Terry

 For as long as I can remember, there is one thing I have always prayed for, one miracle I have always asked for, one plea I have always made. When I was very young it was at the bequest and explanation of my mother, though it didn't take much convincing for me to feel it was more than worthy of my time and prayers. As I've gotten older it is sometimes in a prayer of deep gratitude that I think on this miracle (which did happen, at least for now), and sometimes it's during yet another deeply personal and real attempt to have Heavenly Father work His ways of making things seem to work in the way of us mortals. 

It's the prayer for my uncle to live.

He was in acute kidney failure when I was a small-enough human to just barely remember it in the back of my conscious memory, but was old enough to understand that I was praying for a life to continue. I have very clear memories of Terry doing dialysis treatments for himself: his absence for an hour as he went to his car while we roamed Disneyland so that he could do it, being careful in the middle of the night when I had to pee while staying at his house so I didn't trip over the long slim tube running from his bedroom (and stomach) to the one toilet on the second floor. He was blessed enough to be able to do dialysis on his own, on the go and in his own home. I didn't even know that normally dialysis was a whole other chunk of your days, sitting in a medical space somewhere reading a book and not getting your everyday things done. 

When he received a kidney it was all such a miracle, from the way he was able to get the call (he didn't actually answer the phone in time and they called my mom about it before my uncle knew), to having it thrive inside his foreign body, after it couldn't any longer in the body of a young and reckless motorcyclist. It didn't occur to me until years later that somebody else's prayer wasn't answered that day. There was a mother, a brother, a spouse, a niece somewhere mourning deeply, while my entire family could a huge breath of relief. 

The battle that my parents and other family members tried to wage (though there weren't many of us that constituted our family unit, and still aren't many) was one I knew about, as my father found it was a blood-type match, but my uncle pointblank refused to let the father of his niece and nephews give him and organ he may need one day. My other uncle tried also to save his brother, but only made it through part of the process before discovering he was a correct-enough match. It was a miracle alone that saved him, our prayers and trust in God that no matter what happened to my young and vibrant uncle, it was His choice entirely.

I was thinking of all of this the other day while driving by myself somewhere. It was a rare moment of peace, quiet, thoughtfulness for me. My uncle's donated kidney has lived inside of his body for over 15 years, and now it can't made it work much longer. He is again on a transplant list, this time a little bit less lucky since he is doing dialysis in a center most days of his week, eating only egg whites and spinach to keep his body a little bit more on-balance. He now has a wife who may just be the perfect match, and we may now understand why it was her he needed to marry, to care for him.

I was saying the millionth prayer of its kind to my Father in Heaven, supplicating yet again for the oldest miracle I've desired in this life. I want my uncle to live. My mother has lost too much already. Her mother is gone, her baby brother is gone. My uncle would be in good company on the other side, but we need him too much here still. My mother needs her people around her for longer. As I finished my prayer I looked up. On the car stopped in front of me was a license plate with the words TER and the numbers 92. I was born in 1992. We have always called my uncle Ter.

It felt like the strangest, sweetest answer to a prayer. It wasn't the miracle I keep hoping we get a phone call about. It was simply a way of my Father, who has been here for every part of this, saying that He is well-aware of my family. He is there with my uncle and knows that our hearts are with my uncle, too. 

I don't know if we will be blessed with the miracle of his longer life. But I don't ever feel any distress about it all. I don't feel the concern I once felt regularly. I only feel peace and knowledge that--once again--my Father is in charge of the outcome, and has the hearts of those involved in His loving and kind hands.