The miracle I promised to share:

When I went to the hospital on January 14, 2023, with abdominal pain, I suspected diverticulitis. An urgent care visit back in November had pointed in that direction, so I assumed this was more of the same. The doctor ordered a CT scan, which revealed an abscess, a perforation, and a possible malignancy in my colon—along with a suspicious spot on my liver.

Because diverticulitis and cancer can present similarly, they wouldn’t be able to confirm which it was until surgery six days later, on January 20. In the meantime, I was admitted and started on IV treatment to stabilize me and get me strong enough for surgery. They also sent me for an MRI to take a closer look at the liver.

Thankfully, the MRI showed no signs of cancer there. So we waited for surgery to rule out colon cancer. A colonoscopy wasn’t an option due to the perforation.

Also gratefully, Trevan and I felt at peace and worked to keep that state to stay in optimism for the best possible outcome. (I already talked about that in my post on 1/21).

With nearly a week between that CT scan and the surgery, we were selective about who we told. We only shared it with a few people we trusted to stay hopeful and positive with us. We also decided not to tell the kids that cancer was a possibility—not unless it was confirmed.

But the night before surgery, we had a visit from our Bishop, who gently offered a new perspective. In essence, he said, “I understand wanting to protect your children from unnecessary worry. But consider giving them the opportunity to kneel in prayer and exercise their faith with you tonight.”

The more I thought about it, the more I felt the truth in that. I wouldn’t burden them for a whole week—but I could give them this one evening: a chance to understand the gravity of the situation, and a sacred opportunity to unite in prayer as a family.

So we planned a family conversation and prayer that night at 6 p.m. Three of our children were local and could come to the hospital in person. Three were out of state and would join us on Zoom. Our son Nicholas, however, was serving his mission in Barbados—and it wasn’t a P-day (preparation day). I knew I’d need special permission from his mission office for him to join. The clock was ticking—we had about 3.5 hours.

All I had was an email address. I didn’t realize until later that I could have gone through our Stake President to expedite the request. And with the time difference, I had no idea if or when they’d see the email.

Still, I sent the message, explained the situation, and kept checking my inbox. As 6 p.m. approached, our local kids were with us, and the out-of-state kids were logging into Zoom. It seemed clear we wouldn’t hear back from the mission office in time—and I let it go, deciding we’d update Nicholas later.

At 6:00 sharp, our daughters were at my side, our boys were popping up on Zoom… and then my phone buzzed.

It was Elder Householder. FaceTiming me.

“Hey! It’s Elder Householder!” I said, holding up the phone so everyone could see. “You made it! Everyone’s here—in the room and on Zoom!”

He grinned and said, “Heeeey everyone!”

Relief flooded me. We wouldn’t have to repeat this conversation. Everyone we loved could be part of it, all at once.

I said, “We weren’t sure if you were allowed to do Zoom…”

He replied, “Oh, I can do Zoom—that’s okay.” I think his brother had already sent him the link. And before long, we were all connected and ready.

We explained what had happened that week, updated everyone on the latest, and asked for their faith and prayers. It was sobering and emotional, but it felt so good to be surrounded—digitally and physically—by everyone we loved.

Before signing off, we prayed together as a family.

As everyone started to say their goodbyes, I said, “Elder! Before you go—I’m just curious… when the mission office contacted you about the meeting, what did they say? What did they tell you to get you to call?”

He blinked. “Oh… the mission office never contacted me. I was just calling to wish you a Happy Birthday.”

🤯🥺

It used to be that missionaries from our church could only call home on Christmas and Mother’s Day. But in recent years, that changed—they can call home weekly and for some special occasions. Yes, it was my birthday. And I like to think maybe the Lord, in His infinite love and wisdom, lined things up just right—putting me in the hospital and scheduling my surgery for the day after my birthday—so that even when my attempt to reach the mission office failed, He already had another way prepared.

Elder Householder could’ve called me at any time that day. But he didn’t. He showed up right on time—just in time—for that sacred family moment.

I count it as a tender mercy from God, a gentle but unmistakable reassurance that He was with me, that He saw my family, and that He would help me through this.

After everyone had signed off and left, I realized something else. I hadn’t felt sick all day. With the flowers and visitors and the energy of my family around me, I had forgotten about the discomfort. It was the first time I’d felt normal in weeks.

I count that, too, as another tender mercy—a pretty unforgettable birthday gift from a loving Father in Heaven. ❤️

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