When Was A Very Old Man With Enourmous Wings Published Hope and a Special Miracle

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Hope and a Special Miracle

If we can see a better future for ourselves, we will work hard and never give up. The reason we work hard is because we have hope for the future. Hope helps us endure adversity. Dieter F. Uchtdorf said, “Hope sustains us when we lose hope.

We lose hope when we lose hope for the future. Without it, doubt creeps into our lives and we become depressed. When doubt and despair enter our lives, then we lose hope and hope for the future.

We hope for the unseen but it must be accompanied by faith. They go together. When we face opposition in our lives, we must remain hopeful. We believe because we have faith. These virtues help us achieve our goals and look to a brighter future.

I want to tell the real story of the great faith and hope of a twelve-year-old boy and his mother, and the answer to prayer. His mother wrote about what happened to her.

“Please Don’t Let Him Die”

I first became aware of my twelve-year-old son’s illness when the piano music of “Hark! The Herald Angels sing,” stopped. Looking at him, his head on the piano, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

He replied, “I don’t feel well.”

When he looked up I saw his cheeks flush; upon closer inspection it turned out to be a good bribe. He had a fever. I called our family doctor and explained her symptoms. He said it sounded like measles going around and prescribed a well-known medicine.

The next day, George complained that his eyes hurt. Blisters began to appear in his ears and lips, and his temperature rose. After sitting by her side for a few hours, I left the room for a while. When I came back, what happened to me surprised me a lot. I ran out of the room, fell on the floor and cried. George had rubbed all the skin from his blistered lips. His ears, neck and face were swollen, and one big blister was hanging on one side of his face like a bag. George didn’t sleep. He kept asking us to please turn off the lights. It was terrifying to hear him ask this; there was only a little night light on and I had a small folded towel over his eyes.

When we arrived at the hospital, we were taken to a private room. As the ambulance worker carried my son to the bed, a large blister on his face, the hanging fluid bag broke.

Now, lying naked on sterile sheets, coughing and choking, his body covered in blisters and bare skin, he looked like a man wearing a hideous mask. I wanted to shout, “No! No!” But I prayed that for my son’s sake my words would be gentle.

Nothing could take me away from my son at this time; so I was given a hospital gown and a mask. The next few days were very important. A large piece of skin, which was dark and looked like it had been burned, was pushed behind George and stuck to the paper. The skin, which was pushed up her arm, looked like wrinkled nylon stockings. George’s mouth and throat were blistered, as were his bronchial tubes, and he was coughing constantly. I covered my face, put my head against the window and fought back tears.

The eye doctor said the eyes were blistered, even on the cornea, adding, “If they come – we can’t save his eyes.” It happened to me that my son was blind!

A new nurse coming in to put drops in George’s eyes, she leaned over him and said, “George, I have something to put in your eyes. Can you turn your head like this?”

He bent down, and when he turned his face with a black mouth hole, one side of his face was skinless, and his ears were skinless – all this was difficult for this nurse. He felt nauseous, closed his mouth and left the room quickly.

One night, two families were standing in the hall. One of the people looked at George and stopped. When his wife came to where he stood, he went with her, and said, “You don’t want to see that.”

Every time the doctor walks into the room he greets my son, “George, how are you?”

George would reply, “Very well.” Always the best.

One time the doctor looked at him and said, “You are a playful boy!” There were tears in his eyes.

My son asked me if I was praying. I assured him that I was.

One evening, the young doctor angrily told me that things are not good and he did everything he could. At that time I felt alone; What can I do except go to God for help? I went back to the room and knelt down next to my son’s bed and begged God to let him live.

The next day, George asked, “Is everyone still praying for me?”

I said, “Oh, yes.”

Then he asked me if I could hold his hand. He said, “If you don’t mind holding a scratcher.”

The whole day I held her hand. By evening I felt calm. I said, “Doctor, I think he’s fine!”

The doctor examined him, turned to me and with a look of disbelief and surprise said, “I think he is!” The problem was over.

The body’s miraculous healing powers took over. New skin began to grow and the old skin began to shrivel. All his twenty claws and all his fingers came out.

Suddenly we realized it was Christmas. Kind nurses and Santa himself arrived as a brave young man with a beautiful and hot body sat on the bed. Bending his head back, he saw the Christmas flowers through the slits of his eyes and said, “I see! I was very humble at that time.

A young doctor entered the room and said, “George, you have made medical history.” Then they asked us if we would allow the article to be published in a medical journal. I tried to thank our tall young doctor.

He said modestly, “I just stood by.” But I knew that he tried to save my son.

Our family doctor walked into the room and said, “George, you are a walking miracle.”

The nurses who came to say goodbye said that no one in the hospital expected to see our son leave the hospital alive.

The eye doctor said, “I feel very humbled by this young man.”

During this unforgettable Christmas I realized that, for me, Christmas will be a time of endless joy; rejoice because of the gift of a son.” (Opal H. Clarke, “Don’t Let Him Die”)

The boy grew up but his body was not the same. His eyes are always red because his tears are wasted. He coughs frequently and makes a raspy sound when breathing because he has Chronic Bronchitis as a result of the disease. But this faithful man, George Amos Clarke, my husband and my love, was grateful for the miracle.

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