Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed… nothing will be impossible for you.” — Matthew 17:20
Looking back, I now recognize that God has blessed my life with so many miracles. But my eyes weren’t truly open to them until the miracle of our daughter came to be.
Several years ago, my husband and I began talking about growing our family. My stepson Anderson had no hesitation—he told us he definitely wanted a baby brother or sister. What we didn’t realize was how hard that journey would become.
After a necessary surgery and four rounds of IVF, we were left with two miscarriages, no answers, and three broken hearts. The lowest point came after our final loss. As I was still groggy from anesthesia, a doctor—one clearly lacking bedside manner—told me that the problem was me. That my body was “broken.” That I couldn’t conceive. Those words hit like a wrecking ball, and in that moment, our hope shattered.
I remember one night especially, when I broke down in a way I never had before. I was furious. I was crushed. And I let God know it. I screamed and sobbed and laid every ounce of pain at His feet.
After that, Richard and I began exploring adoption. And night after night, Anderson continued praying the same innocent prayer he always had: that there would be a baby in my tummy. It used to warm my heart—until it began to break it.
One night, after another long day of grief, I stopped him mid-prayer and gently told him that his sibling would come from another mommy’s tummy. He looked up at me with those sweet, faithful eyes and said, “But I want it to come from yours.”
Even though I had given up, I didn’t stop him from praying. I knew better than to tell a child how to pray. And so he continued—night after night, month after month—fervently praying for the impossible.
Then one day, just two months after our final loss, I went in for what was supposed to be a routine foot surgery. The IV was ready to go when a nurse came rushing into the room. “Stop everything,” she said. “You can’t have surgery—you’re pregnant.”
I was stunned. I had given up on that dream. But Anderson hadn’t. And God heard him.
Our miracle, our answered prayer, Lucy Fay, is now a happy, healthy, vibrant little girl. And that pivotal moment—when we realized we were no longer living in just heartbreak but in a story of redemption—opened our eyes to the glory of God in a way we’ll never forget.
It’s why, years later, when Richard and I chose to be baptized together, we did it in the spirit of that moment. It felt like tying a golden ribbon around the gift we had been given—the gift of faith, the gift of family, and the miracle that is Lucy.
Raising Light 