Posted by: Michelle Knoll | January 15, 2013

A Tale of Two Kings: The First King

Welcome back!  Let’s continue.

This girl didn’t know what was in store for her, but looking back years later, she can see how her obsession with two medical conditions gave her an upper hand in the situations that faced her.  At that time, though, she just studied all she could about these conditions, wrote papers on them, and then went her merry way into other things.  She went to college, got her degree, got married, and four years after getting married, she and her husband had their first son.

The first king.

But life can be cruel at the most inopportune times, and so it was for this king.  The doctor that brought him into the world was one of the most rude and cruel doctors on the planet.  He had done and said inappropriate things, both to the girl and her husband, and everyone else in attendance.  He had pushed the delivery, aggravating the situation, simply so he could get home by 4 o’clock that afternoon (which the girl learned later was his “magical” hour).  When the delivery didn’t progress as he had hoped, he resorted to C-section, and then didn’t do a very good job with that.  Interestingly, though, the king was born at 3:52 PM.

All in all, the girl and her husband were left with a lot of emotional damage from the entire event.  The one shining light had been the words of the pediatrician, who said as far as he was concerned, the king was a “perfect baby.”  Granted, the girl knew that no baby was ever perfect, but these words did help to somewhat brighten the day.

Thus the girl and her husband, along with the newly born king, went home to start their life as a family.

Things went fine for the first two months.  But as I’ve said before, life can be very cruel.  On the day of the king’s 2nd month well-baby visit, the pediatrician looked very concerned.  He listened to the king’s heart, and listened to the king’s heart, and listened to the king’s heart, until he finally jumped back from the examining table and exclaimed, “Dear God, he’s got a heart murmur!”  The girl was frozen in shock as the doctor ran out of the room.  When he returned, he handed the girl a piece of paper and said, “Here’s the name and address of the cardiologist.  Go!”  Still in shock, the girl phoned her husband to tell him the news:  their baby, the king, was not as well as they had thought.

The cardiologist was a kind man, but he did not have good news.  He told the girl and her husband that the king was very, very sick.  Their world had been shattered.  What did all this mean?  The doctor didn’t give them a doomsday prognosis, but he didn’t give them lots of hope either.  All he said was, “treat him as if he’s normal.”  What on earth did that mean?  Confused and upset, the girl and her husband went home, feeling very much afraid.  Would God allow the king to be taken from them through this medical condition?  Would He play Indian giver in such a manner?  Would He be cruel to them?

The girl shed many tears that night, and in the nights that followed.  She spent many nights searching scriptures for hope, and found much.  But still, the nagging ghost of fear haunted her each and every day.

The first battle had begun.  It was going to be an all-out war, for the girl was not about to lose the king.  Not to fear, not to doubt, not to words spoken by others, and certainly not to any medical condition.

And words.  There were so many words.  Nurses and doctors who spoke without emotion.  “Oh, your son will develop congestive heart failure, and he’ll die.  Nothing you can do about it.”  Die?  The girl set her face like flint. Her son would not die!  Not when she was involved!  She proclaimed to the ghost of fear that walked the hallway with her each night:  “In the Name of Jesus my Lord, you will not take my son from me!”  She proclaimed it day and night, night and day.  She understood the power of words, and she understood the Word of God was her sword, and she wielded it each and every moment.  This king would live!

But the days were long.  The nights were longer.  The king ate, and grew – ever so slowly – and developed pretty much like other kids.  But he was small, oh, so small.  One of the pictures the girl remembers most of all is that of the king sitting in a regular size shoebox on Christmas Eve, because he was small enough to fit in that shoebox.  Oh, yes, the picture was cute.  But the king was 9 months old at the time.  He really shouldn’t have been small enough to fit in a shoebox.

Christmas came and Christmas went, and then… something happened.



  1. More please?

    • I will post more soon! I promise!

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