above his master.”^1 Sure, I’d had a rough few months, but they were
nothing compared with what a lot of people in the world were going
through, even at that very minute. God had blessed me with a small group
of believers whom I was charged to shepherd and serve, and here I was
griping at God because those believers weren’t serving me.
“Lord, forgive me,” I said, and swung forward with renewed strength, as if
my crutches were eagles’ wings.
The truth was, my church was serving me—loving me through a special
time of prayer they’d set aside. One morning in the beginning of
December, Dr. O’Holleran called me at home with strange news: not only
was the tissue benign; it was entirely normal. Normal breast tissue. “I can’t
explain why,” he said. “The biopsy definitely showed hyperplasia, so we
would expect to see the same thing in the breast tissue removed during the
mastectomy. But the tissue was completely normal. I don’t know what to
say. I don’t know how that happened.”
I knew: God had loved me with a little miracle.