Echoes of the Past: My Heritage Across Borders Part IV
Hi Friends,
I’ve always known I was special, and not just in the “my-mom-said-so” kind of way. You see, I’m what you might call a miracle kid. As in, I’ve survived more close calls than a moose in hunting season. (Yes, hunting does hold a special place in my heart.) Life has this funny habit of throwing us into life-threatening situations. But even though most sane people believe there’s life after death, we still want to stay on this side of the pearly gates for as long as we can. After all, death is an enemy, as the Bible tells us.
So, I was hoping you could grab a cup of tea (trust me, too much coffee isn’t your friend), settle in, and enjoy this little story from my childhood.
Healing of a Son – The Year 1959 AD
In 1959, my parents were 35 years old, a young couple raising three children. Just a year earlier, they had moved from Prokopievsk, a mining town in Siberia, to a small village called Trofimovka in northern Kazakhstan. This move was possible only because, after Joseph Stalin's death, the Soviet government lifted the restrictions that had prevented ethnic Germans from relocating. For people like my parents—former prisoners and exiles—this was a chance to start over. They hoped that life in a village, with fresh vegetables and fruit from their own garden, would be a better place to raise a young family.
I was two years old, my brother Jakob was nine, and my sister Lydia was eight. My parents had become Christians just a few years before and were actively involved in planting a new Christian congregation in the village, which had no church at the time. There were people of various Christian traditions—Lutherans, Russian Orthodox, Mennonites, and Baptists—but no official church community.
One day, I fell gravely ill. My mother took me to the village doctor, a woman whose name I don't recall. She diagnosed me with severe meningitis and advised that I be flown to Pavlodar, the nearest city with a hospital capable of treating such cases. The city was 173 kilometres away, and a small dual-purpose, dual-winged aircraft that served as both air ambulance and cargo carrier was scheduled to arrive the next day. The doctor told my parents that my condition was severe and warned that even if I survived, I might suffer permanent developmental disabilities. It was a crushing blow for any parent to hear.
My parents' faith, already tested by the hardships they had endured, was pushed to its limits. The night was long and sleepless, filled with tears, prayers, and readings from the Holy Scriptures. They prayed with all their strength until dawn. My mother, exhausted and heartbroken, pleaded with God. She asked Him to either heal me completely or take me to heaven, as she couldn’t bear the thought of her son living with a severe disability for the rest of his life.
As the first light of day appeared, something miraculous happened. I woke up and asked for milk. My parents, overjoyed but cautious, gave me some. I drank it eagerly and then asked for more food. Then, to their astonishment, I began to play as if nothing had happened. It was just after 6 a.m. when the doctor arrived to prepare us for the 7 a.m. flight. She was shocked to see me, a critically ill child, now playing happily. “What happened?” she exclaimed. “Did I misdiagnose? This can’t be!”
Confused, she rushed back to the clinic to cancel the flight and returned to conduct more tests. After checking me thoroughly, she found no trace of meningitis. “I can’t explain it,” she said, still baffled. “Your child is healed.”
But my parents knew. They knew that their prayers had been answered and that God, who can heal, had performed a miracle.
Healing of a Son – The Year ca. 30 AD
When he heard that Jesus had come back to Cana in Galilee, a royal official went to him and begged him to come and heal his son, who was close to death.
Jesus replied, “Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will never believe.”
“Sir,” the official pleaded, “come down before my child dies.”
“Go,” Jesus replied, “your son will live.”
The man believed Jesus’s word and departed. While he was still on his way, his servants met him with the news that his boy was alive. When he inquired as to when his son got better, they said to him, “Yesterday, at one in the afternoon, the fever left him.”
Then the father realized that this was the exact time at which Jesus had said to him, “Your son will live.” And he and his whole household believed.
—John 4:46-53
Giving Thanks
Now, our God, we thank You and praise Your glorious name. 1 Chronicles 29:13
God's hand is not too short to save and heal. Just as He worked in Galilee two thousand years ago, He also worked in a small village in Kazakhstan in 1959, and He works today.
Faith, hope, and prayer are timeless, and His mercy endures forever.
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Dr. Leighton Flowers has informative discussions on theology, particularly predestination and provisionism.
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