"She has a slight fever," the nurse working next to him said. "It's another sign of toxemia."

"So there's a name for what's happening?"

She nodded, preoccupied with her work.

"Oh!" Beth screamed.

"Excuse me." The nurse pushed Josh aside. "What is it, dear?"

"My contractions. They're worse."

"Get Dr. Myers on the line, stat," she barked to her assistant.

"Yes, ma'am."

The younger woman snatched the phone from the bedside table and dialed a series of numbers while her supervisor checked Beth's vitals. Then she timed her contractions.

"Mr. Harrison, if you don't mind, would you please step across the room. I need to check your wife's dilation."

Within minutes, the assistant passed the phone to the nurse in charge. "It's Dr. Myers."

"Bethany Harrison's contractions are increasing rapidly," the supervisor told the doctor. "She's already at six centimeters."

Josh heard Dr. Myers on the other end of the phone shouting orders.

"Yes, doctor. We'll prepare her."

Slamming down the phone, the older woman announced to her subordinate, "We're preparing for vaginal delivery."

"What happened?" Josh asked.

"Things are moving faster than we expected. We think the baby is too far into the canal for a C-section."

Soon, the birthing room technicians arrived. They worked quickly, double-checking paperwork with Beth's wristband, unplugging monitors, and re-hanging medical dispensers. Within a few minutes they had Beth ready to move, beckoning Josh to follow as they wheeled his wife's bed out of the room, down the hallway, and into the elevator.

He had many questions. But the look of urgency on the attendants' faces told him everything he didn't want to know.

48.

Present Day Josh shivered as he looked around the surgical suite. The large, monochrome cube-white floors, white walls, and white ceiling tiles-was devoid of human warmth. Cold, sterile-looking equipment clung to the edges of the well-lit space. Two powerful examination lights hung from the ceiling, focusing on the surgical cot in the center of the room where Beth lay.

What must be millions of dollars worth of medical technology-and almost a dozen, highly trained doctors, nurses, and surgical assistants-attended to his wife. But he knew his reliance had to be on God.

Josh stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shuffled to the side of the room.

"Sir, please take a seat," a technician in green scrubs instructed as he rushed by.

Josh obeyed without thinking, still concentrating on his allegiance to a higher power. The Lord had brought them to this moment. Not only physically, but spiritually. Despite Josh's many concerns over the past eight months, God had moved them safely to this point in their journey.

The crooked had become straight. The rutted road smooth.

He remembered the words God had given him in the midst of the bus wreck. Peace, be still.

Beth's screams of pain interrupted his thoughts.

He saw Dr. Myers's staff gather around her and heard muffled fragments of their conversation.

"I don't know how much she can help us."

"I agree."

"Dilation is ten centimeters, doctor."

"The baby isn't moving," someone else said.

"Get Dr. Abrams on the phone," Dr. Myers ordered. "I'm concerned about that dissected artery. I know it's healed, but too much pressure and she could still be in trouble."

"BP is up another two points systolic."

"I can see the top of the head-"

"I don't have a choice at this point," Dr. Myers shouted. "Prepare the vacuum extraction pump. She has to have help. I don't want to lose them both."

Pain and sedation obscured Beth's senses. If pressed, she could, perhaps, remember being wheeled into the delivery room. She had memories of having complete confidence that Dr. Myers and the hospital staff would take good care of her baby. And of Josh hovering around the room, watching and waiting.

But now exhaustion consumed her. She needed help. She was ready to get this done.

Snippets of the conversation penetrated her reality, even though she had no concept of time. Or fear.

Until she heard the whine of the surgical vacuum.

She fought the straps that held her to the cot, but she couldn't move.

Why had Dr. Myers deceived her? Had she decided it was Beth's life or the baby's?

Old memories rushed back, convincing Beth of impending betrayal.

"No-save my baby-not me. Please . . . save my baby."

God, please. Take me, not my child.

The words of Micah 6:8 came to mind. To do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. Josh knew that mercy had been given freely, although hard earned, to both him and Beth. They had revisited the altar of God, laying their faith and fears upon it, and God had been faithful and generous.

At seven twenty-three in the evening, Beth gave birth to a baby girl. Elizabeth Rose Harrison came into the world praising God at the top of her lungs. Her mother, while still groggy, was doing fine.

The baby's great-grandmother, Elizabeth Randall, received a phone call from Beth's mother, Liz McKinney, about an hour after the birth, announcing the arrival of her namesake. And Josh had no doubt that little Rose's paternal grandmother, Rose Harrison, had special knowledge of the baby girl who had been born today by God's grace, for her name had been called by him even before she was conceived.

Bedlam surrounded Beth. People scrambled around her hospital room, laughing and bumping into each other while they prepared for her and baby Rose-as she was to be called-to go home.

Her mother had volunteered to transport all of the flowers, plants, and teddy bears in her SUV. Friends, family, and even fans of Josh's music had sent more flowers, cards, and e-mails than Beth could fully comprehend. One special arrangement had come from his new record label, AMG Records. Josh had finalized the deal earlier this week during Beth's hospital stay.

Beth saw the relief on her husband's face the day he received that call. He had told her their financial future, and Rose's, would be secure for a long time if things went well. On the other side of the hill, the view will be much different, her husband had said. It had become his favorite saying.

With Bob Bradford's help, Josh had devised a financial plan that would allow Beth to stay at home with little Rose for as long as she chose. He had presented it to her the day after her daughter was born. That same day, she had told Josh about her call to Pamela Morris.

"Everything's ready. All we need are the release papers," Josh said, settling into the chair beside her bed. Her mom had just left with the last cartload of flowers.

"Dr. Myers's nurse will be here soon," Beth reminded him. "Would you hold the baby for a few minutes while I get dressed?"

Josh smiled and reached out to receive his daughter.

"She looks a lot like you. A lot like your mom." Beth marveled at the resemblance. "I'm so-"

"Great! I didn't miss you." Dr. Abrams strolled into the room. He had a broad smile on his face. "How are you feeling?"

"We couldn't be better." Beth spoke for all three of them.

"I'm glad everything worked out so well for you."

"We're blessed," Josh stood up to shake the doctor's hand, juggling Baby Rose as he did.

"That's why I'm here." The doctor took a seat on the edge of Beth's bed. "I want you to know I've been blessed, as you would say, too." He paused to reflect. "Without the two of you, I wouldn't have met Alexandra."

Josh and Beth shared a knowing smile.

"You make a great couple," Beth grinned. "We already feel like you're part of our family, Dr. Abrams."

"It's Ben."

"I don't think I can call you by your first name," Josh said. "It doesn't seem respectful enough for the man who saved my wife's-and my best friend's-life."

Ben Abrams shook his head. "I didn't save Bethany or Danny Stevens. God did." He cleared his throat. "I've been humbled in the past few months to watch him working in so many lives, including my own."

Beth had heard samplings of this from Alex, but she had no idea to the extent Ben Abrams had come to believe.

"I've come a long way since I lost my parents and siblings more than fifty years ago. I think they would be proud of me."

Beth noticed tears in the corner of his beautiful blue eyes.

"I can't imagine how awful it would be not knowing your parents." Josh glanced down at the baby in his arms. "Who raised you?"

"My grandparents," Dr. Abrams said. "Both devout Jews by an odd twist of fate. I knew, even during my childhood, that my parents had become Christians. But I only learned recently they were also evangelists. They devoted their lives to the ministry."

Bethany and Josh exchanged glances again.

"That had to be mind blowing," Josh said. "How did you find out?"

"Shortly before my grandmother died she told me several things I had never known. That my parents' airplane crashed in a hayfield outside the small town of Mercy in Southern Illinois-"

"Mercy? That's close to where my grandparents live." Beth sat up in bed.

"Really?" Dr. Abrams looked surprised. "I would love to hear about it. I have to admit, I've always been curious to learn more about the accident, and the place where it happened."

"I can understand that," Beth said. "But it may be more of a coincidence than you realize." She dug back into her memory for the story her grandfather had always told. "My grandfather-"

"Oh, sorry . . . I didn't realize you had company. I'll be right out here." Liz McKinney spun around to exit the room.

"Mom, please join us. I need your help with something."

She gave her daughter a puzzled look and stepped closer to the bed.

"Remember the story Grandpa used to tell? You know, the one about him saving a baby from a plane crash. Do you remember the details?"

Ben Abrams looked from Beth to her mother.

"Yes . . . let me see," Liz McKinney said. "It would have been in 1959. I was four at the time and don't remember it very well. But Daddy has told the story over and over."

Color drained from Ben Abrams's face. "That would have been my parents' plane," he said almost matter-of-factly. "I was the baby your father saved."

EPILOGUE.

The Neimann farm had been bought and sold twice since Mrs. Neimann passed away in 1963. Even though few in the community still remembered the plane crash, a call to the new owner and a quick explanation gained access to the upper pasture.

Jack Randall moved slower now. Arthritis had settled into his hips more than a decade ago. But his memory was unaffected by the years since he had last walked this farm.

The old, wooden barn had decayed and fallen into itself. It had been replaced by a large, steel building. Pipe and cable fencing encircled the lot, instead of the sagging wire and wood fence that had once been there.

The new tenants were taking good care of the place. Jack believed that Albert Neimann would be proud.

And so would Ben Abrams's parents. Their son had grown into a fine man.

Jack studied his guest. He appeared to be keenly interested in everything around them. His intense blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. They were moist with tears that had probably been a long time coming.