Proof The Bible Is True

It was just a watercolor portrait of a family at the beach. A mother and father barefoot on the sand, looking out over the ocean with their four children, the youngest perched on the father’s shoulders.

 

Yet this painting had somehow taken a powerful hold over my husband, Tim. He claimed it had saved him twice.

 

It wasn’t hanging in an art gallery. No, it was in Oakwood Hospital in Dearborn, Michigan. The same hospital where we’d spent the saddest day of our lives.

 

That morning, 16 weeks pregnant with our fourth child, I’d had a miscarriage. I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the bare white walls, as stark as my family’s future seemed after this terrible loss. I needed Tim to be strong, to help get us through this. But he sat in the chair next to me, his eyes red from crying, looking just as torn apart as I felt.

 

“I could use a cup of coffee,” he finally said, standing up wearily. “Be back soon.”

 

I thought of our three young children, who were at home with the babysitter—seven-year-old Timmy, six-year-old Katie, and Liam, who’d just turned one. My husband and I had hoped to bring another little Mulligan into the family. Now that seemed unlikely.

 

Tim didn’t return for a full hour. I was starting to get concerned.

 

“I thought you were just getting coffee,” I said when he came back. Then I glanced up. His eyes were clear and bright, and he had an air of confidence. He sat down beside me, clasped my hand in his and smiled.

 

“We’ll get through this,” he said. “I know we will.”

 

“And you know this how?” I asked.

 

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. Big, deep breaths.

 

“I saw something in the hallway,” he said.

 

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