Proof The Bible Is True

“Mommy, I want to go home.”

It was heartbreaking to see my seven-year-old like this. “Honey, you are home,” I said, stroking her face. “We’ve left the hospital. This is your bed. And I’m right here. You had a really bad fall and need a long rest.”

“I don’t remember falling.” Abby sounded scared—my fearless tomboy was never scared. At least she never had been, until the accident.

“You were climbing the tree next door…” I reminded her.

Even now, a week later, the memory of that day made my chest tighten. I was in the house when I heard Maggie, my nine-year-old, scream. I ran outside to where Abby lay on the sidewalk. Lifeless. Blood streamed from her ear.

Maggie said Abby had reached for a branch that snapped. I looked to where Maggie was pointing. Abby had fallen 30 feet!

“Maggie go inside and call 911,” I said, barely aware of my own voice. I bent down next to Abby. Was she breathing? I prayed—no, begged—God to keep her alive. Please, God, save her.

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