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Kaitlyn's mother, Bonnie, came to pick her up one day, and something was terribly awry. Bonnie wrote this to me:

Have you ever had a day that you know has changed your life forever, a day that you would do anything to black out, just fast-forward past?

February 28, 1997. I arrived at the preschool. Kaitlyn was standing in the playground, looking down at the grass. One of her playmates said several times, "Kaitlyn, your mommy is here." I spoke to her, and there was no reaction, so I approached her and lifted her chin up with my finger. When I did this, I realized something was wrong. Her eyes were vacant, and she had no recognition of me. I immediately called for the preschool teacher. Kaitlyn began to waver. I knelt down beside her and laid her across my lap. The teacher called her name and did other things to get her to respond. Her eyes were open but not focused; they rolled to the right. She remained limp. The ambulance was called. I carried her inside and started to lay her on her side. When I did this, she began to cry and call for mommy. When the paramedics arrived, I was holding her and kissing her and weeping. We were taken to the hospital by ambulance. … I was told she had a seizure but she would be fine. Tests were ordered.

The tests agreed with the initial diagnosis: Kaitlyn would be fine.

But Kaitlyn wasn't fine. She grew increasingly pale. Her speech started to slur, and she began to fumble things, stumble often. She got more and more clumsy. She couldn't hold things. She walked into walls and doorjambs, and she fell down a lot. Her speech worsened—words started coming out in guttural chunks, in sharp jagged howls, in throaty grunts, in mournful groans. The other 4-year-olds grew afraid of her. Some made fun of her.

The doctor kept ordering tests.

Then one day, Kaitlyn's mother and father got the news that they dreaded and expected: Kaitlyn is dying. She has Batten's disease, a rare and incurable congenital degenerative neural disorder. Her muscles are petrifying. They are now hard like wood; they will soon be hard like stone. They will harden until one day she can no longer swallow or breathe. Kaitlyn's parents, her brother, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles and cousins, her friends, her church family—all watch beautiful little Kaitlyn die a slow death, and they can do nothing.

Kaitlyn's mother is a Christian and has drenched her bed with tears. She has beaten her fists bloody on heaven's door, trying to get the owner to open it and give her bread. She attends a church full of godly, caring people. They pray. Other people at other churches pray. They pray for many things—strength for the parents, wisdom for the doctors, comfort for Kaitlyn. But mostly they pray that God will heal Kaitlyn.

God hasn't answered that prayer yet. In truth, few now think he will.

The people who live beside Kaitlyn won the lottery. More than $600,000. I know almost nothing about these people, except that they have a lovely house. The house, I am told, is already paid for. It has been for a long time. These people, I understand, had a good, abundant life even before their jackpot win. I'm not sure why they buy lottery tickets or, if they don't, why others buy lottery tickets for them. I'm not sure if they ever prayed to win the lottery or if they ever pray at all.

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April 23 2001, Vol. 45, No. 6