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In January/February 1996 Christian Reader published Marsha Marks's story of struggling with infertility. After six years, their doctor said she and her husband needed to accept the fact they would never have biological children.

The Markses tried several times to adopt through their state agency, but were turned down because of their age; a private adoption was out of the question financially.

Amid the discouragement, Marsha clung to a friend's encouraging words: "Somehow, Marsha, I don't know how, God is going to use your whole struggle with infertility for his glory." Marsha began to pray fervently for a glimpse of that glory.

For six months I'd been praying earnestly. I'd asked everyone I knew, and even some I didn't know at all, to pray. … that somehow, if it be God's will, my husband Tom and I would be able to have a baby.

The most precious prayers were offered by little children. One five-year-old prayer warrior friend gave God suggestions: "Dear God, please send Marsha a baby. Maybe someone could give her one, or she could just find one on the street. Thank you. Amen."

My husband didn't pray. He'd stopped praying after the last specialist told him all the reasons I'd never conceive. He'd stopped praying after the last adoption agency turned us down. He'd stopped praying after he realized the cost of a private adoption. And he'd stopped praying when he realized that I was in full-blown menopause.

Being a scientist, Tom had seen all the facts. And in his lifetime, he'd never seen prayer change facts.

As I re-read the Christian Reader article I'd written six months before, I suddenly didn't feel well. Something wasn't right.

Maybe you have cancer, the hypochondriac in me taunted.

I made an appointment at the infertility clinic. I told them my concerns and asked for some tests— including one more pregnancy test. They looked at me with pity in their eyes and said gently but firmly, "No."

"The doctor has shown you your hormone count. You haven't had any cycles for seven months, because you are in menopause. Asking for another pregnancy test only indicates you are not accepting things as they are."

Although they didn't come out and say it, they implied I needed a therapist to help me deal with my infertility.

I begged for the extra test; they resisted.

Finally, I convinced them. But they weren't going to rush the test through while I was there. Why bother?

The next day at home, the phone rang.

"Marsha, your pregnancy test came back positive."

"For what?" I said. Maybe there's some new type of cancer that only shows up on a positive pregnancy test, I thought to myself.

"For pregnancy."

"What!?!"

After the sixth repetition, I said, "Could you hold for a minute? I'd like to get my husband on the phone."

With trembling fingers I speed-dialed a three-way call.

"Tom," I said, with an urgency in my voice, "I've got the hospital on the line. Nurse, could you please tell my husband what you've just told me?"

"Your wife's pregnancy test came back positive."

"For what?" Tom also wondered if something was wrong.

"For pregnancy. Your wife is pregnant."

With characteristic understatement, Tom said, "Well, that's interesting."

How is this possible?

The next day I went in for a sonogram. A heartbeat wasn't visible yet, but there was a yolk sac. From a blood test they determined I had conceived 11 days before. It was exactly the time for me to get supplemental progesterone to help the baby adhere to the uterine wall—one of my problems in conceiving.

Over the next 14 days, I had four more pregnancy tests and three more sonograms at the hospital's request. I think they were having trouble dealing with the facts.

The first time I saw the little heart beating, I burst into tears.

My full-term pregnancy was uneventful—unless you count every day bathed in praise for the answer to our prayer. On October 22, 1996, Amanda Joy was born. We call her Miracle Mandy.

It's hard to imagine a child who was ever more loved or such a great boost to her daddy's belief in prayer.

In our kitchen, by the back door, there's a little imprint of Amanda Joy's feet when she was just a few months old. Underneath the imprint is a verse: "What is impossible with man is possible with God."

We often tell our little prayer warrior friend that God listened to—and took—a child's suggestion. We did find our baby on the street—the street of faith, paved with the prayers of believers.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2000 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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