Thirteen years ago, on what seemed like a normal Sunday morning, I got myself and my then one-year-old son ready for church. I had no idea that we would never make it there that day—and that my life was about to change forever. As we headed downstairs, I grabbed the last few items we needed before leaving. I secured my son in his car seat, buckled myself in, and backed out of the parking spot. But by the time I reached the first traffic light, I was in excruciating pain. I didn’t know what to do. All I could think to do was follow the prompting in my spirit: call my mother. Somehow, I made it down the road to her house, but I could barely get out of the car. My sister came out to meet me and take my son from the backseat. Just moments later, sweat began to pour down my face. My mother called on others to pray for my healing. That prayer brought a wave of peace and comfort—enough for me to lie down and rest. As I did, my family continued on to church. Hours later, I was in t...