A Note on Privacy:
This series shares parts of my personal journey as a woman, a mother, and a believer walking through hard seasons. When my daughters or son are mentioned, their stories are shared only with their awareness and consent, and details are intentionally limited to protect their dignity, privacy, and emotional well-being. This is my journey through the trenches — not a retelling of theirs.
The Song That Changed Everything
I was driving in my car in late November 2015 when I heard it for the first time: “Lord I’m Ready Now” by Plumb.
I had just dropped my daughter off at daycare, and I was headed to work. I remember sobbing—hysterical, ugly crying—as the words washed over me.
“Lord, I’m ready now… I need You to save me.”
I didn’t grow up in church. I didn’t know how to pray. I didn’t own a Bible, but in that moment, sitting in my car with tears streaming down my face, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I prayed the only prayer I knew how to pray: God, I’m ready. Save me.
And He did.
Romans 10:9 says, "because if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved."
That’s all it took. A song. A prayer. A broken woman saying, “I can’t do this anymore. I need You.“
The next Sunday, I was baptized. The Sunday after that, I married Matt. And six weeks later, my brand new faith was tested in a way I never saw coming.
When the Doctors Say “Prepare for the Worst”
In January 2016, I went in for my routine anatomy scan. I was excited, nervous, and ready to see my baby on the screen.
But the ultrasound tech went quiet. Too quiet.
She left the room and came back with the doctor. They found a mass in his chest where part of his lung should have been. A big one. And they didn’t know what it was.
I was immediately transferred to a high-risk doctor and had to go in for weekly ultrasounds for the rest of my pregnancy. The diagnosis came back: CPAM (Congenital Pulmonary Airway Malformation)—a mass growing in his chest, competing with his organs for space.
The doctors were blunt. There was a high likelihood he wouldn’t survive birth. If he did, we were looking at months in the NICU—we were told at least six months—and he’d be on oxygen the entire time because he wouldn’t be able to breathe on his own.
Prepare for the worst.
I was a brand new Christian. I’d been saved for six weeks. I didn’t know how to pray. I didn’t know scripture. I didn’t even know where to start.
And I was terrified.
The Fire I Wasn’t Ready For
I spent the rest of my pregnancy in a fog of fear.
I couldn’t take my depression and anxiety medication because it wasn’t safe during pregnancy. My emotions were all over the place—pregnancy hormones mixed with untreated mental illness mixed with the worst news a mother can hear. I was a nightmare to deal with.
Every week, I went in for another ultrasound. Every week, they measured his growth against the growth of the mass. Every week, the news stayed the same: Prepare for the worst.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about losing the little boy growing inside me.
Matt, on the other hand, was calm. Steady. Peaceful.
“I’m putting it in God’s hands,” he’d say. “He’s got this.”
I couldn’t understand it. How could he be so calm when our son might not survive? How could he trust something he couldn’t see to fix something so terrifyingly real?
I was a control freak. A planner. A fixer. And this was something I couldn’t control, couldn’t plan for, couldn’t fix.
Proverbs 3:5-6 says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths."
But I didn’t know that verse then. All I knew was fear. And it was overwhelming.
April 26, 2016: The Day God Showed Up
At 37 weeks, the doctors decided it was time. They scheduled a C-section for April 26, 2016.
I was terrified. This was it. The moment we’d been dreading for months. Would he cry? Would he breathe? Would I get to hold him, or would they rush him away before I even got to see his face?
They prepped me for surgery. Matt held my hand. And 45 minutes later, our son was born.
And he came out crying.
Not gasping. Not struggling. Crying.
He never needed to be put on oxygen—not even once. This was something the doctors had told us was nearly impossible; they were certain his lungs wouldn’t be able to function on their own. But from his very first breath, he proved them wrong.
Matt told me later that the look on the doctor’s face was priceless. He was in literal shock.
I started sobbing, which made the anesthesiologist panic. He thought I was in pain. Matt had to explain through his own tears: These are tears of joy. Our son is breathing.
Psalm 126:3 says, "The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad."
In that moment, I understood what a miracle felt like.
The NICU and the Clear Box
They rushed him out of the delivery room immediately and transported him to the children’s hospital’s NICU. Before they took him, they wheeled him into recovery so I could see him.
He was in a clear box—an incubator—and I wasn’t allowed to touch him. I wasn’t allowed to hold him. I could only look.
It was one of the hardest moments of my life. My baby boy was alive, breathing, thriving—and I couldn’t hold him.
Matt went to the NICU to be with him while I recovered. I didn’t get to see him again until the next day, when I was given a pass to leave the hospital briefly and visit him next door.
Five days. That’s how long he stayed in the NICU, and that was only as a precaution. Not six months. Not even six weeks. Just five days to be sure he was okay.
And he never once needed oxygen.
Isaiah 41:10 says, "fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
God held my son when I couldn’t. And He brought him home to me.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
After he was born, they did more testing: X-rays, MRIs, echocardiograms. His diagnosis changed.
He didn’t have CPAM. He had Bronchial Atresia—a condition where the bronchial tubes in his upper left lobe are extremely narrowed and filled with mucus. Air can get in, but it can’t get out easily.
It was a better diagnosis than what we’d been told to expect. It came with the need for surgery eventually—to remove the affected lung—but it wasn’t the death sentence we’d been preparing for.
The doctors said we could wait on the surgery as long as the lung didn’t cause major issues. He is almost 10 now, and he still hasn’t had surgery. We’re planning for it in the summer of, but for now, he’s thriving; a normal, healthy, active kid.
His heart sits to the right of his sternum because the lung has pushed it over. He uses an inhaler when he runs too hard or coughs too much.
But other than that, the diagnosis and prognosis we originally received were so far from what he actually ended up with. And for that, I’m grateful.
The Hospital Stays and the Learning Curve
When he was a baby and a toddler, we had a lot of hospital stays. A simple cold would almost always land us in the hospital as we fought to keep pneumonia at bay.
The mucus would settle in his chest, and as a baby, he didn’t know how to cough hard enough to break it loose. We used saline and nose suckers constantly to keep him clear.
Once he learned to cough hard and break up the mucus on his own, the hospital stays stopped. He figured out how to manage his condition, and we figured out how to help him.
2 Corinthians 12:9 says, "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me."
His weakness—his lung condition—became a testimony of God’s power and grace.
Refined, Not Overcome
Looking back, I realize what that season was: a refining fire.
1 Peter 1:6-7 says, "In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ."
I was a brand new Christian. I didn’t know how to trust God. I didn’t know how to surrender control. I didn’t know how to have faith in something I couldn’t see.
But God didn’t let me drown in the fire. He refined me.
He taught me that His plans are bigger than my fears. That His faithfulness doesn’t depend on my understanding. That miracles are real, even when the odds say they’re impossible.
I wasn’t overcome by the fire. I was refined by it.
What Matt Taught Me About Faith
Matt’s calm, steady faith during that season was something I couldn’t comprehend at the time. He kept saying, “I’m putting it in God’s hands. He’s got this.”
I thought he was crazy. How could he be so calm? How could he trust so completely?
But watching him walk through that fire with peace—not denial, not avoidance, but genuine peace—taught me what faith looks like in action.
Philippians 4:6-7 says, "do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
Matt had that peace. And slowly, through his story, I started to understand it too.
To the Mom in the Fire Right Now
If you’re reading this and you’re in the fire—facing a terrifying diagnosis, walking through an impossible situation, wondering if your faith is strong enough to survive—hear me:
You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to be a “mature” Christian. You don’t have to know all the right scriptures or prayers.
You just have to show up and let God do the rest.
I was a baby Christian with no Bible knowledge, no prayer life, and no idea how to trust God. But He met me in the fire anyway. He held my son when I couldn’t. He breathed life into lungs that weren’t supposed to work. He turned a death sentence into a testimony.
You are not being overcome. You are being refined.
Malachi 3:3 says, "He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, and they will bring offerings in righteousness to the Lord."
The fire isn’t meant to destroy you. It’s meant to refine you, purify you, and prepare you for the testimony God is writing through your life.
Hold on, mama. The fire won’t last forever. And when you come out on the other side, you’ll be stronger, more faithful, and more certain of God’s goodness than you ever thought possible.
Reflection Questions
- Have you ever faced a trial that tested your faith when it was still brand new?
- What does it look like to trust God with something you can’t control?
- How has God proven His faithfulness to you in the fire?
- Are you currently being refined, or do you feel like you’re being overcome? What would it look like to surrender control to God today?
A Prayer for the Mom in the Fire
Father, thank You for being faithful even when our faith is weak. Thank You for refining us in the fire instead of letting us be overcome. Give us the courage to trust You with the things we can’t control, the peace that surpasses understanding, and the faith to believe that You are working even when we can’t see it. Remind us that miracles are real and that You are good, even in the hardest seasons. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
This is the second post in the “From The Trenches” series—a raw, unfiltered look at faith, failure, and finding hope in the valley. If this post resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. You can comment below or reach out privately at danece@momleavesalegacy.com. You’re not alone in this fight. 🩷🩵