‘God is good.’

The last time I heard this phrase uttered aloud directly to me, my son was dying.

Today, as I sat in the emergency room of the hospital, where I was given a second chance at life almost ten years ago, I heard those words again.

They were said to me by a medical technician, in a Caribbean accent, as tears welled in her eyes. ‘God is good,’ she said, as the blood flowed from my tiny, fragile vein into the laboratory tube, and she continued, ‘he brought you to me for a reason.’

She had asked me if I was able to have children after my complicated medical history, as a friend of hers had recently been through something similar and was concerned about fertility challenges. I told her briefly of my beautiful angel who entered this Earth early and left it way, way too soon.

She described Heaven to me, as she knew it to be, her faith as strong as the hands that held me in that moment, and assured me that I would be with my son again, and our reunion would be more beautiful than anything I could imagine.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘God is good.’