Our own Christmas miracle

We were supposed to be in Bethlehem Friday night. It's a long story that involves my ward's over-the-top activities that included a detailed recreation of a Bethlehem marketplace and me manning a jewelry booth.

But a few hours before the big event, I went to use the bathroom and ended up doubled over in pain with my pants half-down as I fell to the floor. I didn't know what was causing the pain, but I had the wherewithal to scream for Miss Dub to bring me my cell phone. Luckily, she is a bit like Lassie and brought it to me. I then dialed Mr. Dub and ordered him home ASAP.

Next, I called my OB and told a nurse about the pain, which she told me could be standard uterine growth pains. To which I said, "Yeah, I've had those. But you know that scale of 1-10 for pain? Those are, like, a 2. This is a 10." She said that if the pain continued for more than a half hour to call back and they would probably send me to the hospital to get checked out.

After screaming in agony for a bit more, I realized I was upsetting Miss Dub more than myself. She was screaming, too, and trying to get me off the floor. I decided that my large rear could be causing extra anxiety for her, so I attempted to stand up and pull my pants up.

Then, the blood started to gush.

I knew what that meant. I screamed out, "No!" and said a little prayer for our unborn baby. I called the nurse back, but the office had closed and they had to page a doctor. As I waited, I contemplated what it all meant.

So many random thoughts filled my mind - "How long do we wait to try again?" "Was all this nausea for nothing?" "Could I have done something different?"

Long story somewhat shorter, Mr. Dub came home, the bleeding slowed and after FOUR pages, we got orders to head to the hospital. My dear friend came over to babysit Miss Dub, and we made the trek.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I had made peace with the situation. Miscarriages are common, I told myself. Lots of people had endured and survived them. I had one healthy baby at home, which probably meant I could have more. I couldn't let this experience embitter me.

But a glimmer of hope came when the doctor did an exam and discovered my cervix was still closed. "It means the baby is still in there," she said, "but we don't know if it's alive or not."

So despite my apparent submission, I made one last prayerful plea as headed for an ultrasound. I thought of how we were missing a reenactment of Jesus' birth, but how the true meaning of his life was being manifested in my own.

"Please give us our own Christmas miracle," I pleaded. "Please have mercy on us. But if not, I'm thankful I know how my pain can be healed."

And in that moment, I knew what Christmas was truly about. I recognized that peace on earth begins in the hearts of men. And I felt it.

As the ultrasound began, the nurse found the profile of the baby. I felt agony knowing that I might be looking at the lifeless embryo of my unborn child. But just then, I saw it. A flicker. Again. Again. Again.

"The heartbeat is great," the nurse said. "The baby is fine."

Apparently, the pain was the result of passing blood clots. We still don't know what caused the bleeding, but it could be something very innocent or something more complicated. But whatever it is, it's an issue with me and not the baby.

We got our miracle.

But we never did make it to Bethlehem.