckled beneath the weight of his words and we sank side by side into chairs, feeling helpless, hopeless, defeated and broken. Oh, so broken.

I had always thought seeing a big man cry was one of the saddest things.  
James was a big man and He was crying.  
I had seen him cry before of course, but not as openly. Like most men, he tried not to. Until now, his primary focus had been me: being there for me to lean on, being my support, my strength. God knows that I could not have asked for a more loving, compassionate husband than he had been through all this, and I thanked the Lord for him.  
However, he was hurting to. His reserve was gone.  
His wall was down. My rock had crumbled.  
His heart was breaking just as mine was.  
He loved Scott to.  
He loved him like the Father he was to him.

And with no one but God watching, he buried his tired, worried face into his hands and wept like a child.  
I reached out to comfort him, pulling him close to me.  
"We can't lose our boy," he said, his chin quivering.  
"We just can't."  
"God will have the final say." I told him. "Not the Doctors."  
The salty taste of tears stung our lips as we unloaded all the pain, frustration, fear and anger into one another's arms, as if we were transferring burdens.  
For the moment, I guess we were.

Being new in Christ I was weak. I had faith and I truly believed. I had witnessed a miracle of God with my own eyes.  
Never once, did I doubt his power, but I guess I questioned his will.  
I could not deny the fear that tugged at my heart.  
Granted, he was off life support now.  
The internal bleeding was under control.  
At last, he was fully conscious and communicating with us. It was as if he had returned from the dead...and in a sense, he had!  
When you consider the fact that within a 12-hour period he:

A. Bled out repeatedly, receiving the equivalent of five total blood transfusions.

B. His veins had collapsed to the point the nurses were searching his feet for one they could use.

C. He had become hypotensive on multiple occasions, which simply put; means that his blood pressure had dropped so low it was not adequate to supply oxygen to his body's cells and tissue.

D. His core body temperature had dropped to an astounding Thirty-Three degrees and stayed there for eight hours!

Considering the normal body temperature is 98.6 that is unimaginable!  
We all know that thirty-two degrees is freezing! That is what the Trauma Surgeon meant when he told us that he had to stop the surgery because he was "too cold."  
Water turns to ice at thirty-two degrees. Perhaps blood does also. I don't know. What I do know, however, is that all things considered, Scott should not be here. He is truly a miracle.

God had given him another chance at life- but how many was he entitled to? I wondered.  
How many times could he defy the odds?

God had been our only hope from day one.  
And the fact remained; he was still our only hope.  
The doctor's hands were tied, my hands were tied and that was hard for me to deal with.

Having been divorced, and raising Scott alone for nearly eight years, I was used to taking care of any problems that we encountered; I was accustomed to being in control.  
I always found a way to make things work.  
But now, as I faced the biggest dilemma of my lifetime, I was totally helpless.

I had no control whatsoever. No voice in the matter.  
There was absolutely nothing I could do, short of prayer, to change the situation.  
My only hope remained in the Lord and in his mercy.

Psalm 57-1

King James Version (KJV)  
1 Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Detective Ferguson and the Juvenile Officer had been back almost daily to talk with Scott and have him review the mug shots again.  
With evidence mounting and an arrest nigh they wanted to be certain that he was pointing a finger at the right person.  
Scott picked out the same one every time.  
He said to me, "That's a face that I will never forget. I see it every time I close my eyes."

I don't doubt that he did.

I had not realized it, but at this point, Scott was still not aware that he had also been stabbed in the back.  
He was very much aware of the pain, but apparently assumed that it was due to his overall condition.  
Actually, he had no idea of what he had survived, or the extent of his injuries. It would take me reliving the drama in detail before he would know the true definition of the word "Miracle" - and understand that by the grace of God - he was one!

When the surgeon came in to examine his back and schedule surgery, Scott was devastated!  
He had been through so much, he was drained.  
Mentally, physically, emotionally, drained.  
His depression grew deeper day by day.  
How I wished I could bear his pain.  
I would gladly have traded places with him.  
I have always believed the hardest part of parenting is seeing your children suffer. From a skinned knee to their first heartache - and everything in between. We hurt with them and for them.  
I fought back tears every time I looked at him.

The doctor's words echoed through my mind like a hollow drum: "I can't tell you when it will happen, I can only tell you that it will."...  
"People just don't live with this type of injury...he will have a massive hemorrhage...God will have to, because I can't!" He had told me, honestly.  
"How much longer will I have him?" I wondered.  
How could I tell him that he was going to die? ...  
How could I not tell him? Was it fair?  
"Was anything in this life fair?" I questioned bitterly.

It was time for visitation and I anxiously rang the buzzer.  
"We have a surprise for you, mom," said the nurse.  
"Just give us a couple of minutes."  
I leaned against the shiny white wall trying my best to imagine what it could be, when the huge doors opened and there stood Scott, a nurse under each arm holding him up!  
I was ecstatic! He began walking towards me and I burst into tears. Tears of gratitude. Tears of joy. Tears of relief. Bittersweet Tears! My what a beautiful sight!  
I wept openly as I praised the Lord and thanked him for his mercy.

I was stunned at the amount of weight that he had lost.  
Being 5' 10", and weighing only a handful at the time of the stabbing, he now looked emaciated! It broke my heart to look at him. Of course, considering he had lived off nothing but IVs for two weeks, I guess that was to be expected. Obviously in pain, and still very weak, the nurses only walked with him a short distance.

I floated through the remainder of the day!  
I was so happy and thankful. God had blessed us good.  
"Always the darkest before the dawn." I reminded myself. The darkest hour is just before dawn.  
I was beginning to believe that little motto.

Back surgery was scheduled for tomorrow and he was moved from I.C.U. to the surgery floor, which was encouraging.  
I, to, was able to move with him. The hospital supplied me with a cot so that I could continue to stay with him, and I left my "Cubby-hole" which had been my home-away-from-home for the past two weeks.  
My friends who were still there rejoiced with us, and we continued to pray for one another and keep in touch daily.

Once he was settled in , I went to the cafeteria located on the lower level for coffee. As I approached the elevator, five 'very obvious' hard-core gang members were approaching also. In the nearly three weeks I had been here, I had never seen them before. My heart leaped in my throat when they boarded the elevator behind me and pushed the button for the same floor. I was going to...The floor Scott had been moved to!

They began talking among themselves on the way up. "I think he's still alive", one said. "I don't know", said another, "They said he was in really bad shape".  
My knees grew weak as panic swept through me from head to toe. I just knew they were here looking for Scott. I was imagining one very casually walking into his room and blowing his head off. My mind was racing! I didn't know what to do.  
The elevator stopped and they headed down the hall in the same direction that I was going. I was shaking with fear!

I could hardly walk, but somehow managed to run ahead to the nurses' station. "Call security" I blurted out anxiously. "There's a bunch of gang members coming, and I think they are looking for Scott". They passed by as she was making the call.  
I stepped out behind them ,following their every step. They made another turn and were heading straight towards Scott's room. I quickly darted around them to get inside the room first, and almost fainted with relief as they walked past his door to the next room.

Just then, Security came running in to see what was going on, and after checking out the guys next door, informed me that they were there to see one of their members who had been shot in a recent gang fight.  
Just for precautionary measures they moved Scott to another floor, and I was very glad that they did.  
My nerves were shot! Why couldn't these kids mine included, see what this lifestyle was doing to them, not to mention their families! Was it worth dying for? Was being butchered and maimed for life worth it? I wanted to know.

I was just scared and angry enough to say what I thought, and I felt Scott was well enough to hear it. So I simply unloaded, although after all he'd been through it really wasn't necessary. He had paid the price for his involvement... "A violent price" as the detective had put it.  
And he was through with all the nonsense. Any further interaction on his part would be to help kids to get out of the gangs, not in-before they learned their lesson the hard way, like he had. He told me that and I believed him. It still felt good to vent though. I needed it. I felt that I deserved it. And I had definitely earned it.

Psalm 40:05

King James Version (KJV)  
5 Many, O LORD my God, are thy wonderful works which thou hast done, and thy thoughts which are to us-ward: they cannot be reckoned up in order unto thee: if I would declare and speak of them, they are more than can be numbered.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I saw the wounds to Scott's back for the first time just before he was taken to surgery.  
The bandages had come off during the night, and as he turned onto his side they were visible to me.  
One was a puncture wound (a very deep stab, but not really "unsightly" to look at.)  
The other one, however, was horrible enough for both of them.  
It was more of a "slice", about six inches in length (and just barely missing his spine).  
A large amount of purplish looking muscle was protruding from it. It was ripped out by the serrated edge of the hunting knife as it was withdrawn.

Nausea swept over me in an instant and I quickly made an excuse to leave the room before the look on my face betrayed me.  
I not only felt sick from the sight of the wound, I was also sickened with rage!  
Angry tears sprang to my eyes and rolled down my cheeks at the very thought of my son being so brutally assaulted.

I was overcome with emotion, and I knew that I would have to ask God's forgiveness for the idea I was entertaining at the moment... and I would.  
I could not expect Him to approve, but I did hope that He would understand.  
Fantasy had become an outlet for the pain and fury that  
sometimes overwhelmed both James and I.  
It was how we chose to vent, rather than to harbor.  
And may God forgive me, it felt good!

Scott had already been taken to surgery when my family arrived from West Virginia. With the exception of my Brother, David, who was discreetly and deliberately left behind at my request. He was wild with anger and hell-bent on revenge. I did not want him here.  
In his present state of mind, the city of Arlington was not big enough for both him and Scott's attacker.  
David would have searched until he found the man, and as with Scott, only a miracle from God Himself could have saved him. I was certain of it!

I love my brother too much to see him spend the rest of his life in prison, and I had no doubt that is how it would  
have ended.  
We were dealing with enough heartache as it was. I could not chance even more. For his sake, as well as ours, I felt I had to insist that he not come at this time.

It was wonderful to have my family here with me at last.  
They had strengthened me so much through their love and prayers. Each time I had grown weak (and there were many), they were always there for me; giving me hope and courage.  
Their love supported me, sustained me and comforted me.  
I treasured them.  
I could not imagine having endured this living nightmare without them. Especially, my precious mother.  
The very moment I felt her arms around me, I became a child again.

I cried like a baby as all the hurt, fear and anger of the past weeks poured out of me.  
Her love comforted me as only a mother's love can.  
For the moment, I did not have to be strong.  
I did not have to be brave.  
I did not have to hide the pain.  
I was her little girl again, and it was okay to cry.

We knew the back surgery would take several hours, but when it began to take even hours longer than we anticipated, panic set in, and I began to worry. Therefore, we prayed.  
Apparently, our prayers had wings, because it was not long until we were informed that the surgery was over and Scott was in recovery. By the grace of God, he had survived... one more time. And (one more time) we thanked God for his tender mercy and goodness; giving Him the praise and glory that He was so very deserving of.

Scott was so pleased to see everyone, especially his grandmother, whom he adored.  
Only God knew how she had prayed, cried and grieved over him.

To say that she was devastated at seeing him in such a traumatic way, would surely be an understatement.  
She held herself together briefly, while in his presence, only to sink into heart-wrenching sobs once outside of his room.  
In my entire life, I had never seen my mother as heartbroken, or known of her to weep from such a depth.  
It was as if she pulled the tears from her soul.  
And for a change, I was comforting her.  
I even caught myself wondering how she would have coped had she seen Scott at his very worst.

By the grace of God, my heart whispered, just as I had.

Two days after the surgery, the nurses had Scott up walking.  
He was slowly improving physically, but mentally, was still very distraught.  
The trauma his body had been put through in such a short time was enough to kill anyone, and yet he lived.  
It was unreal. But it was real. Because God is real.

I had thought the surgery areas to his back looked bad, but they could have been beauty marks compared to the one on his abdomen.  
I almost fainted when I saw it.  
He had been cut open from the top of his stomach to the bottom.  
The incision was 10-12 inches long, gaped open at least an inch, and so deep the nurses were rolling up gauze and placing them inside of it.

Because the original wound had been a stabbing, it was left open to heal from the inside out due to the high risk of infection, and for someone other than a doctor or a nurse; it was shocking, repulsive, and hard to look at.  
Considering the frequent dressing changes, I just assumed that Scott had already seen the wound himself, and simply chose not to bring it up (and I wasn't about to), however, I would soon learn that he had not.

The Dr. made his routine visit and stated that the surgery sites looked "good". They were healing and so far, there was no sign of an infection.  
An (Infectious Disease Control Specialist) had been treating him from the onset also, and we were grateful for that.  
We were extremely grateful for everything, period!  
Everyone involved in Scott's care had gone above and beyond the call of duty.  
Including, and even more so, Dr.Smithson, whom I had deemed cold and heartless from the moment I had met him, had proved himself to be a caring, committed and very dedicated trauma surgeon.  
Without a doubt, he was one of the best, anywhere.

Strictly professional? Yes. But then, I am sure he had to be.  
Especially when dealing with hysterical parents, such as I.  
He probably did so on a daily basis, and had learned very quickly that in order to perform to the best of his ability, he must set boundaries. And dare not cross them.  
I can appreciate that...now.  
He had instructed Scott to begin showering now twice a day, letting the water run over the wounds for 3-5 minutes at a time to reduce the possibility of infection setting in.

Shortly after waking the next morning, Scott went to the bathroom, removed the bandages, and stood frozen in horror, staring incredulously at the stranger in the mirror before him.  
He was seeing his open wounds and scars, as horrible as they were, for the first time.  
He was seeing the end result of gang association, affiliation, RETALIATION!  
He was seeing the aftermath of May 03, 1992; his own attempted murder.  
He was seeing what can happen when your reputation precedes you and you are known by the company you keep.

Unable to tear away from the gaunt, hollow-eyed frame of a young man who looked as if he had just escaped from a bloody massacre, he simply stared, eyes wide open and disbelieving.  
Then the man in the mirror cried.

Tears of unbridled rage gushed forth, and his body shook with pure naked anguish, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.  
I heard him cry out. A long, painful, angry wail.  
I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, and I immediately ran to him.  
I found him folded over the bathroom sink.  
His fists were clinched tightly and his entire body convulsed with sobs of raw emotion.  
"Oh God!" he cried out.  
"Oh my God! Why did he do this to me? I hate him!"  
He screamed, bitterly. "I hate him!"

I hated him to!  
I hated him with a passion; a hate so deep it scared me.  
A hate I did not know I was capable of; a hate way bigger than me!  
"God will take care of him, honey. You can be sure of that." I promised. "God saw it all. His eyes were watching." I said, as I held him. And I believed it.  
I could not have held back the tears had I tried.  
My heart was sore with aching. And I cannot deny that at this very moment, I wanted to kill the monster that had done this to my son.

Frequently, I had caught myself fantasizing about it.  
I wanted to kill him with my own bare hands.  
First, to beat him with every ounce of strength I could muster, and then strangle him until I felt the breath of life leave his body. That was my fantasy.

Apparently, there is a monster sleeping in all of us, I reasoned, because this truly was not me.  
I was shocked at my own thoughts and feelings.  
At times, I felt the rage would totally consume me.  
It was a daily battle within me; not wanting to feel this way and yet, unable to deny that I did.

I possibly could have hidden my feelings from others, but I certainly could not hide them from the Lord. I felt guilty.  
Christians don't hate! Christians don't kill!  
Was I not a Christian now? Had I not changed my ways? My Life? Had I not truly given my heart to Christ?  
Yes! I am! I have! I did! I cried within.  
But first, I was a mere mortal; just a normal human being...a mother, I reasoned.

And so it went, the battle of good verses evil raged on within me.  
Eventually, I convinced myself that my feelings were to be expected; this was simply a mother's rage against the attempted murderer of her child.  
I had every right to feel this way, I decided.  
I had a right to be angry. I had a right to seek revenge.  
I had a right to want him dead. What parent wouldn't?  
But did that justify my feelings?  
In my eyes? Yes. In the eyes of society? Maybe.  
In the eyes of God...Never! I knew that.  
I wrestled with it. Oh, how I wrestled with it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aside from everything else that I was struggling to cope with, I was also worried about what would happen when Scott was released from the hospital.  
Would he attempt to seek revenge on the man who had literally slaughtered him and left him for dead?  
Could I expect him not to?  
Would I, had it been me?... Would James?...Would you?

What would he gain from it if he did?  
Other than self-gratification, what good could possibly come from it?  
And more importantly, what would God think?  
The answer to that question was simple; two wrongs don't make a right.  
My mother had taught me that as a child.  
Perhaps, I just needed to be reminded, and remind Scott as well.

In spite of all the anger and bitterness I felt towards this man, I could not help but think of his mother.  
Regardless of what he had done, he was still her child.  
I would imagine that she loved him just as I loved mine.  
How could I wish the same grief and pain that I was enduring upon her?  
The truth is; I could not. Nor, could I blame her for the unthinkable crime that he had committed.

I felt that she too, was hurting inside, and I prayed for her.  
I asked God to give her the same strength and comfort that he had given to me, and I sincerely hoped that he would.  
She too, was a victim of her son's actions.  
I understood that.  
I sympathized with her.

Then there was James.  
He was dealing with his own rage, a Father's rage.  
He had the same thoughts, Feelings and fantasies that I did.  
But he had no guilt about it.  
He wasn't considering the repercussions, or the pain it would bring another. Or even the consequences to himself.  
He could not see beyond Scott and his suffering.  
Unlike me, he was not worried about what God would think.  
And that frightened me.

I feared that what I fantasized about, he was capable of doing; and would. And as badly as I wanted justice, I knew that was not the answer.  
Forced to weigh the odds, I knew in my heart of hearts that regardless of how we looked at the situation, or what legitimate reasons we felt that we had, revenge was not the solution.  
The following scripture only served to prove me right:

Romans 12:19

King James Version (KJV)  
19 Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

That was the answer for each of us.  
The right answer. The only answer.  
We needed to accept it, earnestly praying for God to give us the strength and wisdom to overcome these emotions, and to replace the hatred with forgiveness, as He would have us do.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I think Det. Ferguson was as pleased to give us the news of an arrest, as we were to receive it.  
He informed us that he had arrested an 18 yr old man for the assault on my son.  
He was charged with attempted capital murder.  
However, within four hours he was released from what I was told, on a "Writ" pending a court appearance and was back on the streets!  
How is that for the Criminal Justice System?

Scott had already been handed a death sentence (aside from the attempted murder that he had survived), while his perpetrator was being treated as if he had done nothing wrong. We were absolutely livid!  
James and I had questioned Scott repeatedly (As had the Police), about what had led up to the assault and caused someone to try to kill him, and today we were finally enlightened as to why it had happened.  
One year earlier, a 16 yr.old boy shot and killed a 20 yr.old man in a street altercation; an apparent "Gang fight", although they were the only two involved.

A few months before the attack on Scott, the 16 yr. old went on trial for the murder.  
He was found guilty, but only sentenced to 10 years, which outraged the murder victim's family. They vowed revenge.

The murdered man had been married and his young widow lived in the apartment complex across the street from the grocery store where Scott worked.  
One of Scott's co-workers was infatuated with her and confessed his feelings to Scott about it.  
When he mentioned the fact that the young lady's husband had been killed, and the details of his death, Scott readily admitted that he knew the kid that had killed him, and that he was a friend of his. Or as Scott put it:  
"One of his homeboys," which was true. And deadly to say. But he trusted the co-worker.

The police surmised that in an attempt to score some points with the young woman; the co-worker must have told her "This guy I work with is friends with the guy that killed your husband."  
This is what led her brothers to Scott.  
One did the stabbing and left him for dead, while the other drove the get-away car. (In this case, Truck)

He also told us that Scott's manager had informed him that the girl had brought her brothers into the store earlier that afternoon, and they were inquiring about Scott. The manager stated that he immediately sensed something was not right, and was concerned for Scott's safety, warning him to "watch his back" once he reported to work.  
The more I thought about it the angrier I became. The very nerve of her! My mind began racing as I thought about that night. About the huge crowd of people gathered at the crime scene. I pictured her among them, watching as the scene unfolded. Pretending to be an innocent by-stander, when her heart was as black as her long, raven hair!

The very idea of her watching the police restraining me as I tried desperately to get to Scott. Crying and praying aloud to God.  
Watching as the paramedics carried his bloodied body to the helicopter, witnessing first hand, the terror she had brought about, sickened me inside!  
What sickened me even more, was when I thought about how saddened I felt when after her husband's death the local newspaper ran an article on increasing gang violence, and included a photo of her at her husband's grave site.  
She was a beautiful young girl and my heart broke for her. I had prayed to God for as long as I could remember over her.  
Truly and sincerely prayed for her strength and comfort.  
It didn't matter that I had never met her, or didn't know her personally.

I knew she was hurting inside, and I was hurting for her. The fact that I asked God to protect her children and she tries to have mine killed, simply blows my mind! How ironic is that? The fact that I prayed for her is not what sickens me. I wouldn't take them back if I could. What sickens me is the thought that she would find gratification in my sorrow.

"You'll always be known by the company you keep."  
I had told Scott when he started Jr. High. I knew that at some point he would be confronted with drugs and alcohol.  
"The choices and decisions that you make now as a teenager, will lay the foundation for your life as an adult. That's why it is so important to make the right ones the first time." I cautioned.  
"Your son paid a violent, violent price for something he had nothing to do with." the juvenile officer had told me, "a violent price!"  
I guess you could say at that point, he was known by the company he kept.

By now, we had learned from "Beast" that Scott was indeed in a gang with a group of boys he had known and associated with since elementary and others from Junior high school.  
James and I were almost as shocked and disappointed to learn of their involvement as we were of Scott's.  
The juvenile Officer could see that we were as perplexed as we were humiliated. We just could not grasp the "Why" of it. He explained that most kids joined gangs (or form their own) for protection from other gangs; the strength in numbers theory, I guess. Apparently, you're either in or out, and there is a price to pay either way.  
As senseless as it all was, we did know that gangs were rampant in every "big" city.  
Every public school had more than it's share, including the one Scott attended. The presence of patrol cars monitoring the school grounds every day to deter rival gang fights was evidence of that.

Gangs were reported to exist as early as the fourth grade and "all girl" gangs were increasing as well.  
I detested the very idea of gang affiliation but I had to admit we began to see so many negative changes in Scott during his sophomore yr. that we knew (something) was going on. Even when he started getting in trouble with the law, and always with the same group of boys, we never thought of them as a "gang".

He had always been a good student and well liked by his teachers. Then his grades began to fall, his personality changed, and he became distant with his dad and I.  
We suspected drugs. I stressed the point that although we certainly would not be pleased about him using, if he would just be honest with us, we would try to understand and would get him the help he needed.  
"Sometimes good people do bad things," I told him.  
"We can get beyond it," However, he adamantly denied using.

I've never forgotten what a detective once told me as I sat in the Arlington Police Department hearing the details of his latest offense.  
Tears of pure humiliation streamed down my face as I told him "I didn't raise my son this way. I did not raise him to do these things."  
He said to me "Don't beat yourself up Ma'am. I see this everyday. It happens in the best of families. Doctors, lawyers, even to families in the Police force.  
Peer pressure can destroy in five minutes what you've spent a lifetime instilling in them."  
I found that to be very true, as he had shamed me beyond words by doing the very things I despised most, and had always taught him never to do, such as stealing.  
I never would have believed he would do such a thing.

However, a short while before the stabbing, he had been so guilt-ridden over the thefts and what his behavior was doing to James and I that he woke me up about 3:00 A.M. one morning filled with his own humiliation. He confessed to using drugs and to the thefts he had committed, and admitted that he needed help and agreed to go in for treatment.  
He did not like the person he had become anymore than James and I did. Bottom line; he had a conscience.  
I was pleased to see it again.

He had certainly been no angel. He had made many bad choices over the past several years; choices I would never have imagined him making.  
He had shocked and shamed his dad and I to no end.  
As for the gang activity, that is something I do not like to talk about. In all honesty, do not know a lot about; for the simple reason it ended on May 03, 1992. Scott assured me of that while still in the hospital, and I believed him.  
Besides, the gang issue is another story in and of itself.  
I am sure there is a lot to be told, and a lot to be learned from it. That is Scott's story.  
He lived it, and I will let him tell it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

On May 23, Scott was released from the hospital.  
A day I had wondered if we would ever see; and certainly, a day we were not expected to.  
Thinking back to the night he had been brought in and all the mountains and valleys we had crossed in the meantime, it seemed impossible that he could be leaving that hospital alive.  
But then, God too, is a physician - and with God, all things are possible! (Mark 10:27)

Bringing him home was a joyous occasion to say the least.  
I could not thank God enough. He had brought us so far, it was like a dream.  
How wonderful to be in familiar surroundings again; sleeping in our own beds, enjoying the comforts of home, and of course the best part of all- having our son home with us!  
Scott gave his life to Christ his first night back home.  
Praise God!

I cannot deny that the expertise of the physicians and the care he received while in the hospital certainly played a huge part in his recovery.  
However, the doctors themselves admitted that it was not enough; they did not have the power to save him.  
Call it what you will - but there is no question about it; Scott is alive by the grace of God! Period.

I kept him quiet and encouraged him to rest. The drive home was painful and exhausting for him.  
His weight had dropped to 118 pounds. He was still very weak.  
He had many visitors over the next few days, and was happy to see each of them. His co-workers brought gifts, balloons and cards.  
The neighbors came bringing flowers and hugs- everyone so pleased to see him again. Almost everyone.

Jessica had been getting phones calls...  
On May 27 Jessica received another threatening phone call stating "I'm gonna kill you when I see you-I'm gonna chop you up". In addition, another warrant had been issued for Scott.

Apparently, an assault warrant related to a fight that took place about 4 months prior.  
God be with us. I wondered what would happen next.

I wanted to believe that once we had Scott at home we could shut out the world and escape some of the drama. I was wrong.

Detective Ferguson stopped by with more mug shots for Scott to look at. Now that he was home and off the narcotics, the detective wanted to make sure that he still identified the same man. And he did.  
There was never a doubt in his mind which one had tried to kill him. And for the first time, I got a good look at him too, while looking over Scott's shoulder. And I studied him hard. I stored every detail of his features in my memory bank like nuggets of gold into a vault.

When the newspaper reported his arrest for Scott's attempted murder, they also printed the name of the street and apartment complex where he was supposed to be living. And that drove me crazy! I now had a face to put with the name and an address to put with the face.  
I hate to admit that as adamant as I had been with everyone else about not seeking revenge, I was the very one to lose control!

This particular day had been a very bad one for Scott, and therefore an extremely bad one for me.  
My thoughts and emotions were running wild. When James left for work that evening I slipped his 357 Magnum into my purse and decided I would go looking for this villain.  
The phone rang as I started out the door. It was Denise calling.  
"I'm going with you" she declared, when I told her where I was going." Pick me up!" she demanded. I did not tell her I had the gun until we were on our way. But it made no difference to her.

We found the address and I cruised slowly, weaving in and out around each unit looking for that dirty grey truck or better yet, the one that "rolled into it"...with my son's blood all over him!  
My heart pounded and my palms were wet on the steering wheel, as I anticipated finding him. I imagined him congregating outside with his "homies" as they routinely do. However, we did not see him or the truck. No doubt a blessing in disguise. I can't honestly say what I would have done in that moment of weakness had I found him. Sometimes we don't really know how we will react in a situation until we are actually in it.  
I can only wonder, and thank God for my own sake, as well as my family's, that I didn't get the chance to find out.  
I never told James about it, and I never went looking for him again. I guess God brought me to my senses.

Before Scott was even released from the hospital, James and I had decided we would leave Arlington, and we could not leave quick enough.  
We wanted to get as far away as we could, from the gangs, the violence, and the constant reminders of the "Nightmare on New York Ave" that had rocked our world to the core.  
We immediately began searching for a new place to call home and praying nothing else happened before we could make the move.

Aside from all of that, once we were home, everything except his life still hanging in the balance from day to day became secondary.  
I was now in charge of his dressing changes and wound care.

I had been trained before leaving the hospital, and supplied with lots of gloves, gauze and antibiotics.  
Angie, was a nurse as well as a dear friend, and came by often to check on him for me.

She was working as a counselor for mentally and physically abused children; therefore, she was someone Scott could share his thoughts and feelings with.  
God had blessed us in many ways, and I was so very grateful.  
I had again told Scott about his wounds and the many obstacles that we had encountered during his hospital stay. He truly had no idea, and remembered very little.  
He listened intensely as if he were hearing a story about someone else.

It was difficult for him to comprehend all that he had actually lived through, not to mention the fact that he was not supposed to have lived at all.  
He wept with gratitude and declared that his life would be different; that he would dedicate his heart and soul to the Lord and live for him. I was overjoyed!  
He was genuinely amazed.  
However, I managed to evade telling him about the worst one of all, the puncture to the carotid artery.  
To be perfectly honest, I did not know how.

After all that he had survived and as far as he had already come, how could I tell him that he was still standing at death's door. I could not bring myself to do it! I could not bear to think of it, let alone talk about it.  
Perhaps, I felt that if I didn't admit it to myself or "bring it to the light" so to speak, that I wouldn't have to deal with it.  
I was in total denial.  
I did not know how to handle the situation; therefore, I chose to ignore it, hoping it would just go away.  
I could not change it. I could not fix it. I could not deal with it, period.  
Nor, could I deal with the feeling of complete and total helplessness it instilled in me.  
I was weak. I was broken. I was naive to think that I could protect Scott from something that had become a part of his very being, and was a very real threat to his life.

By the first week of June, he was complaining of pain behind his right eye and a "swishing sound" in his ear.  
The E.N.T specialist, Dr.Samuelson, confirmed my worst fear; the sound was coming from the damaged artery.  
A result of the blood flowing past the puncture site; the "air bubble", as Dr.Gralino had referred to it.  
The blood vessels in the temple area on each side of his head had begun to bulge now also.  
They were noticeable, and I could see them throb with each heartbeat.  
The doctor said that under the circumstances it was to be expected.  
What he was really saying, was that DEATH could be expected!

I noticed that instantly. So did James.  
One quick glance told me so, and panic struck me like a bolt of lightening. I could not hide from the truth any longer. I was reminded every time I looked at Scott.  
Of course, he knew the truth now to.  
At this point, I felt like he was just passing through.  
A sojourner between life and death.  
A weary traveler between two eternities.

The drive home was stressful to say the least.  
We discussed everything except what was truly on our minds.  
No one dared mention it.  
We had to grasp it first, before we could address it, and Scott was the first to do so.  
Later that evening, when it was just he and I, he summoned up his courage.

"Mom, does this mean that I'm going to die?" he asked, those blue eyes piercing my soul.  
My heart prayed as I stammered, searching for the right words.  
"It means...that...if the doctors can't stop the bleeding...that...yes, you could die." I answered honestly.  
"But" I continued, choking back tears and struggling to remain calm, "what we must remember is that God has kept you in the palm of his hand all of this time.  
We were told you were going to die before; we can't give up now. We have to keep praying and trusting in God.  
He is still in control." I told him.

I put my arms around him and willed myself to absorb everything he was feeling.  
How I longed to bear this burden for him!  
I could feel the depth of his pain, and see the mental anguish in his face.  
His eyes said it all: sad eyes, empty eyes, pleading eyes that were screaming "Help me...Do something...Don't let me die!"  
I could not bear it! I had to look away.  
I left the room to go hide and cry.

I tried so hard to be strong for him but my own pain, fear and disappointment had drained me of any resources I had left. I was running on empty.  
I'll lose my mind before this over, I thought to myself.  
I can't deal with it. I can't cope. It's bigger than I am, and it's driving me crazy.  
I had just done what no parent should have to do and I was angry. I had prayed that Scott would never have to know the mental terror that James and I were living with everyday. God knows he had suffered enough, and now, this!

To look at him with his blood vessels already bulging, the damaged artery making a noise in his head, and to know that we couldn't even see the specialist before September-another three months, was simply too much for me to bear.  
I fell to my knees sobbing. "Oh, Dear God," I pleaded, "Help me. Give me strength," I prayed.

Psalm 143 7-8

King James Version (KJV)  
7 Hear me speedily, O LORD: my spirit faileth: hide not thy face from me, lest I be like unto them that go down into the pit.  
8 Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust.

I cried myself to sleep that night and awoke the next day with a sense of peace that I had not had the day before.  
My strength was renewed, and I had the courage to face the day. I knew that God had heard my prayer; He had met me at the point of my need. His Holy Spirit comforted me, and as always, I praised and thanked him. My heart beat with love and gratitude for my God.

Isaiah 40:29

King James Version (KJV)  
29He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.

The first week we were home, our friends, Jan and John, and members of their church (First Baptist Church of Arlington), prepared a dinner for us each evening and brought it to our home. Every other day Scott would receive cards from them saying, "We prayed for you today." How great is God's goodness!  
Although at home, everyone was aware of the On-going dilemma we were faced with, and the prayer chain stayed intact, as well as continuing to grow.  
The Love and support of family and friends never once waivered.

The prayer chain even grew nationwide, as I, in a moment of weakness, and compelled by the desperate feeling of helplessness that threatened my very sanity, phoned a National public broadcasting Station that televised a Christian Ministry.  
I poured my heart out to them, telling of the horrible ordeal Scott had survived, the uncertainty that still lay ahead, and the pain that we were all enduring.

I was consoled, encouraged and comforted as I was accompanied in a heartfelt prayer for my son, and I was strengthened by it.  
We were immediately mailed an anointed prayer cloth and a note assuring us that his name would be lifted daily by prayer partners across the United States.  
That encouraged me.  
Having read somewhere that prayers were transmitted to Heaven as beams of light (and a mother's being the brightest light of all), I envisioned all the prayers that were being sent up for Scott, and I was certain that the Heavens were aglow.

On June 11, we saw Dr.Smithson for the first time since Scott's release from the hospital.  
He smiled, and was obviously very pleased to see him.  
"You didn't have just one life-threatening injury," he told him, "You had two!" he said, commenting about what a miracle he was.

"I'll never see another like you in my lifetime," he said, with amazement.

Considering his reaction when I brought God into the conversation the night he told us Scott had only an hour to live, I have often wondered if he even believed.  
I realize of course, that trauma surgeons must separate themselves from the pain and grief that they deal with on a daily basis.  
Their job is to do everything within their power to save lives, and they are dedicated to doing so.  
Unfortunately, not every life can be saved.

In spite of the ever-increasing wonders of medical science there often comes a time when man alone cannot bridge the gap between life and death.  
When his abilities, as great as they may be, have reached their limit...as in Scott's case.  
The doctors were convinced that there was absolutely no hope for my son.  
Dr.Smithson readily admitted that he had done everything possible to save his life- and it still was not enough.  
As a physician, I am sure that the basis for his conclusion was justified. However, I must say that I find great joy in the fact that my child defied the odds; because there was someone who could do more...because God did pick up where he left off and because the doctor witnessed a miracle that he is not likely to ever forget.

He cannot deny that there was an unseen power at work here far greater than he!  
"I'll never see another like you in my lifetime," he'd told Scott. If that is not a miracle I do not know what is- and if that would not make a believer out of you, I do not know what would. Praise God!

Psalm 18:5-6 King James Version (KJV)  
5 The sorrows of hell compassed me about: the snares of death prevented me.  
6 In my distress I called upon the LORD, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears.

By now, Scott's assailant had made the news twice again.  
He allegedly robbed a convenience store- stabbing the clerk, and was again released on bail only to participate in the murder of a fourteen-yr.old boy one week later.  
According to newspaper reports, the child was stabbed at least 23 times and held under water until he drowned.

I wonder what demon crawled into his soul!

Once again, the justice system had failed.  
This time a child had paid with his life.  
I was devastated to think that because of this monster another mother had also known my grief.  
Only her grief was deeper.

Six feet deeper.

My heart bled for her.  
If this man was not a threat to society, I do not know who would be!  
I was outraged that he would be allowed to walk the streets after what he had done to my son- and now this!  
God only knows how many others he has harmed.  
But, then, that in itself is a consolation.  
Because if God knows, we can rest assured that (at least at some point) justice would be served.

When all was said and done, we never went to court concerning Scott.  
The police said the evidence against him concerning Scott was not enough to stick; it was circumstantial...  
However, the evidence against him from the other crime would put him behind bars.  
I hated that he was not doing time for what he had done to my son, but I was very pleased that he had been caught for what had been done to the other young man.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was now September 03 and at last the day had arrived for Scott's appointment with the neuro-surgeon in Dallas that Dr.Gralino had referred us to.  
As desperately as I had fought to keep the faith, I must admit I feared that he would not live to see this day.  
Although the Doctor had explained, and even stressed the fact that considering all that had been done while in the hospital (the insertion of coils etc) an earlier appointment would have been futile, as the vessels and arteries needed time to adapt to the changes.

It had been four months to the very day since the puncture of the carotid artery.  
Four months that he had lived with such a rare and life-threatening injury.  
Except for God's intervention, it was inconceivable.  
I knew that. Everyone knew that.

The physician introduced himself as Doctor Purdy, a neuro-surgeon/ radiologist, and sat down to face us as he began to speak.

Although what he had to say was none other than the "cold hard facts", He never once came across as cold or insensitive himself.  
Actually, his eyes began apologizing before his lips had uttered a word.  
I sensed the verbal burden he was carrying and swallowed hard, knowing bad news was imminent.

He told us (as gently as he could), that he had reviewed all of Scott's records.  
His arteriogram, cat scans, etc; and that in his opinion, there was very little hope for him-if any.

At this point, he voiced his apology, stating he agreed with Dr.Gralino; that surgery was out of the question due to the fact the puncture was actually located in the center of Scott's head, behind his nose.  
Because that area was so isolated, the odds of repairing it were almost nil.  
"If we attempted it, you would most likely bleed to death in a matter of seconds," he told Scott.  
"And if (by some miracle) you did live, you would certainly be a "vegetable".

The Carotid artery supplies all the major blood functions to the head.  
Such as eye movement, tasting, chewing, swallowing, and speaking...Everything.  
It is inevitable that most, if not all, functions would be affected.  
So, what we need to consider, is the quality of life you would have if you did live" he said solemnly, but with empathy.

I was not sure if Scott realized it, but the doctor was telling him (as mildly as he could put it), that he would be better off dead!  
I was barely grasping it myself and I looked helplessly at James. We both looked at Scott.

He sat motionless. His head bowed low in obvious defeat, staring blankly at the floor.  
I knew then that he understood.

For his sake, I was trying my best to control my emotions and it was taking everything within me to do that.  
I was too numb to move, and I dared not attempt to speak.  
The unmistakable hopelessness on James' face was so deep I could feel it, and I knew that he to, was struggling for composure.  
I had seen that look too many times already.  
It told me that tears were only a blink away.  
For the longest time, no one said a word.  
We were simply speechless. Finally, Scott broke the awkward silence as he slowly lifted his head.  
"I don't want to live that way," he told the doctor.  
"I'll just die." He said in a despondent whisper.

Once again, I find myself searching for that word that Webster has not come up with to describe what we were feeling.  
The truth is, at this point, I am at a loss for words.  
I have used them all up.  
I would not know where to begin should I try.

Dr. Purdy placed the stethoscope against Scott's temple and listened intensely for a moment.  
He then handed it to me.  
"That swishing sound you hear is coming from the damaged artery," he explained.  
"It's not supposed to be that way. He can't live with it like that.  
Eventually, it will rupture and he will have a massive hemorrhage." he said, regretfully.  
Those words pounded my heart like a lost soul at Heaven's door!  
They played repeatedly in my mind like a broken record.  
How many times had I heard that now? How many times must I be told that my child is going to die? My brain screamed.  
Where my heart is concerned, every time is like the first time.  
I could not bear to hear it again!

In spite of all the bad news, the doctor did give us one tiny ray of hope - if we dared to hope.  
He said there was possibly one technique he could use in an attempt to reach the damaged artery.  
However, it was not possible to do at this time.  
His only hope being, with the increased flow of the smaller vessels (due to the decreased flow of the larger vessels, where the coils had been placed), One would enlarge enough to get a catheter into it.  
"But," he empathized; it would take at least another three months to see any change in them.  
If, he survived that long (and it was very unlikely that he would), he reminded us.  
Bring him back in December.

I must say, I had acquired a completely new respect for parents of terminally ill children.  
I could now identify with the sheer agony of living day to day with the prospect of your child dying.  
The mental anguish is unbearable to say the least.  
In addition, in this type of situation, the parent grieves twice.  
Before the child dies, and again, when they die.  
It's inevitable.  
It's unimaginable!

Talk about Deja Vu, we had definitely been here before.  
Not all that long ago either.  
The drive home was painfully familiar.  
The sound of silence was almost unbearable as each of us wrestled with our own thoughts and feelings, not daring to speak, or even look at one another for fear of losing control.

"This can't be real", I kept thinking.  
"It simply cannot be real! After all he has been through, and as far as he's come...he's still going to die?  
How could that be? He's defied all the odds.  
He lived to tell about it.  
The stabbing was four months ago, and he's still alive, but at the same time, he's dying?"  
I just could not accept it. I could not grasp it.  
I could not get my mind around it.

One week shy of eighteen, and he had received a death sentence for his birthday!

I could not even imagine what he must be thinking and feeling.  
I couldn't go there just yet.  
My mind was racing as my thoughts competed, one against another.  
Fantasy/Reality...Faith/fear...Life/Death...and hope against all odds.

This was surreal!

As parents, we realize there comes a time in our children's lives when we must step aside and let them make their own decisions.  
For the most part, we are willing to do so, but what about when it comes to dieing?  
Scott had told the doctor that he would rather die than live as a "vegetable".  
This was his decision, but was it one that I could live with?  
The mother in me wanted to plead with him not to give up, to try anything that might save his life, to assure him that I wanted him in any condition.  
The human within me had to admit that I, to, would have made the same choice (for myself).  
The Christian within me prayed.  
Silently. Desperately. Earnestly, I prayed.

He was still alive at this moment and God was still in control.  
In fact, God had always been in control!

Everyone who had witnessed his power through this ordeal had stood back in awe, and shook their heads in amazement.  
God has that effect on people doesn't he?  
Praise his holy name!

All things considered, we were still blessed. We had been fortunate enough to find a very nice HUD home in a small, quiet town where we knew absolutely no one, and we had just moved in. It was a good distance from Arlington. Scott was not happy to be that far from Jessica, but James and I were thrilled to put Arlington in our rearview mirror.  
It was obvious that God had delivered again! When you consider that first of all, we were not in a position to buy a house. We were financially strapped, and drowning in medical bills. Yet, within a very short time, we had found the perfect little home, in the perfect little town, and bought it! God had blessed us good, and we were so very grateful.

Psalm 61:1-3

King James Version (KJV)  
1 Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.  
2 From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.  
3 for thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In spite of the black cloud shadowing our world, once back at home, we each fell into our usual routines and life resumed just the same. At least on the outside.  
On the inside however, nothing was the same; including us.  
We were expecting a death in the family.

James feared going to work, afraid it would happen while he was away.  
Scott feared going to sleep; afraid he would not wake up.  
And I feared waking up each day to find him dead.

Our minds were trying desperately to prepare for the reality of it; to brace ourselves for the impact, while our hearts were already mourning the loss.  
For James and I to mourn was normal.  
That was to be expected.  
But for Scott to be allowed to mourn his own death was inconceivable to me, I simply could not bear the thought of it.  
Yet, how could he not?  
He did not want to die.  
He wanted to live!

He was just a kid. His life was just beginning- or should be.  
"Oh, God," I wept bitterly. "Take me. Please take me instead." I pleaded.

This is what our lives amounted to now.  
This had become the "Norm" for us.  
And so it went, Day after day...Week after week, until I reached the point that each day he lived only convinced me all the more that the next day would be his last.

I could find him dead, attend the funeral, bury him and return to his empty room to grieve in a matter of seconds.  
And mentally, I did so.

Time and time again, throughout each day, I did so.  
I became obsessed with the thought of losing him.

Before going to bed each night I would kiss him and tell him I loved him; something I had always done throughout his life, but now it was excessively.  
Once was never enough.

I would get up all through the night to check on him and go through the whole ritual every time.  
The mother in me wanted to hold him in my arms and kiss his hurt away as if he was a little boy.  
But he was only a boy in my heart now.  
I respected that, although I died a million deaths each time our eyes met.

I wanted to talk more openly with him, to ask him what he was thinking and feeling, to urge him to share his fears with me.  
Regretfully, I lacked the courage to do so.  
I felt that I was failing him as a mother.  
I could not face my own thoughts and feelings - not to mention the fears that were tormenting me day and night.  
I encouraged him to talk with God; and I never failed to remind him how far the Lord had brought him, and all the ways he had already blessed us.

Psalm 56:3

King James Version (KJV)  
3 What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.

It was not long before delirium set in.  
In my (Extremely distraught) state of mind, I decided that should I find him dead (but not yet cold) I would hold him until the warmth left his body and then I would take my own life with James' 357 Magnum; certain that without my child, life would be meaningless for me.

We could have our funerals together and be buried at the same time.  
Yes, that's how it should be. I reasoned.  
I brought him into this cold, cruel world, and if it takes him out, then I to, will go. I wanted to.

At times, (Such as the one I just mentioned), I felt as if I was truly losing my mind; that I was going insane.  
I had long since forgotten what it was like to have a "normal" day, or to go to bed at night and "Sleep".

I went to bed and cried.  
Actually, I went to bed to cry!

I lived for the moment I could take off the mask I was hiding behind and release my emotions.  
I moved through life like a Zombie, going through the motions, and yet, so numb I was hardly aware of doing so.  
Over and over in my mind, I tried to look at things from God's point of view, to justify his actions.

"Why would he bring Scott this far and then take him from me now?" I questioned.  
Considering the verdict had been the same from day one until now, perhaps it was God's will to take him, and he was just graciously giving me time to adjust to the fact that Scott was going to die.

That seemed reasonable. Especially after talking with Dr.Purdy, and considering Scott was still living.  
Nevertheless, was that supposed to make it easier for me? To make it less painful somehow? Or, I pondered, maybe in answer to my prayer that God not take his soul lost, he had given Scott time to prepare to leave this world – "ready" to go.  
But, then, Scott had repented of his sins and given his heart to the Lord months ago, in the very beginning, so...?

Would it have been better had he died that first night as the Dr. had predicted he would?  
Was I wrong to plead with God to spare his life?  
Should I just accept the fact that the odds were stacked against him, give up - thanking God for the mercy he had shown thus far, and be content with it? Perhaps.  
Yet that is sometimes easier said than done.  
Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.  
I was feeling guilty because I found it very difficult to say, "Your will, Lord, and not mine."  
It was then I realized just how selfish love could be.  
I prayed that God would forgive me.

Isaiah 55:8-9

King James Version (KJV)  
8 For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.  
9 For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

It was obvious that we were all tired and bound by the spirit of fear.  
It was controlling our lives. Dominating our every thought.  
It was taking its toll on all of us- most noticeably, me.  
Where I was concerned; fear had developed its own persona.  
It was alive within me.  
A living thing, consuming me piece by piece like a parasite.  
I battled constantly with my emotions.

The breaking point came when I knocked at Scott's bedroom door one morning and he did not answer.  
My heart sank to the bottom of my soul.  
I knocked again, even louder, and still got no reply.  
"Oh, God, no! Not now! Please not now!"  
My heart prayed, as I turned the doorknob.  
I held my breath expecting the worst...  
He was not there. His bed was empty!  
At that point, I heard the shower come on and realized that he was in the bathroom.

Relief swept through me so powerfully that I sank to the floor sobbing.  
"Oh, Dear God," I cried aloud, "I can't take anymore.  
I can't go on...I can't live this way. I'm so afraid."  
I confessed. "I'm so afraid."  
Instantly, my mind flashed back to that day in the hospital when fear had overtaken me, and Mike's mother, Bea, literally shaking me and shouting, "Debbie, fear is not of God! God does not give us the spirit of fear.  
He doesn't want you to be afraid."  
It was as if a light went on in my head.  
Clearly, I could see what was happening to me and I became defensive.

"Damn you, Satan!" I screamed hysterically.  
"I won't let you rob me of my sanity! I won't let you take my mind! I refuse to let you destroy me! I am a child of God, and he that is in me, is stronger than he that is in the world. I rebuke you in the name of Jesus! I will no longer allow you to dominate me with the spirit of fear.  
The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want..."

2 Timothy 1:7

King James Version (KJV)  
7 For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

I cannot honestly say that it was an easy thing to do;  
it was an on-going battle.  
But, from that day forward, I stood firm; clinging to the word of God, rebuking Satan and his spirit each time I became afraid or caught myself doubting that Scott would live; all the while praying for strength and courage and infallible faith.

"I want to have the faith of Paul." I told the Lord.  
"I want to be so strong and so certain and so sure of your love and your word that nothing or no one can ever shake me."  
When I prayed, I prayed earnestly.

Being new in Christ I wanted to be pleasing in his sight.  
My goal in life now was to honor, worship, and serve my God.  
I desired this with all my heart.  
Yet, with the constant threat of losing my son, I fought an endless battle between the carnal mind within me, and the spiritual one.  
I was weak, and we all know that Satan plays on our weakness.  
He had a field day with mine, to the point of destroying me.  
Taking my mind, and possibly my life, had I not prayed for the faith to sustain me.  
And had God not answered my prayer.

2 Corinthians 5:7

King James Version (KJV)  
7 For we walk by faith, not by sight

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It had now been four months since Scott's initial visit with Dr.Purdy.  
And today, he would attempt to repair the damaged artery.  
"Attempt" being the keyword here, as the risks were great, and the Dr. had not failed to tell us so.

We arrived before six A.M. and were told to prepare for a long day, as Scott would not be permitted to move or get up for eight hours after the procedure.  
It was also a (long awaited day) as this was one appt.; we were not really expected to keep. We all knew that.  
And although neither James, Scott, nor myself ever voiced it aloud, I am certain that at one time or another (and probably more often than not) our hearts wondered where we would not permit our minds to go; would Scott live to see this day?

Praise God he had! The day had arrived and we were here.  
The past four months had felt more like four years; long, hard, desperate years for each of us.  
The consistent worry, anxiety, and prolonged waiting; day by day, week by week, month by month, had taken its toll on everyone.  
I prayed today would be a day of deliverance for us all.

We were told that once Scott had been prepped for surgery, we could stay with him until he was taken to the "Special Procedures Unit".  
We were all a bundle of nerves, including Scott.  
Therefore, James, Jessica and I were trying extra hard to appear positive and confident for his sake; not to let the heaviness in our hearts show on our faces.  
It was not so easy.

A short time later, the nurse returned for us.  
As we followed her to the "Pre-op" area, my attention was drawn to a huge blackboard hanging on the wall in the nurse's station.  
The names of every patient to be seen that day was written on the board.  
I did not even have to look for Scott's name.  
It stood out boldly among all the others.  
His name was written in red.  
The only name written in red...  
"Why is that?" I questioned anxiously.  
The nurse stated that it was a visual alert to all doctors and staff that his was "An extremely high-risk procedure."  
I immediately felt the adrenaline pumping.  
My stomach churned and I felt a lump that felt like a baseball forming in my throat.  
I swallowed hard as that overwhelming sense of dread and fear rose once again from the pit of my gut, and settled at the bottom of my heart, as a heavy stone cast into a pond.

The Dr. was truly amazed that Scott had survived the 3 months he had estimated it would take before he could even consider doing the procedure.  
I believe the medical term used was "Embolization therapy of a posttraumatic fistula".  
Which the E.N.T, Dr.Samuelson, described as "a large arteriovenous malformation without arteriovenous shunting, located at the base of the skull"  
In lamens terms, as James and I interpreted it:  
A time bomb!

Dr.Purdy had been honest with us. He could not guarantee his efforts would be successful, or that Scott would even survive the procedure itself.  
He could only try, and hope for the best.  
That was not enough for us, but it was all we had.  
No other doctor was even willing to try- period.  
He was entering "No man's land," where physicians fear to tread.  
But he was willing to go. And for that, we would be forever grateful.  
For now, here we were again, waiting at the gulf of death.  
Wondering, as they wheeled him away, if we would ever see him alive again.

Lamentations 3-24

King James Version (KJV)  
24 The LORD is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him.

I felt nauseous as I thought about the chance we were taking with our son's life. Even though I knew this was the only chance he had to live.

Medically, there was no other alternative.  
Once again, I reminded myself that the odds had been stacked against him from day one, and he was still here.  
God was still in control, and in spite of my moments of weakness, I knew that my God was bigger than my fears.  
He had proven it time and time again.

It was not long before Scott was taken to the Special Procedures Unit, and like many times before, James, Jessica and I returned to the waiting area to do just that: Wait.  
Wait and hope. Wait and fear. Wait and pray. Wait and...

I thought of a proverb I'd read somewhere; "He who is impatient waits twice." How true is that!  
Yet, under the circumstances, how could one not be impatient?  
We had played out this role so often now it felt as if we could be rehearsing for a "reality show".  
Unfortunately, it always had the same plot, the same actors, and the same sad ending.  
We would have long ago memorized our lines.  
They were written on our hearts, and ironically, they were the same for each of us; "Dear God, please..."

When Dr.Purdy entered the room, all three of us bolted from our seats. The very sight of him was sending an adrenaline surge through each of us.  
As he approached, I searched his face like a road map to Heaven.

He wasn't exactly smiling, but by now, I was familiar with the look of hopelessness.  
I knew that look well. I had even seen it on him that last time we had met.  
Thank God, he did not appear to be wearing it right now.  
To our great joy and relief, he informed us that Scott was in the recovery room and doing fine!

Isaiah 41:13

King James Version (KJV)  
13 For I the LORD thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.

We listened in amazement as he explained the technique he used. By inserting a catheter into a vein in each groin area, he was able to maneuver them to each side of Scott's head and "Meet in the middle" so to speak, to reach the fistula and to the best of his ability , attempt to block the blood flow to the damaged artery.  
It was not an easy task, obviously as difficult as it had been risky.  
However, for the time being, the abnormal bleeding had been stopped and Dr.Purdy was confident that he had done his very best with a bad situation, and hopeful that it had been successful. Yet, only time would tell.

We would need to do follow-up tests to know for sure.  
He could give us no guarantees.  
Words could not express our gratitude for what he had given us though: hope. It felt wonderful!  
Through his knowledge, expertise, and genuine concern, he had managed to pull the hope out of hopeless!  
He was truly an extension of God's hand.  
We were in awe of his skill and wanted him to know how very much his efforts and willingness to go the extra mile meant to us.

Psalm 118:28

King James Version (KJV)  
28 Thou art my God, and I will praise thee: thou art my God, I will exalt thee.

Between all of the handshakes and "Thank yous", I also took the opportunity to apologize to him for so rudely leaving his office without even a word of appreciation for his time and honesty about Scott's condition at our last visit.  
"My heart was in my mouth," I told him.  
"I simply could not speak."  
"There is no need to apologize;" he said warmly.  
"I totally understand." and I believed him.

We were to return in thirty days for another arteriogram to make certain the procedure had truly corrected the problem.  
In the meantime, we would wait.  
Again.  
I had now decided that at some point during my life as a young Christian, I had mistakenly prayed for patience.  
I must have!

It seemed all we had done for the past 7 months was hurry up and wait. Then wait some more.  
I understood now what the preacher meant when he cautioned, "Be careful what you pray for, you may just get it."  
However, rather than complain, I would seek solace in Isaiah 40:31

Isaiah 40:31

King James Version (KJV)  
31 But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Surprisingly enough, those 30 days seemed to pass more quickly than any want thus far.  
Before we knew it, we were returning for what (We prayed) would be the last appointment Scott would need with the Neuro-Surgeon.  
I cannot deny that I had felt a little anxious from time to time, but I was also making progress in conquering my worst enemy: The fear factor.  
By continuing to refuse to let the spirit of fear dominate me any longer, I was slowly but surely gaining control over it.  
I must say, it was wonderful! Liberating!

Lamentations 3:57

King James Version (KJV)  
57 Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon thee: thou saidst, Fear not.

I was truly learning to walk by faith.  
We all were. We had to.  
I had learned that when faith is all you have to hold onto, you will grab it and run with it. I promise you will.  
Dr.Purdy was pleased that we had nothing new to report; no nosebleeds, no headaches, and obviously, no hemorrhages- as Scott was still with us.  
"That's good," he said. "God is good" I replied. I believed it!

Scott was stressed and irritable.  
By now, he had been through so much that the very thought of another test or procedure (not to mention another hopeless prognosis) was almost more than he could tolerate. Anticipating the eight hours he must lay flat after the arteriogram today only added to his frustration, as well as the fact that he had not slept all night.

Actually, he never slept at night anymore.  
I had noticed this shortly after his release from the hospital.

I believed he had sub-consciously developed a (fear or dread) of the nighttime.  
Perhaps of waking from the horribly vivid nightmares in the darkness and found that sleeping during the day light hours felt less threatening.  
I could understand that.  
I was certain had my body been violated in such a manner, I to, would fear the night.  
Mentally and physically, he had become a prisoner within his own cell; held captive by circumstances beyond his control.

Angrily, I had watched; feeling small and helpless.  
At times defenseless, against the results of this intentional, cruel act of pure evil that had been bestowed upon him.  
Not only him, but also each of us who loved him.  
Dominating our every thought. Nearly destroying us mentally.  
And for months now, causing his very existence to be viewed as a disaster waiting to happen.  
A bomb ready to drop; life uncertain.  
One foot in the grave; if I dared admit it.  
When I allowed myself to think about all the ways it had affected us, I became outraged.

I wanted to vent my rage and scream, "It isn't fair!" "Why him? Why him?"  
Yet, the fact remained that his known gang affiliation contributed to this entire senseless act, as well as the ones he had committed himself.

We had to admit that. We did. We accepted it.

What we could not accept, however, was that guilt by association (Which was determined by the police to be the reason for the assault) could ever warrant such a cold-blooded heinous act of violence.  
It was simply unjustified.  
Regardless of whom it may have been against.

James, Jessica, and I stayed with him as long as we could. I longed to comfort him but words were not enough.  
Tears stood in our eyes and we prayed as he was wheeled away and we returned to the waiting area.  
We knew this was the big one. The final one.  
The result of this test would either make us or break us. These results would confirm whether Scott would live or die.  
Naturally, we were all feeling stressed and anxious, but I have to say, for me, it was not to the extent I usually felt. Somehow, it felt different.  
I truly had a sense of calmness about it that I had not felt the other times. It surprised even me.

I questioned it; could I have really gained (that much) control over my fears, or were my fears still controlling me to the point I was detaching myself without realizing it?  
Neither, I decided after giving it some serious thought.  
It was simply faith. My faith was showing!  
That pleased me. I hoped it pleased God too.

Fortunately, our wait was not as long as we had expected. In less than two hours, Dr.Purdy was meeting with us to discuss his findings.  
Grateful tears streamed down my face as he told us his efforts at repairing the fistula had been successful!  
I cannot describe the sheer relief that we all felt!  
We looked from one to the other as if to say, "its ok. We can breathe now."  
God, it felt so good.  
Smiles spread across our faces like sunshine emerging from behind a dark cloud and tears glistened in James and Jessica's eyes.

"However" he added, "he has developed an aneurysm".

Our smiles faded as quickly as they had appeared, along with our joy and any color that might have remained in our shocked faces.  
"An aneurysm?" We all three repeated in our disbelieving tones.  
"But...I thought...I mean..."  
The very words died on my breath as the spirit of fear swiftly leapt from its hiding place.  
It was clutching my heart in a serious attempt to squeeze every ounce of hope right out of me.

I knew what an aneurysm was.  
I knew what happened when they ruptured.  
I knew the survival rate of living with one was not favorable.  
I knew that medically speaking, this was very similar to the fistula issue.

"He has a residual pseudo aneurysm on the maxillary artery on the right" The Dr. continued "Since it is fed from several small vessels and it is asymptomatic, I would not pursue treatment at present."

I was confused. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions.  
Granted, we were not comfortable with the idea.  
The word "aneurysm" alone was enough to revive all the former feelings of fear, dred and anxiety.  
It felt as if we were choosing to take another risk with Scott's life.  
A "Just wait and see" approach was the flip side of "I can't tell you when it will happen; I can only tell you that it will" as far as I was concerned.

"If not now, when?" my brain was screaming, fearing an instant replay of the nightmare we had just closed the curtain on - or so we thought.  
Frankly, I did not know what to think, or to feel.  
I did know this: In spite of all my insecurities, I trusted his judgment.  
I inhaled deeply and then asked the Inevitable, "So where does this leave us?" "What can we expect?"

James clasped his hand in mine.  
That told me he was as apprehensive of the doctor's answer as I was.  
"Considering its size, it may never pose a problem," the Dr. said. "Many people live all their lives unaware they even have one."  
He did his best to reassure us and then James and I took turns with all the "What ifs?"  
He gave us a reasonable answer for each of our concerns.  
We knew, of course it was not (A good thing), but in all honesty, after Scott having just survived (the worst-case scenario) somehow this did not feel quite as threatening.

Scott was thrilled when I told him that our nightmare with the fistula was finally over; that the procedure had been a success and his "Death sentence" had been revoked!

Psalm 118:29

King James Version (KJV)  
29 O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endureth forever.

I chose not to tell him about the aneurysm.  
Considering all the mental anguish he had endured thus far, I could not bring myself to rain on his parade.  
He so deserved to feel something positive and good for a change.

I would tell him in time of course.  
But for now, we would celebrate the long, hard, battle we had won.  
For the first time in a long time, I saw him smile.  
He was relaxed. He felt as if the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and it showed in his face.  
The weariness was gone. He felt victorious!  
And rightfully so.

Even the eight hour -flat-of-his-back wait that was now ahead of him wasn't going to impose on his joy.  
"I can do it one more time," he told Jessica.  
"This will be the last time", he said, reaching for her hand.  
Their eyes were glowing with love for one another, and a renewed hope for the future.  
Yes, they were young, but in many ways, they had already grown old together.  
James and I exchanged glances.  
Our hearts smiled and I knew I had done the right thing.  
I would not have deprived him (or us) of those happy moments for the world. However short lived they might be.

A few weeks had passed and I still had not told Scott about the aneurysm.  
Denial felt so good, I was reluctant to let go of it.  
Yet, in all fairness to him, I knew I must.  
All too often wishful thinking has a head-on collision with reality. It can be ugly. I had learned that the hard way.

I dreaded telling him and prayed for guidance from the Holy Spirit, hoping I could make him see that the good still far outweighed the bad, and that this was not necessarily another life or death situation.

He could not hide his shock and disappointment anymore than I would have expected him to, even though I tried to be as optimistic as I could as I repeated what the Doctor had told us.

For several minutes, he said nothing.

His eyes spoke for him.  
As badly as I wanted to look away, I could not.  
I held him tightly with my own, trying to absorb what he was feeling.

Then, just as the emotions I'd hoped never again to see in his face began to resurface - faith intervened, determined to take a stand against its long time dominating, controlling, rival Fear.  
I knew instantly it was faith, without further question or deliberation, Scott's facial expressions changed.

He looked at me squarely and without the slightest hint of doubt or reservation and declared "God has taken care of everything else; he'll take care of that to." I believed him.

Truthfully, I felt guilty that I had not said it first.  
I should have.

Through this whole ordeal, he had kept the faith.  
More than once, he had inspired me to stay strong.  
Now, once again, he was standing firm on God's word.

I decided right then and there that I, to, would stand firm.  
I would refuse to carry this burden.  
I would instead place it in God's hands and leave it there.  
Worry, fear and anxiety, required such a lot of energy.  
I just happened to be fresh out. I had no more to give.  
As of today, I refuse to borrow from tomorrow.

Romans 8:38-39

King James Version (KJV)  
38 For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,  
39 Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

"My Testimony"...A poem by Deborah Stewart

For years he watched her,  
from the window above  
As she struggled with sin,  
Rejecting his love

Often he spoke,  
but she chose not to hear  
Sadly, He bowed...  
and shed a silent tear

Many times he beckoned,  
but she looked the other way  
Pretending not to notice,  
...to busy at play

To busy at "living",  
to much fun to be had  
The world had much to offer,  
no time to be sad!

No time to be "serious",  
"life's to short" she cried!  
And what about Jesus?,  
"What about him" she replied.

"Church isn't my thing",  
besides, I haven't the time  
And religion is "to deep".  
it messes with my mind.

So caught up in sin,  
and her own selfish pride  
Never giving thought to him,  
or the reason he died...

Until darkness filled her world,  
as a shadow quickly fell  
Bringing to light, the reality,  
of Heaven and Hell...

As she stood at death's door,  
heartbroken and crying  
Holding her only child,  
unconscious and dieing...

Pride quickly forgotten,  
she fell to her knees  
And cried out to JESUS,  
in crushed, broken pleas!

She had suddenly found a need,  
for an Almighty God  
Repenting of her sins,  
And the path she had trod

It was time to get "serious",  
life's to short, she had found.  
And what about Jesus?  
His glory would abound!

Through His mercy and Grace,  
and the power of his love  
Peace and forgiveness,  
And a miracle from above...

That left her in awe,  
as she held her child near  
Looked toward the Heavens,  
and shed a grateful tear...

Thanking Him for salvation,  
from the depths of her heart  
She whispered the words of praise...  
"How Great Thou Art".

"My God, My God, How Great Thou Art"!

POSTSCRIPT

Well, I say glory!  
Glory to a God that hears and answers prayers.  
Glory to a God who is alive and real; a mighty and awe-inspiring God; a God who has the power to perform miracles such as the one I just shared with you.  
My God, whom I have loved, honored and worshipped since May 04, 1992, when he saved my soul, and my son's life as well.

I am thrilled to say that the miracle continues, as it is now 2012. Twenty years have passed!  
Scott is still alive and well.

He and Jessica are married and have three wonderful sons whom I adore. God has blessed them good. So very, very good.  
As for me, I have continued to walk with the Lord every step of the way. I have never looked back.  
Knowing God on a personal level has been the greatest joy I have ever known.  
The journey has been sweet, and I have grown spiritually along the way as I strive to be pleasing and acceptable in his sight.

I have gotten beyond the rage and bitterness that threatened my relationship with Him, and learned what peace and forgiveness can bring.  
I have outgrown my fears.  
I have learned to trust whole-heartedly in a sovereign God that will not, does not, and cannot fail.  
Many times I have wondered why God would choose to perform a miracle in my son's life and not another's, but I cannot answer that.  
I am reminded to just "Be still and know that I am God."  
Psalm 46:10 KJV, and so I do.

However, for years now, Scott has felt that the reason he is still alive is to help others avoid the pitfalls of gangs, the false image of the streets, and to show people that they have a purpose in this world.  
He strives to reach them through his God-given talents of music and writing and sharing the harsh realities of his own teenage years. His mistakes, the reason for them and ultimately, the life and death consequences he paid for them. Hoping he can save others from themselves, so they do not have to be rescued as he was.  
My sincere prayers are with him.

When he told me that he decided to (bare his soul) and asked me to share my story along with his, I was only happy to.  
I wrote it for the glory of God to begin with.

It was actually written in 1995. All the events are true and actual, recorded in a journal I kept while Scott was in the hospital, and continued once he was home.

I promised the Lord that I would witness and testify of the miracle He gave us as long as I lived, and I intend to do so.  
Countless times over the years, I have shared my story with individuals and church congregations. I want to tell the world about the love of God.  
Thank you, for allowing me to share it with you. And may God bless you today and always.

Between the time the story was written and now, we have lost both James and my precious mother. Needless to say, they are greatly missed. However, I have faith that we'll meet again one day. In the meantime, I like to think that James is smiling down on us, and Mama is teaching the angels how to sing.

I will praise thee, O Lord my God, with all my heart; and I will glorify thy name for evermore.  
Psalm 86:12

For Scott's version of his story, you can read his book "The Way Of The G".  
Or it can be found at www.scottjohnsononline.com in the literature section.

BACK TO THE START...
