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Published: 2004
Category: Spirituality
Baptism by Fire: The True Story of a Mother
Who Finds Faith During Her Daughter's Darkest Hour
by Heather Choate Davis
Heather Choate was baptized at a font at a Los Angeles church so
beautifully designed that it looked like a movie set. She went to
Sunday school. She was confirmed. And then she forgot about church
--- for two decades.
Career, marriage to the dashing Lon Davis, accomplishment: Heather
Choate Davis climbed the ladder of life, viewing her rise through
the prism of self. The birth of her son Graham brought her back
to church for a moment, but her next real encounter with religion
came when it was time to baptism her daughter Remy. Reluctantly,
she found herself telling the minister that she'd attend church
once a month.
Then Remy got sick. Her body was twitching, she was cold and unresponsive;
the Davises rushed her to the hospital. Diagnosis: a tumor in the
brain. A tumor pressing right against the brain stem of a 9-month-old
baby.
Heather Davis, an inveterate researcher, made sure her daughter
had the best doctors in Los Angeles. Then she went right to the
top of the chain of command --- she got right with God. Here's where,
if you are like Butler, you reach for the remote to change the channel.
And you murmur a silent prayer, "Dear Lord, save me from all
those who believe in You."
Why does Butler feel that way? Because "God" has become
a political football in America, the First Friend of right-wing
Republicans and others who seem to spew more hate than love.
Well, here's a newsflash: Heather Choate Davis is not one of those.
Just the opposite. As she says:
Now, god, as a rule, is spelled with a capital G, but not by me.
Not when it's coupled with "damn it," which, by the time
I could drive, was the only way I used it. As an adult --- if pressed
--- I would describe god as something along the lines of "ultimate
goodness, loving and light," but it wasn't attached to any
"him," nor did it have any sons. I distrusted religion,
both organized and otherwise. I owned up to no relationship with
any higher power. I did not kneel or turn things over to "him,"
yet despite all this, I knew. Deep in the heart of wherever these
certainties lie, I knew: god was the truth. I knew it, yet I neither
sought it out nor embraced it --- no, any possibility of that had
been destroyed by the rabid demagogues who called themselves "Christian."
But, as I stood over Remy's crib at midnight, I couldn't say ---
nor did I much care --- what other people believed or how they behaved.
I just knew that there was nowhere else to go with pain and doubt
this deep. So I clasped my hands and bowed my head and asked god
to keep my beautiful daughter safe and cool through the night, to
keep me coping and Lon strong and Graham resilient. And I hoped
against hope that my tenuous little lower-case g would somehow be
enough.
Reading Heather Davis, you start to get the feeling that God couldn't
let Remy die --- He wouldn't want to have to deal with Heather Davis
ever after. Because Heather's belief is that pure. She has examined
the issue, thought long and hard, and then, in a catalytic and life-changing
moment, decided to bet all her chips on God. Just like that. A complete
convert. And not shy about it.
One more passage from this book, from a meeting between Heather
and the surgeon
who will operate on Remy:
I studied Dr. Peacock's hands. Then I heard words coming from my
own mouth. "God has given you beautiful hands to save the babies
with." Dr. Peacock didn't bat an eye. "And that is who
deserves all the credit. He is the one that guides me. In fact,
if you want to help, that's what you can do. I need your prayers.
Lots of them." His tone was utterly devoid of drama, yet they
were the most galvanizing words I'd ever heard.
That night I began to pray. Not just moments of passing thought
couched in the notion of Ohgodohgodohgod, but specifically and with
intention. I had no idea what I was doing but felt certain that
a sincere effort was all that was required. I sat quietly and undisturbed.
My concentration was sporadic, my attention span childlike. But
it was a start.
All the next day, I thought about Dr. Peacock and his request. By
dinnertime I was at the computer composing a letter. I thanked people
for all they had done so far and all they might be called on to
do in the future. But most of all I asked for their prayers, for
Remy and for Dr. Peacock and for us as we awaited the surgery. That
night I mailed the letter to twenty-five friends and relatives around
the country. The next morning I printed and mailed another thirty.
The letter was full of intimacy and pain, humility and hope, yet
there were
only two words that left my fingers on a dare; two words that struck
me as a coming out. "God bless," I wrote in closing. And
then I signed off.
For all his hard-earned sophistication, Butler is an unabashed
fan of books in which the worldly lose their cynicism, the pure
in heart are heard, and the good don't lose. Don't wait until Bad
Luck strikes you to pick up this book; you'll be too needy, to inclined
to embrace any answer. No, if you can, read it when all's right
with your world, when a child in the hospital is unthinkable.
To order "Baptism by Fire" from Amazon.com, click
here.