The line between memory and dream blurs sometimes, especially when life-altering events unfold. I can’t precisely recall if the vivid dream about the Japanese maple tree occurred just before or immediately after the profound moment that irrevocably changed our lives. What I do remember, with startling clarity, is the unsettling conviction that followed.
I awoke from a dream where I was diligently pulling weeds in our backyard. My focus narrowed to a beautiful, small tree nestled in a secluded corner beneath our deck. It felt as if I was viewing it through a camera lens, zooming in, fixated. Driven by an inexplicable urgency, I approached it. With a garden shovel, I carefully worked the soil around its base, then, with my bare hands, I pulled it clean from the earth – roots and all. The dream was intensely real, leaving a residue of sensation long after my eyes opened.
Most people might dismiss such a random dream, perhaps recounting it idly to a partner who would offer a polite but ultimately indifferent ear. But this dream was different. It lodged itself deep within my psyche, an insistent whisper I couldn’t shake. I turned to my husband, Cade, the words escaping before I had fully processed them: “That tree… it has to go.” The feeling was not one of dislike, but an overwhelming, primal need to remove it, an inexplicable premonition I simply couldn’t articulate.
Despite my mounting physical discomforts of early pregnancy – the pervasive green nausea, constant stomach unease, aching body, and overwhelming exhaustion – I was determined. Cade, ever the patient and supportive partner, joined me. As we carefully dug around the small Japanese maple, he asked repeatedly, his voice laced with concern, “Are you absolutely sure you want this out?” My conviction remained unwavering. “It’s not that I dislike it,” I explained, “I just can’t get it out of my head. I have to pull it out.”
So, we did. The task, for such a small tree, proved surprisingly difficult. Its roots clung tenaciously to the earth, resisting our efforts. Yet, as we finally extracted it, I felt… nothing. No sudden relief, no exacerbation of my nausea, no sensation that anything was amiss. It was a strange void. Little did we know, at that precise moment, two critical things had indeed broken within me, an internal disruption that would remain tragically hidden until November 4th, 2015.
The journey to the hospital that fateful day was a blur of fear and urgency. Upon arrival, we recounted the terrifying events. My primary concern was for our baby; he wasn’t moving. The sensation of detachment, followed by a sudden gush of blood, was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was profoundly worse than any childbirth I could imagine, not merely a ‘bloody show’ or the gentle beginnings of labor. It felt, chillingly, as though there had never been a baby at all, only a stomach suddenly filled with blood. I’m sparing you the most graphic details, but suffice it to say, it was a harrowing scene.
Dr. Cloward, who was on call, took over my care, and although Dr. Haskett was usually our primary physician, Dr. Cloward proved to be an absolute godsend. She was amazing: calm, kind, and incredibly attentive. Despite my strong contractions, she reassured us that everything appeared stable, and there was a possibility I could hold out for a few more weeks. They decided to monitor me for a few hours. I don’t believe they fully grasped the gravity of what Cade and I had witnessed, the sheer volume of what we’d seen. We waited, suspended in a state of anxious limbo, and eventually, Cade, remarkably, managed to fall asleep.
Cade is truly one of those extraordinary individuals you want by your side during a crisis, especially something as intense as childbirth. He possesses an innate calmness, offers unwavering support, and provides constant, gentle encouragement. Nothing seems to faze him or make him uncomfortable; he has this remarkable ability to make you feel as though you are capable of anything. In that moment, I desperately needed that reassuring presence.
This was not how I had envisioned things. This wasn’t part of my carefully laid plans. Our baby wasn’t supposed to arrive early. I consider myself a meticulous planner, an organizer who thrives on readiness, someone who gets things done efficiently. I pride myself on being prepared, rarely rattled by unexpected turns. Yet, there I lay, utterly shaken, vulnerable, and far from ready.
While I was in the hospital, Cade had called our friend Adam, who was staying at our house. My mom, bless her heart, was ready to drive from Idaho to Utah at a moment’s notice if anything truly happened. But it wouldn’t, right? I clung to that desperate hope.
Sleep remained an elusive dream for me. Though the contractions had begun to slow, my mind raced relentlessly. I questioned myself: Was I lacking faith? Was I deficient in hope? Why couldn’t I truly believe that everything would stop, that our baby wouldn’t come yet? Or was it possible that the profound reassurance I felt was a premonition that he *would* come, and all would ultimately be well? In a moment of such profound fear and crisis, distinguishing between faith, hope, and intuition felt impossible.
I decided to do what had brought me peace during a previous pregnancy crisis. (I’ll share that story about a blessing to be healed, but never given, another time.) For now, I prayed to still my racing heart. I sought stillness, a sense of inner calm, a space to truly listen. If this was to be our path, I prayed for the grace and peace to embrace it fully.
Over and over, I offered that same prayer, a quiet plea for acceptance and strength. And then, about two hours into our stay, the contractions hit again, harder and more definitively this time. There would be no waiting, no delaying the inevitable. It was time for delivery. Just a short hour or so later, our precious son arrived.
He weighed 4 pounds and measured 17 inches, the most alert baby I had ever laid eyes on. It felt as though he knew, deeply, profoundly, exactly where he was, exactly where he had chosen to come. And please pardon the tears you cannot see, but in that moment, I truly felt that perhaps, just perhaps, he had chosen us, chosen me, to be his mother.
This was the very first baby I had ever experienced being placed directly on my chest immediately after delivery. While the photo isn’t from that exact moment, it perfectly captures how he preferred to be throughout our entire stay in the NICU: snuggled close, craving constant skin-to-skin contact. He knew his momma. Isn’t that truly incredible? The instant they placed him on me was unreal. The overwhelming peace, the burning sensation in my chest, the flood of love – my goodness, it was an absolutely surreal and utterly unexpected experience.
I had no prior conception that delivering a baby a month early would necessitate such a crowded delivery room. Extra nurses, the doctor, Cade, a pediatrician, respiratory specialists – they were all there, packed into the room, watching me deliver with palpable anticipation. Each face held the silent worry that this baby might face significant problems, that he might arrive fighting for his very survival. The atmosphere was incredibly surreal, a mixture of intense medical preparedness and our personal, intimate moment of birth.
And then, the most extraordinary thing happened. He let out a perfect, tiny cry, a sound of profound relief, and then immediately quieted. He became completely still, his eyes locking onto mine the moment they handed him to me. We simply stared at each other. I know the scientific facts: newborns can’t see perfectly like adults, so how this happened, I cannot rationally explain. But everyone in the room fell silent, captivated. Slowly, hushed comments began to emerge about what they were witnessing, about the powerful connection we all felt in that sacred space.
Friends, I am telling you, that room buzzed with the most incredible warmth and energy, a feeling that transcended the earthly realm but was undeniably, perfectly felt. He knew exactly where he was and who held him. The quiet murmuring grew: “My goodness, I’ve never seen a baby, let alone a preemie, look at someone like that. It’s like he truly sees you, truly knows you. It’s as if he wishes he could open his mouth and speak, because he has an urgent message to share.”
And we all felt it. It was undeniable. Children do not merely arrive on earth by chance. They come from a heavenly home, where they have lived and loved with divine parents. They arrive with a profound purpose, a unique mission, a ministry destined to be fulfilled. As I gazed at him, and he gazed back at me, I felt a power I could not deny: each of us holds a purpose. Each of us is known and infinitely loved. I don’t pretend to understand why life can be so challenging, why people experience such pain and loss, why life sometimes falls apart and feels incredibly hard. But I do know, with every fiber of my being, that there is someone who knows our name, who stands with us, constantly urging us to turn back to Him, to remember our divine origins and our inherent worth.
Then, as quickly as he arrived and connected with us, he was gone, whisked away for necessary medical testing. But the memory of that moment, the profound connection, and the undeniable sense of purpose, remains a guiding light in our lives, a testament to an unexpected miracle and a bond forged in faith and love.