Known
Amber and Elizabeth - photo by Amber Johnson
“I could never, no never, forget you. Can’t you see?
I have carved your name on the palms of my hands.”
Isaiah 49:15
Wednesday, February 21, 2018, started like any other day.
My alarm went off way too early. I brewed a cup of green tea, sat down at my desk, and mentally reviewed the tasks before me:
Teach online classes to Chinese students from 3 a.m. to 7 a.m.
Get out for a quick run.
Drive Andrew to school.
Care for Charis, Wyatt, and Liam.
Take a nap.
Pick up Andrew from school…
I applied mascara to my sleepy eyes, attempting to conceal my fatigue. I yawned and turned on my phone. A message from my mom popped up immediately.
Hi, Liz. Please pray. Amber is in surgery. She collapsed. It’s her brain. Doctors are delivering her baby…
Adrenaline surged through my body, and all traces of fatigue left me instantly. I checked the time—2:50 a.m. I had five minutes before I needed to log in to my classes. I dialed my mom. The phone directed me to voicemail, but almost immediately, another text message arrived.
I can’t talk right now. Baby is fine.
Amber?? I wondered.
Once again, my phone screen lit up.
Amber is in critical condition. Doctors are doing what they can.
She’s going to be fine, Mom.
No reply.
Fear gripped my heart. What is going on? I thought.
And so began the day. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I sat at my desk, teaching my morning classes while texting my sisters, brother, mom, dad—anyone who might have more details. Nobody knew much, but they shared whatever information they received. Slowly, I pieced it together.
The night before, my youngest sister, Amber, had complained of a severe headache. She was 42 weeks pregnant and restlessly paced their home all night long. Early that morning, she collapsed to the floor. Her husband, Adam, immediately called an ambulance. The medics arrived in record time and rushed her to Lynchburg General Hospital. A CAT scan revealed a brain hemorrhage. Amber’s condition required immediate attention, but the baby needed to be delivered first. The doctors performed an emergency C-section, then surgeons began operating on Amber’s brain. She declined rapidly, and further operations ceased until she stabilized.
Then the waiting game began.
Wednesday dragged into Thursday.
Amber required another brain operation, but the surgeons at Lynchburg General Hospital advised transferring her to more experienced specialists at UVA Hospital in Richmond, VA. However, Amber’s condition was so fragile that the doctors feared moving her. So, they waited for her to stabilize. We all waited.
Thursday rolled into Friday.
The family discussed the best course of action. Should they transport Amber to UVA for surgery, risking her life in the process, or should they go ahead with surgery at Lynchburg, entrusting her to a less experienced neurosurgeon? The decision had to be made by noon. I waited for the update.
Noon came and went, but there was no news. As I waited, a knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. I waited some more. I situated my kids for nap time and positioned myself in my office. A mound of laundry surrounded me, and I sat on the floor, folding clothes. At least my hands had something to do. Finally, I received a phone call from my brother.
“They’re keeping her here,” Seth’s normally controlled voice sounded strained. “Amber should be going to UVA for that operation, and they’re keeping her here! She’s going into surgery right now,” my brother’s voice rose in anger. “I don’t agree with the family’s decision,” he confided. “Amber needs the best surgeons…” His voice trailed off. We exchanged quick goodbyes, and then he hung up.
I started shaking uncontrollably. “O God, O God, O God…” My breath came in short gasps. I desired to talk to someone immediately, so I called my husband. No answer. I dialed a dear friend. No answer. I dialed my husband again. Still no answer. Where is everyone when I need them!? I felt like screaming, but I kept my mouth shut. If I woke my three young children from their naps, I knew I’d be increasing my afternoon challenges!
Then I called my church. Let me preface this by saying I’d never called my church before. The church I attended at the time was quite large, and I wasn’t on a first-name basis with the pastor. Still, I felt prompted to make the call. The phone rang, and a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked.
Finally—someone I could talk to!
“May I speak with the pastor?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “The pastor is not here today, but I can get the assistant pastor. Would you hold for just a minute?”
“Yes,” I answered. My waiting game wasn’t over. Several minutes later, the woman returned.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry, but the assistant pastor just stepped out for lunch.” I couldn’t believe my luck. The one time I called my church, the pastor and assistant pastor were both unavailable? Unbelievable. My chest constricted with anxiety, and I could barely breathe. The woman on the other end seemed to sense my desperation.
“Ma’am,” she said, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “My sister is in emergency surgery right now! I need… I need…” I stumbled over my words, trying to figure out exactly what I needed.
“Would you like me to pray with you?” the woman suggested.
“Okay,” the tightness in my chest lifted slightly. “My name is Elizabeth. Remind me, who are you?”
“This is Amber,” the woman on the phone replied. “Amber Ray.” The woman then prayed with me. I don’t remember what she said, but as I hung up the phone, my trembling stopped. I felt as though something monumental had just occurred, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. I replayed our conversation in my mind.
I started from the beginning—feeling alone, afraid, forgotten. Wait, what was that woman’s name? I paused, thinking. Amber. Yes, that’s it. But there was more… I paused again. Then it hit me. Oh my. I sucked in my breath. That woman’s name was Amber Ray?!
My youngest sister’s name is Amber Rae.
At that moment, I heard God’s still, small voice. “Elizabeth,” He said, “The specialists aren’t available.Your husband isn’t available. Your friend isn’t available. The pastor and assistant pastor aren’t available. But I am available. I see you, and I see your sister. In fact, I know her by name—and I’ve got her in the palm of my hand.”
Surrounded by my mound of laundry, I sat on my office floor — stunned. Peace flooded my heart. I didn’t know what Amber’s exact outcome would be, but I felt reassured, knowing that God knew my dear sister by name. And at that very moment, He held Amber Rae in the palm of His hand.
Miraculously, Amber survived the surgery. I felt so helpless being so far away—so alone—yet that afternoon, God reminded me that He was so close.
We’ve just passed the seven-year anniversary of Amber’s “re-birth” day. The miracles surrounding that time are abundant. This story still astounds me. I recently read a Scripture that reminded me of that afternoon, and the account is so similar to my office moment:
Zion said, “My Lord has forgotten me—I’m all alone.”
God responds, “But how could a loving mother forget her nursing child and not deeply love the one she bore? Even if there is a mother who forgets her child, I could never, no never, forget you. Can’t you see? I have carved your name on the palms of my hands!” Isaiah 49:14-15 (TPT)
As March begins, maybe you feel alone, unseen or forgotten. But I want to encourage you with this: you are never truly alone. Even when everyone around you is unreachable, there is One whose presence never falters. He sees you. He holds you. He knows you.
Just as God knew Amber Rae by name, He knows you by name. Your name is carved on His hands and etched into His heart. He is always near. He has been holding us—holding you—even when we couldn’t see it.
So, if you are walking through a time of uncertainty, loss, or waiting—don’t give in to the loneliness. Lean into the truth that God’s love and presence are constant, steady, and unshakable. When the world seems quiet, He is louder than ever in the love He offers. And maybe, just maybe, in your waiting, you will encounter a peace that passes understanding—a stillness in your heart. Remember, He sees you, He holds you — and He knows your name.