His name means God has Healed

My cousin asked if she could pray over my baby. She prayed in Jesus' name for him to be saved. Then she asked me to leave the hospital with her for a while. I didn't want to. My baby was connected to machines. Every instinct in my body told me to stay beside him. She insisted. Eventually, I went. For about half an hour, I was outside the hospital. Away from the machines. Away from the room. Away from the fear. And strangely, being outside with her made me feel better. Then I went back inside. The doctor told me that suddenly, my baby's temperature had dropped. The next day, they began waking him from his medically induced coma. Ten days. That's how long it took to go from the worst night of my life to walking out of that hospital with him in my arms, ten days later, I left the hospital the way I had promised: with him. He had been given less than a fifty-percent chance of survival. Yet he survived. And he recovered far more quickly than anyone around me had expected. I had already believed in God before that hospital. But I didn't leave it with the same faith I'd entered with. Something had changed permanently. I had spent years noticing moments I couldn't explain. The feelings. The dreams. The people who appeared at exactly the right time. The paths that opened because somebody had unexpectedly pushed me toward them. But this was my child. This was different. I couldn't treat faith like background noise anymore. And the experience changed more than my relationship with God. It changed the way I looked at my husband, my children, my family and the people around me. I understood what mattered. Life could change brutally, without asking permission. I couldn't control everything. But I could choose what I placed my trust in.