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My mother faced relentless hardship. Before I was born, Mum had endured the loss of twin girls through miscarriage. Then, while Mum was pregnant with a boy, Mum and Dad had a bike accident. To avoid hitting a bus, Dad had swerved his bike. They successfully avoided the bus, but fell off the bike, and Mum injured her right side. My brother was born crippled down his right side, and tragically, he died two days after his birth.

It was into this shadow of grief and loss that I would be conceived.

My parents were both in their forties. Mum thought she was beginning menopause, and the last thing she wanted was another baby. But, by the time she realised she was actually pregnant, it was too late to terminate me. Had she found out earlier, she would have had an abortion. There was always a midwife, chemist or struck-off doctor willing to carry one out.

But God had other plans.

When Mum was seven months pregnant with me, she suffered pre-eclampsia. In 1952, this almost always caused miscarriage. Yet I survived — the first of countless deliverances that would define my life.

A couple of years later, doctors discovered how to treat babies in the womb affected by pre-eclampsia, and those born after that breakthrough survive with few lasting health issues. Those of us born before the treatment was available came into the world with immune deficiency, and have suffered ill health all our lives. Few survive past 65, and most die between 55 and 65 as our bodies turn on us and begin to destroy themselves. Praise God — having made it to August, I have survived an extra eight years!

When I was born, the hospital had everything prepared for me to have a complete blood transfusion, as my parents had opposite RH factors — one positive, the other negative. It was a long labour, and the doctors feared it would end in a stillbirth — but God!

A Childhood Watched Over

From my earliest memory, I felt I did not belong in my family (even now, I sometimes wonder whether I am adopted or the child of someone else). So, at about three years old, I decided to run away.

We lived in the hinterland outside Childers in a tiny settlement known to locals as Apple Tree Creek, in the Bundaberg region of Queensland.

The land behind our house sloped down to a creek, and I managed to scramble across a ditch almost as deep as I was tall before wandering off along the water’s edge. When Mum noticed I was gone, she came searching. She said that she had been guided by a white flash — the tail of our collie. But I have always believed it was an angel she saw, and that the same angel had been with me throughout my little adventure, helping me across that ditch.

Then there was the time I wandered into the paddock where the neighbour’s bull was kept. I had been to Sunday school, and Mum had told me that if she and Dad were not home when I got back, they would be at the creek fetching water.

We had no running water at our house. In times of drought, Mum and Dad would carry a yoke across their shoulders with large kerosene tins hooked to each side, filling them at the creek and carrying them home. Despite Mum’s clear warning, I went into the bull’s paddock anyway. Once again, I believe an angel was with me, because I felt completely safe. The bull — known for being aggressive — was placid and kept well away. Praise God!

When I was about seven or eight, we were walking through the bush near our home. Our dog suddenly started barking, and I stopped almost instantly. Looking down, I saw a brown snake sliding across the path right where I would have placed my foot.

My next close shave with death came when I was about nine and a half. We had moved from Queensland to New South Wales and were living with my sister and her family in Barnsley, Newcastle. My brother and his partner Graham came up from Sydney to take us to Taronga Park Zoo. Travelling down the old Princes Highway in thick fog in 1961, I woke suddenly from sleep and screamed at them to stop. Graham braked just in time to keep us from going over the cliff. Praise God!

I nearly fell under a train once. On a school excursion to Waterfall, I was the last to board and had to run and leap on as it was moving. I found myself pressed against the door which — unlike train doors today — stood wide open. One more step and I would have fallen straight out onto the tracks.

Close Calls and Dangerous Company: The Teen Years

In my teens, most of my friends were Greek, and one of them in my group of friends — Con — was involved in selling marijuana. I never touched it knowingly — I had asthma and was too afraid of what might happen. The unspoken rule in that circle was straightforward: drugs were available if you asked for them, but no one was ever pressured. Con knew several underworld figures.

One of the other key figures in my group of friends was Ross. He fancied himself as a ladies’ man. One night at a club, Ross walked straight into a well-known underworld figure. It was only Con’s quick thinking that prevented guns from being drawn. Then, to add insult to injury, Ross hit on the man’s girlfriend. Con got us all out of there as fast as he could.

A couple of weeks later, the same man held a barbecue for his girlfriend’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Ross, thinking he was smart, made inappropriate remarks to the girl and within moments, everyone was sprinting for the cars as shots rang out. Mercifully, no one was hurt.

Around the same time, we were celebrating Ross’ 21^st birthday when some guests borrowed his car to collect a few more friends. The return trip was dangerously overcrowded, and the driver was speeding down a one-way street in the wrong direction when a car appeared head-on. Two parked cars and the vehicle we were in were all written off — but praise God, no one was hurt.

Three Sons, Three Deaths, Three Returns

When I was 19, I gave birth to my first son after a severe haemorrhage that stretched the labour to around 27 hours. I was unconscious for most of it, and during that time, I clinically died.

I clearly remember finding myself in a vast building where an enormous hand was writing in what appeared to be Arabic script. When I questioned what was written, the script changed to English — it was the Lord’s Prayer from Matthew. Then a voice, which I believe was the Lord’s, told me to go back: it was not my time, and there was more to do.

At 21, my second son was born by caesarean section — and I died on the operating table again. I remember leaving my body and floating upward, looking down at myself lying there while the medical staff worked urgently to revive me. Then I was drawn into a pitch-black tunnel with a tiny pinprick of light at the far end. I felt no fear — only deep peace and comfort. The light grew slowly larger and brighter until an angel stood at its centre, and together we passed through fields of wildflowers and into a beautiful golden radiance from which peace, joy and love poured out in waves.

Words cannot describe what it is to stand in the presence of Jesus. Once again, I was sent back. It is so hard to leave His presence — the longing to stay is overwhelming, and I feel emptiness from being apart from it.

Twelve months before my third son was born, I attempted suicide. Life had become unbearable. After being up all night, I had spent the following day helping at a school fête for my eldest son, and by evening, I was completely exhausted. I desperately needed my husband’s help, but he went next door to go swimming. In that moment of despair, I took an overdose of my eldest son’s Serepax, but woke up a couple of days later.

Despite that dark moment, life continued. At 25, when my third son was born, I clinically died on the operating table once more. Recovery brought further complications — the edges of the surgical wound healed separately but refused to join, sending me back to the operating theatre at midnight about a week after the birth.

Decades of Deliverance

Afterwards, the surgeons told me I had half a heart, though they were uncertain which half was functioning. They said my body had the internal condition of a very sick person aged between 60 and 70, and that they had never seen a 25-year-old in such a state. When they asked whether I was on an oxygen concentrator, and I told them no, they said I would most likely need one within a few months. Praise God — that was 48 years ago this 29^th of August, and I am still not on continuous oxygen.

When my second son was in Year 6, we entered a mystery car rally run by his school — just the two of us. I was attempting a right-hand turn when, obscured by a line of cars also turning, another car came speeding through and struck the exact centre of my passenger-side tyre.

Had the impact been even a fraction to either side, the car would have rolled, and we would most likely both have been killed. The attending police officer and the witnesses who stayed said they could barely believe we had walked away with nothing worse than shock and a few seatbelt injuries.

In 1989, I was driving my estranged husband to a job in Newcastle. I had not wanted to drive, but he insisted he could not manage because of a migraine. Approaching the Cumberland Highway, I was blinded by the sun, and when he again refused to take the wheel, I simply cried out, “Help, Lord.” Praise God — we came to rest on the grass beneath a large road sign on the far side of a six-lane freeway, without a scratch on the car or either of us.

In 1990, living in East Blaxland, I was driving an old station wagon down the Old Bathurst Road between Blaxland and Penrith. I lost control coming around a bend, and the car left the road. I had only enough time to cry out, “Lord!” — and the car stopped right on the cliff’s edge. An inch further and we would have gone over. Praise God.

Around 2012, I was admitted to the emergency department of Concord Hospital with failing kidneys. Staff worked urgently to find an ICU bed, but could not. In every quiet moment, I offered my usual prayer: “Lord, if this is when I come home, I am happy to go — but if there is more to do, then I need You to heal me.” By the following morning, I had recovered enough to be moved to a general ward. God’s mercy was evident.

For more than 28 years, surgery had been repeatedly deferred because of my history with wound healing and clinical death. Then in 2016, I had no choice: my gallbladder had to come out, along with a wide band of polyps and scarring over my kidneys. The alternative to risking death on the table was a certain death without it.

God had told me that I would survive the surgery, despite it being a long and difficult operation. During surgery, I clinically died, and both my brother and a niece were told I had little chance of being brought back. But once again, I survived — praise God — though each time it becomes harder to leave his presence, and the ache of returning grows deeper.

Still Standing

Last year, I endured months of acute pain from diverticulitis — but once again, God brought me through. Praise His holy name!

Earlier this year, I visited my GP for a follow-up on the severe oedema in my legs and feet and the cellulitis gripping both legs. He told me plainly that if I did not go straight to the hospital, I would not survive the week. The base hospital gave me medication and sent me home, with instructions to return four days later if there was no improvement, at which point they would admit me and administer antibiotics and diuretics by drip.

The prayer team at Liberty Church continue to intercede for me and my health, and I am trusting God according to His purposes. All prayer for my health is deeply appreciated.

It has been a relentless season. Throughout last year, I battled at least three separate episodes of severe cellulitis and oedema, a serious bowel infection known as C. diff, and since October, my blood pressure has run consistently at around 200 or above. My doctors are genuinely concerned that a major stroke or heart attack could come at any time — but God keeps me going.

I have found that besides trusting God, the second-best thing I can do is simply refuse to let my health dominate my thoughts or rule my life.

Provision and Faithfulness

God’s faithfulness has extended far beyond my own survival. There have been many healings and blessings among my family, friends and acquaintances over the years. He has always provided everything I truly need.

There have been seasons of couch-surfing and near-homelessness, of financial ruin and years when my entire wardrobe amounted to one or two outfits. There have been long stretches of living on scones, potatoes, cheese on toast, soup or baked beans. Yet I have never truly gone hungry. I have always had a bed and a roof over my head. I have had to give everything away and begin again from nothing — more than once — yet through it all I have been greatly loved and highly favoured.

I have not always walked closely with God, and for years I did not fully understand why Jesus had to die the way He did — yet God has never once left me nor forsaken me. From my earliest childhood, Abba has been there. I have always been aware of angels surrounding and protecting me, and I have known what it is to be held in the arms of God. I have received visions and dreams. Though I have spent many seasons alone, I have never truly known loneliness — Father, Son and Holy Spirit have always been present.

I think of life as the difference between a plant raised in a perfectly controlled nursery and one that pushes up through hard ground in the wild. The nursery plant thrives under ideal conditions — but place it in the real world, where watering is irregular and weather unpredictable, and it often struggles and dies. The wild plant, by contrast, has fought for survival from the moment it was a seed, knowing thirst, weeds and sparse feeding — and it is frequently the stronger for it, with richer growth and deeper roots.

We do not grow in comfort. Growth almost always requires stretching. What I have learned through all of this is simple: no matter what you face, keep your eyes upon Jesus, and He will bring you through — not always quickly, not always easily, but the blessings will come.

Nearly every great man or woman of God carries scars. But to be an overcomer is to be a living testimony to the love, grace, mercy and boundless goodness of our beloved Father and Jesus our brother, Lord and Saviour.

As the Scripture says in Psalm 27:13, “I would have lost heart, unless I had believed, that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

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