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Lyle stood quietly in his living room, looking out the picture window. I knew he was despondent, wondering what that day, and the future, would hold for him.

My 60-year-old brother, two years younger than I, was a farmer and heavy equipment operator in Plum City, Wisconsin. I considered Lyle a mechanical whiz; he could fix anything.

In March 1981, Lyle went to the doctor complaining of ongoing fatigue. Tests revealed his kidneys were not functioning normally.

Over the subsequent months, Lyle's energy ebbed even more, eventually forcing him to cut down his workload. When my husband Olaf and I would visit Lyle and his wife Marj, it seemed Lyle walked more slowly each time, and had to take more timeouts to rest.

Now it was a year later, March 1982, and his kidneys had deteriorated to the point that doctors told Lyle he would soon need dialysis, but he should try to find a donor.

"A brother or sister is the best choice," they advised him. "Siblings are most likely to have the same blood type and matching tissues."

When Lyle finally gave us the news, I didn't hesitate. I knew our older brother Jim had high blood pressure so he wouldn't qualify. But I was in fine health, never having to use my sick time at work.

"Lyle, I want to give you one of my kidneys," I said.

"Why would you want to give me a kidney when I threw you in the creek?" Lyle teased, referring to an incident when I was about seven years old.

Then Lyle got serious. "I don't think you should do that. Something could happen to you." I wasn't worried about me; I was worried about my brother.

When he realized my mind was made up, Lyle called the doctor to make the arrangements for me to come in and be interviewed on the same day he was scheduled for a blood test.

The promise of the birds
That day had come. At the living room window, Lyle suddenly looked up and said, "Evelyn, come here!"

I went to the window, and looked out. There were robins everywhere—it looked like hundreds—covering the lawn, bobbing their heads as they searched for food in the brown, sparse grass. I had never seen so many gathered before. Was this a sign of early spring, or a message from our heavenly Father to three of his children, when we were in need of his help and guidance?

Jesus said, "Look at the birds. They don't plant food or harvest but God cares for them, and you are worth much more than the birds" (Luke 12:24, CEV).

Lyle, Marj, and I drove 40 miles from Plum City to the hospital in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. There, Lyle's blood test revealed that his kidney was barely functioning; it had reached a dangerous level. A doctor told Lyle he must go on dialysis within 48 hours.

Then the doctor took me aside to speak to me privately. "Are you sure you want to donate one of your kidneys?" he asked. "You can live with one kidney, but it's possible you could be in an accident, and lose your remaining kidney."

"I know you have to tell me these things," I said, "but I still want to give Lyle a kidney, if it's possible. Besides, if I was hurt that badly in an accident, I'd probably die anyway."

The doctor smiled. "Possibly. I'll let the three of you talk about it."

I found Lyle and Marj, and relayed the doctor's concern. "There's really no reason to talk, is there?" I said. "Let's pray."

We joined hands, asking for God's help through all of this, and that his will would be done.

A strong match
That day, Lyle began his first four-hour dialysis treatment, a grueling regimen that would continue for four months, three days a week.

In a separate room, a nurse checked my blood pressure, and took several vials of blood for compatibility tests, and to determine if I was healthy enough for the surgery.

Many tests followed in the subsequent months. As time passed, it became apparent that the dialysis was barely keeping Lyle alive. He needed a transplant.

Finally I received the go-ahead. Even more exciting was the news that Lyle and I were a strong match.

There were anxious moments up to the final preparations. We knew we were the oldest transplant patients there, but I still felt confident. Then we heard that just before a similar transplant surgery, the candidates had been rejected at the last minute. We kept praying.

On July 27, 1982, Lyle and I lay in adjoining operating rooms at the University of Minnesota Hospital in Minneapolis. The surgeon, Dr. Najarian, made a large incision to remove my left kidney; Lyle's incision was minimal compared to mine.

Healthy kidneys filter creatinine—a nitrogen compound—out of the blood. The surgery was successful. The transplanted kidney began working immediately.

Lyle's best birthday gift
We were on different floors in the hospital, so Lyle was up in my room before I could get out of bed. I remember seeing a blurry row of people in my room when I first woke up. When my mother asked me how I was feeling, I said half-consciously, "It hurts."

Lyle couldn't wait to divulge the exciting news. "As soon as you're able to get out of bed, come down and look at my chart," he said. When I did see it, I got just as excited—the new kidney had lowered the creatinine count from 16 to less than 2.

Since July 27 was Marj's birthday, she said, "Lyle's restored health is the best birthday gift I've ever received."

Nothing could keep Lyle down. During the rest of his hospital stay, the staff often had to search for him since he was everywhere except his room.

Lyle went home to his farm in Wisconsin, to work and to enjoy life again. His first request was for a big bowl of fresh strawberries from the garden, something he had not been allowed to eat.

Thankfully, Lyle never experienced any organ rejection episodes. For him, each day was a gift from God. "I hear people complain about the weather and everything," he said, "but every day I'm happy to be alive."

After a month my incision healed, and I returned to the classroom as a first grade teacher.

The accident
Two-and-a-half years later, on January 1, 1985, I was driving to my mother's farm about 25 miles from my home in Wisconsin for our family Christmas party. My husband wasn't feeling well so he stayed home. But I had company. My ten-year-old granddaughter Jennifer asked to ride with me in our station wagon. It was before noon, and the day was cloudy and cold. The narrow country road was covered with snow.

Suddenly I saw a car coming over a hill in the middle of the road, heading straight toward me. In an effort to avoid a collision, I turned sharply to the right—the last thing I remember before losing consciousness.

The next thing I was aware of was Jennifer's voice calling my name. "Grandma, Grandma," she cried. My face was so white, she told me later, she thought I was dead.

Since we were only a half-mile from my mother's house, I asked Jennifer if she was hurt badly. Except for bruises and a sore shoulder (that turned out to be dislocated), she seemed fine. Neither of us was bleeding even though there was glass everywhere (even in my pecan pies), but whenever I'd take a breath, I felt a severe pain in my chest. My left arm was hanging down; I couldn't move it. And my left leg was pinned by the smashed-in door on the driver's side.

I had taken the full impact of the crash on the left side, at such a speed that it tore off the left front wheel of the station wagon. Both cars were in the ditch, on opposite sides of the road. The three occupants of the other car were out and walking around, suffering only minor injuries.

There was a house nearby and Jennifer caught the owner just as he was leaving. He called for an ambulance and grabbed a sleeping bag to bring back to the car.

Cold air whipped through the car, and I began to shake. When the young man covered me with his sleeping bag, he probably kept me from going into shock.

Where's the kidney?
When the ambulance and the police arrived, I was pulled out the right door of the car, and carried by stretcher through the snow to the ambulance. Relatives at my mother's house had noticed all the commotion and some came to the scene. I was glad to see my nephew Howard who helped carry the stretcher. Marj's face was a welcome sight.

Jennifer, Marj, and I rode in the same ambulance. Because my chest was hurting so much, I began to panic. The ambulance seemed to be going too slowly. "Can you tell the driver to hurry?" I asked Marj. We were heading across the Wisconsin border to Red Wing, Minnesota, 30 miles away to a larger hospital.

Finally, we reached the emergency room and I was taken to surgery. The hospital's best orthopedic surgeon happened to be on duty that day. He screwed steel plates in my arm to stabilize the broken bones, treated a broken bone in my shoulder, and taped my ankle. Most important, blood and fluid was drained from my chest cavity—several ribs had punctured my left lung. A collapsed lung and the broken ribs had caused the severe chest pain.

After surgery, my family gathered in my hospital room. Lyle had something to tell me that couldn't wait.

"After the surgery," Lyle said, "we heard the doctors wondering why you didn't have a left kidney.

" 'If you are looking for her left kidney,' I said, 'I have it.' " Then Lyle explained to the doctors about the transplant surgery almost three years before.

"Good thing," one doctor replied. "If Evelyn would have had that left kidney, it would've almost certainly been ruptured in the accident, and she would have died."

Ever since the transplant, Lyle had been thanking me for saving his life. "Okay, you can stop being grateful now," I smiled. Now it was my turn. I gave my brother a kidney, and it saved my life!

Lyle lived several more active years before suffering a heart attack. I have had no problems either from the transplant or the accident. Recently, I've had the opportunity to encourage a transplant donor by phone with my story.

I have always been aware of the presence of God in my life, but the outcome of these two events—two miracles—gave me a deepened sense of his love. God knows our futures, and has made provision for them even before we "get there." It reinforces one of my favorite Bible verses: "The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms" (Deut. 33:27, RSV).

A Christian Reader original article.

The backyard of my daughter's rural Utah home abuts a several acre prairie dog "town" with hundreds of residents. We all—especially our two grandsons—get a big kick out of watching the animals pop out of their holes, stand erect with front paws together, and chatter back and forth.

One morning there was an unusually large number of them out which prompted six-year-old Brandon to say, "Boy, Grandma, the praying dogs are sure out praying today."

—Clover Crump

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