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Overview
Minute by Minute recounts the reality of consciously choosing to trust God in the midst of raw agony. Just when it seems that hope has vanished, God sweeps in and supernaturally heals Joanne in a moment. Her story is one of faith, hope, and triumphant victory over death.
Once a trained athlete in peak condition, Joanne Moody suffered a post-pregnancy injury that sidelined her for the next 14 years. Not one to give up easily, Joanne fought to find an answer to her pain year after year. Countless doctors attempted to treat her until finally one recommended a surgeon in France. Joanne and her sisters make the trek only to stare death in the face. At the moment of her greatest pain, God reached down and gave her a promise. Minute by Minute will keep you turning the pages as you join Joanne on her journey through a valley of pain and her eventual arrival at the pinnacle of faith and love.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780785216148 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nelson, Thomas, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 09/19/2017 |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 530,442 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Birth of More than a Baby
I have two problems with hard labor: hard and labor. I prefer soft, and I'd prefer not giving birth.
— Jarod Kintz, author
Half the city of Redondo Beach, California, was pregnant that cold, overcast day in January 1999. That could be a slight exaggeration, but when my husband, Mike, and I arrived at the hospital, the corridors were crammed with women in all stages of labor. There had been no power outages, no snowstorms, nothing to explain the baby boom we were witnessing. I was dressed in the largest clothes I owned — extra-large men's gray sweatpants and a flowing, multicolored flowered tunic — and yet, I still felt like a sausage crammed into its casing. I wore black wool clogs one size larger than usual to accommodate my swollen feet. My normally small frame was stretched to bursting.
I took my seat in the offered wheelchair, and a harried nurse wheeled me into a labor-delivery prep area. With hurried efficiency, she hooked me up to an external fetal heart-rate monitor.
"Your contractions are still five minutes apart, but there's no dilation yet. I'll let your doctor know you're here," she said, before rushing out of the room.
I had suffered a miscarriage a few months before this pregnancy, but that didn't diminish my hope for the birth of this child. Mike held my hand as another contraction hit. The nurse returned a few minutes later to inform us that Dr. Smith, my obstetrician, was out of town for a family emergency. His partner, Dr. Fletcher, would handle my delivery.
"I've called Dr. Fletcher and I'm waiting to hear back from her." The nurse smiled as she left the room, but that did nothing to lessen the fear gripping my stomach.
"I knew it!" I said to Mike, as a wave of uneasiness gripped me. The back of my throat constricted against the verbal and physical bile threatening to escape.
Twice during my pregnancy, Dr. Fletcher had examined me when Dr. Smith was unavailable. She had been reluctant to interact any more than absolutely necessary. During each of the two office visits, Dr. Fletcher had been unwilling to meet my gaze, her speech had been terse, and her manner impersonal. She seemed to lack even a shred of empathy, and any details I provided about my pregnancy challenges were disregarded. I couldn't understand why she had chosen to bring babies into the world.
After my second exam by Dr. Fletcher, I called my mom.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hey! How are you feeling?"
"I just came back from the obstetrician, and I saw Dr. Smith's partner. She is the most unfeeling, heartless doctor I have ever met. I just know I am going to have her when it's time for my baby to come."
"That's ridiculous, Joanne. Your doctor will be there to deliver your baby. But I still don't understand why you're insisting on a natural childbirth with all the birthing problems in our family. Why can't you just have a C-section and not go through all that?" (My mom warned me throughout my pregnancy: "Most females in our family don't fully dilate. You need to ask for a C-section.")
"They aren't going to just give me a C-section, Mom! I'm in good shape. I'll be strong enough to do this. I told my doctor about our family history, so he is prepared to do a C-section if I need one. I can do this. Plus, I've been told natural childbirth is better for the baby."
"Oh, brother! Bev and Patty were pulled out with forceps, and you and Dave were C-sections. All four of you turned out fine!"
Somehow this wasn't comforting. Forceps grasping and extracting my child from my body was not a birthing method I wanted to partake in. I had been in peak condition as a body builder and runner for more than twenty years. I was disciplined and had the stamina to endure extreme physical demands. Why would childbirth be any different? Besides, we were praying and had a host of friends praying too.
My mom didn't relent. "People are nuts telling you all this stuff, Joanne. Don't you remember the trouble Patty had with her kids? She labored forever with Jill and then ripped from stem to stern when the baby crowned. She had to have a C-section with Brian."
"It'll be all right, Mom. I'm not tiny like Patty. I am big-boned, sturdy Miles stock. Patty is married to six-foot-four-inch Mark, and her babies were bound to be big. As long as I don't get Dr. Fletcher, everything will work out."
"Well, have Mike call me the minute the baby is born, and I'll be on the next flight. I'm not coming out until he is born."
"Okay. I wish you would come earlier, but I get it. Do what works for you, and I'll see you when he's here," I said and hung up.
It was disconcerting that my mom refused to come until after our son was born. Was it because she didn't want to witness any struggles I might have? The conversation unsettled me. I shoved doubt away like overcooked broccoli because I was a glass-half-full person. The misgivings Mom expressed about my ability to give birth got under my skin. Usually upbeat and positive, she was adamant that her daughters would struggle in childbirth.
To shake the dark feeling, I gave myself a pep talk and dismissed my mother's concerns. I put the conversation firmly out of my mind and concentrated on the task ahead. I would beat the odds. I would be the first in my family to have a baby naturally without incident.
The nurse returned a few minutes later to tell us Dr. Fletcher had called and was sending us home because my labor hadn't advanced. The confused look on Mike's face mirrored my own.
"Are you sure?" Desperation tinged my voice. "I'm in a lot of pain, and my contractions are five minutes apart. I can't go home." If begging would help, I'd do it.
The nurse began to unhook the monitor. "I would let you stay if I had the authority, Mrs. Moody, but there's nothing we can do until Dr. Fletcher formally admits you. Don't worry, this happens a lot." She gave us a reassuring smile and left the room.
Throughout my pregnancy, I was persistent in telling my doctor how necessary it was for him to be there for the birth of my baby. I never explained how much I disliked his partner — confrontation is not my strong suit. I didn't want to insult his choice of colleagues but tried to gain his commitment that there would be no possibility Dr. Fletcher would be in charge of my delivery. Each time I brought it up, Dr. Smith gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and assured me he would be the attending physician. What irony to be in the very situation I had desperately sought to avoid!
Mike helped me to the car, and we drove home. I headed to bed in total agony that lasted for the rest of the day. Mike called the hospital early that evening, but a nurse said we shouldn't return until the contractions were three minutes apart. My contractions intensified, but they weren't consistent. What is going on? This isn't how it's supposed to go! My heart raced, and I couldn't find any rhythm to my labor. We had learned the rhythm of labor in our birthing classes, and mine was all wrong. Finally, Mike drove me back to the hospital and demanded they admit me. It was 11:45 p.m.
The chaos of the overflowing obstetrics wing had only increased. The cries of laboring women echoed down the hallway while the pandemonium of my own labor pain matched the atmosphere around me. The night nurse came to check the Doppler fetal monitor and to give me an injection of Nubain, a synthetic analgesic that helps take the edge off labor pains. I am allergic to some narcotics — and highly sensitive to most — but the nurse assured me that Nubain would not make me nauseous.
I gasped as another set of contractions forced me upright. The monitor indicated the contractions were peaking, but I still had not dilated. I shouldn't have been surprised because of the lack of dilation in our family history, but I simply couldn't accept that things weren't progressing normally. It made no sense to me that an athlete like me couldn't manage childbirth. I recalled my petite couch-potato friends who gave birth to ten-pound babies with one-hour labors. Since I had always been able to challenge my body to do what others say is impossible, I was sure I would dilate soon.
CHAPTER 2
Muscle and Music
I ran and ran and ran every day, and I acquired this sense of determination, this sense of spirit that I would never, never give up, no matter what else happened.
— Wilma Rudolph, Olympic gold medal winner
Come on, you guys! Keep up the pace!" I turned, panting, to my friends who were trailing thirty yards behind me. It was six o'clock, and the morning sun was just rising over the top of the Pali Highway. Our small group of runners was trying to make it to the other side of Kailua before stop-start morning traffic took to the streets. "At this rate we won't make it back in time for dinner." I laughed as Rox glared at me from behind.
It was Christmas Day 1993. I had just started a new holiday tradition of running across the island of Oahu via the Pali Highway from Kailua to downtown Honolulu, a daunting sixteen miles. In the best shape of my life, I had convinced four of my friends to join me on the run. In honor of the day, I had persuaded them to wear red long underwear with "Merry Fitness" embroidered across the rear. We completed our holiday running ensembles with oversized Santa hats and blinking battery-operated lights strung around our necks. With my family living on the mainland, I had nothing better to do that day.
Standing in my front yard earlier that morning, we kicked off our inaugural holiday run with the singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner." I'm sure my neighbors loved it. At 5:15, in the predawn darkness, we set out at an easy pace.
In an extraordinary display of planning, two other friends, Rocky and Ian, drove a red pickup truck to bring us water at designated points along the way. I had included an incentive package in the invitation to participate in the morning's festivities — a huge Christmas dinner when we finished. Bonded by friendship and without family for the holidays, we ran with determination to push our bodies to the limit.
Most of us were musicians, and the music that blared from the water truck that followed us kept us focused and motivated. Unfortunately, Rocky and Ian quickly tired of our slow pace and decided to find a convenience store and grab some snacks while we continued running.
Without our motivational music we struggled to keep our groove, going up the Pali Highway proved more challenging than we had anticipated. The long, steep grade up the Ko'olau Cliffs on the windward side of Oahu savagely tested our resolve and our stamina. The more cautious ones of our group drifted to the rear. The two narrow tunnels we had to run through at the top of the grade forced us against the walls whenever a car came through. Spotting our battery-powered lights, the few drivers on the road that Christmas morning slowed down to honk their car horns, roll down their windows, and cheer us on.
"I can't believe you talked us into doing this, Jo," Rory gasped. "Count me in for next year!"
"After this, we can spend the rest of the day lying around eating. What's better than that?" I panted. I always had my eye on the reward beyond the effort — it was the way I looked at everything in my life at that time.
We had been running for about eleven miles when Rox piped up from the back of the pack, "This Santa's elf is tired! When the truck comes back I'm quitting!" Her words came out between wheezes.
"No!" we all shouted. "You can't quit, it's only five more miles."
"Five more miles? I'll be dead by then! Who has an oxygen tank?"
"Here comes the truck!" Gail shouted as Rocky and Ian pulled up alongside us. I noticed bags of pork rinds and Funyuns on the front seat, evidence of why they were driving the truck and not running with us. Dan, the guy Rox was dating, kept pace with her and handed her a bottle of water. She sat on the sidewalk and stretched while we tried to convince her to continue.
"Come on, Rox, you can't quit. We'll slow the pace down," I said.
"Yeah, Rox," Rory said. "We all started it, so we all gotta finish it."
Rox wasn't buying any of it, but she sucked it up and kept moving.
The truck pulled away, and we started running again. I was glad to be rid of the smell of pork rinds. Our pace now slowed to an agonizing crawl, but it allowed us to laugh and talk. With sixteen miles behind us, Waterfront Park finally came into view. Rocky and Ian were waiting for us. Whooping with joy as we jogged in, we felt like we deserved our own ticker tape parade. Instead, two sleepy security guards, counting on a quiet holiday, ignored our celebration.
"We did it!" I shrieked just as Rory poured a bottle of ice water over my head. After water fights, pictures, and videos, we climbed into the back of the truck for the drive back to Kailua. Parking the truck a few blocks from my house, we made a beeline for Kailua Beach where we jumped into the ocean fully clothed. This was the celebration of the life I lived daily — a spectacular day; one of many I took for granted.
In Hawaii, strangers can become friends quickly while friends become family. Good friends sometimes moved away, but I had Gail, Cindy, Rory, and Rox in my life for more than ten years. These guys were always ready for an adventure. Before I sold my house, Rory and Rox both rented rooms there. A weekly household tradition was our Sunday-morning mini triathlon. No matter how late our music gigs ended the night before, the three of us would hoof it to the beach at sunrise where we swam, ran, and rollerbladed for three hours or more. We were steel.
Loads of people think they want to live in Hawaii. Many come and fewer stay. It's a revolving door — a kaleidoscope of characters trying to find a way to live the dream. The cost of island life is so high that it is difficult for many people to make it work.
To maintain the quality of life I desired, I balanced three high-powered careers — professional musician, exercise therapist/ personal trainer, and radio personality. Each had an intensity that matched my athletic training, and each involved people. Always in the public eye, I was making a wonderful living in a gorgeous place doing exactly what I wanted to do.
I loved my life.
CHAPTER 3
The Art of Confession
If we only have the will to walk, then God is pleased with our stumbles.
— C. S. Lewis
I was raised in a Catholic home. Throughout my life, I believed God was real. I never doubted He was the Creator of the universe. Although I believed Jesus was the Son of God, I had never been introduced to Him as my personal Savior. I only heard about the Holy Spirit when we recited the Profession of Faith each week at church.
My family attended Sunday Mass regularly until I turned thirteen, the year I began to question why I had to go to confession. Equally troubling to me were the assigned prayers I had to recite as penance for my infractions. I asked my parents why we had to sit in a confessional box to tell a priest our sins. I asked the same question of the nuns and brothers teaching us catechism. I set about to get an answer from Sister Mary Agnes during preparation for my Catholic confirmation.
"Excuse me, Sister. Can I ask a question?"
Sister Mary Agnes peered at me above her half glasses while she used another bobby pin to secure Carolyn's confirmation headpiece. "If it is about the name you have been assigned for your confirmation — no."
I moved closer, hoping proximity would give me the answer I wanted.
"It isn't about that. I am wondering why I can't just tell God my sins and ask Him to forgive me, instead of going to the priest in the confessional every week."
Sister Agnes replied with finality: "Joanne, only those with perfect contrition may seek the forgiveness of God outside of the Sacrament of Confession. That is certainly not the case with you. The only way to have our grave sins forgiven is through the admission of sin to the priest. He will proclaim you free from sin and assign penance through our Lord Jesus Christ."
I sighed without remark. I'd heard this before, and I knew that my bullheadedness was about to get me into trouble.
As was traditional in my family, we attended midnight mass each Christmas Eve. We all endured the late-evening service in order to come home for soup and gain permission to open one gift. Church attendance was a form of bribery. My mom always insisted we had to get there at least two hours early to get a good spot.
One Christmas Eve we streamed out our front door at ten o'clock to secure six seats together at our church in southern Prince George's County, Maryland, a suburb of Washington DC. After surveying the growing sea of humanity, we found an almost-empty pew on the right side of the large cathedral-style church. After the crowd settled in, the service went along as usual until it was time for confession.
Along the sides of the church closest to the altar stood two red-draped confessional boxes flanking a center box in which the priest assigned to hear confessions sat. Inside the confessional and behind the closed curtain, the penitent would kneel. A small screen, about a foot in diameter, would slide open, and the priest sitting on the other side would wait to hear the prescribed words: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it has been [the place and time frame] since my last confession."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Minute by Minute"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Joanne Moody.
Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Foreword xi
Chapter 1 The Birth of More than a Baby 1
Chapter 2 Muscle and Music 7
Chapter 3 The Art of Confession 11
Chapter 4 Highway Jesus 17
Chapter 5 What Love Does 24
Chapter 6 The Delivery 33
Chapter 7 Life Is Different Now 39
Chapter 8 Dr. West and the Insurance Mess 45
Chapter 9 God Speaks 54
Chapter 10 Mystery Solved 61
Chapter 11 The Journey to France 74
Chapter 12 Air to Ground 85
Chapter 13 Coffee to Go 100
Chapter 14 Check-in Night 108
Chapter 15 Death to Life 116
Chapter 16 A New Torture 128
Chapter 17 For the Third Time 138
Chapter 18 Home Sweet Home 150
Chapter 19 It Takes a Village 161
Chapter 20 Shop 'Til You Drop 170
Chapter 21 The Power of Surrender 179
Chapter 22 Adversity and Discovery 194
Chapter 23 Fire of God 203
Afterword 223
Acknowledgments 235
About the Author 237
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