When a child is born, time seems to stand still—and yet somehow rush forward all at once. I remember the moment Kedric was placed in my arms, how his tiny body made me a mother with a single breath. We named him Kedric Oak, it means gift and it means brave. His first cries were fierce and determined. He nursed and gazed up at me with an intensity I’ll never forget. In that instant, I saw both the baby before me and the man he would one day become.

As the years passed, we started to see glimpses of who God had created Kedric to be. From the moment he could walk, he wandered out the front door, always trailed closely by our faithful Great Pyrenees, Timber. His first word was “love.” His second was “tractor.” Tools replaced toys. He learned to shoot as soon as his arms could pull back a bow. The woods called to him constantly. His thirst for adventure has never been quenched.

And I, his mama, kept trying to slow him down. “Not yet,” I’d whisper. “You’re still so young.” I wanted to hold tight to that baby in my memory, the one who had made me a mother.

That is, until his accident.

I’ve put off writing about it—because the pain was fresh, and the memories sharp. But I also know that writing brings healing. And tonight, I feel ready to try and share what the last few weeks have looked like. Not just so we can remember, but so we can learn, and even more—so we can embrace what God has done.

It happened quickly. Kedric ran in the door, screaming. Not the kind of scream you can brush off. I turned to my husband and said, “We need to go. Now.” I wrapped his hand in a towel, abandoned my tea and the sweet friend sitting across from me, and drove. My heart pounded as I prayed for guidance.

Then, clearly: “Turn right.”

I didn’t question it. We drove fast, toward the nearest emergency room. Kedric, pale but calm, asked why I was rushing. I could barely answer. My mind raced. My heart pleaded with God.

When we arrived, a familiar face—a friend and doctor—greeted us. Thank God he was there. It was bad. So bad, they transferred us to Rochester, over an hour and a half from home. My dad drove, Kedric sedated and asleep the whole way. He didn’t wake up until after his first surgery.

The days that followed were a blur. We were exhausted, crammed into a hospital room barely big enough for one. We clung to each other, to hope, and to the belief that maybe a miracle would still come. Maybe the bone would heal. Maybe the fingertip would regenerate. Maybe this story would have a clean ending.

But the doctors spoke in riddles. Bits and pieces. Whispers of “amputation.” I couldn’t comprehend. Not my whole, intact boy. Not the same baby I once held close to my chest. I kept repeating, “He’s only nine. He may look older, but he’s only nine.” And each time I said it, the doctors just looked at me with that quiet, sorrowful understanding.

So we asked for prayer. And you—our dear, steadfast community—you lifted us up. The outpouring of love was like a buzz of bees, constantly humming around us, building a hive of comfort and faith. We felt your prayers, your messages, your meals, your tears.

By the third surgery, we knew. The color of his finger had changed. It was time to grieve. The miracle we had prayed for didn’t come in the way we had expected. His finger would not be saved.

But here’s the truth: the miracle did come.

It came in the form of peace. It came in the resilience that bloomed in Kedric’s heart. It came in the faith that grew in mine. It came in the understanding that sometimes, God’s greatest work is done not through avoidance of hardship, but through walking with us through it.

Kedric has emerged stronger. Braver. More self-aware. And so have I. I’ve seen how deeply God has wired this boy for strength, for purpose, for adventure. He was made to be a world-changer. Every child is.

And we, as parents, have the incredible privilege—and responsibility—of helping them walk into that purpose. Not with fear, but with trust. With gratitude. With faith.

Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to everyone who carried us during this time. We felt you. We needed you. And we are so thankful to God for the healing He’s already begun.

There is so much ahead for Kedric. And now, more than ever, I believe this: he was born for bravery.