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When my daughter Bailey was four years old, she was sick with a stomach bug, and I barely made it home in time to tuck her in. Although she didn’t feel well, I assume she felt that getting away from our nightly routine would only make her feel worse, leading her to ask for a bedtime story. I happily obliged, and as the Lord would have it, I had the perfect story from a sermon I’d been preparing earlier in the day. The text for Sunday’s message came from 1 John 3:16: “We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for others.”
Kneeling beside her bed, I began in a soft voice.
A little boy had a very rare blood disorder, and the only way he could survive would be to find another person with his exact blood type who would be willing to undergo a blood transfusion. (Of course, I brought this down to a level a child could relate to, and as you’ll see shortly, Bailey’s childlike understanding entailed far greater faith than my own.)
After an extensive search, the doctors weren’t able to identify the right candidate, and time was quickly running out. As a last resort, one of the physicians made the uncomfortable suggestion that they test the boy’s younger sister to see if she might qualify as a donor. The procedure would be risky and could endanger her life, but there were simply no remaining options. After running a series of tests, it was determined she was, in fact, a perfect match. Unsure how to proceed, the parents decided to share all the details with their daughter and allow her to make the final decision. As it turned out, she agreed.
The following day, they went through with the transfusion, and I’m happy to say it was a complete success. When the head physician went back to recovery to check on the girl and congratulate her for saving her brother’s life, he was taken aback to find her crying.
When asked why, her only reply was, “When do I die?” her lip quivering.
Unsure what she meant, the doctor repeated his question: “Why are you so upset?”
Her reply was the same, and that’s when the realization sunk in.
All along, she thought that giving her blood so her brother could live meant she would have to die. And yet she did it anyway.
I went on to tie that little girl’s brave deed of sacrificial love back to what Jesus did on the cross, explaining how we were sick and how He had to take our sickness so that we could be healed.
That’s when the top Daddy-daughter connection took place between the two of us over the course of our 27-year relationship. I can only describe it like this: We were locked in—locked into the moment, locked into each other, and locked into the Holy Spirit. We simply were, and it was no less real than the densest matter.
I was overly emotional. Why exactly, I still don’t know—maybe I had overly complicated the sheer simplicity of the Gospel message for far too long. Shame on me for placing theological astuteness above childlike wonderment.
Whatever the reason, what I do know is this: I can still see her pursed lips, her slight grin, and her wholehearted belief in what I said next.
“Bailey, do you know I love you so much I would be willing to die for you? Do you believe that?”
Unquestionably, she did; her eyes said as much. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Bailey, do you know Jesus loved you so much He did die for you? Do you believe that?”
Her reply was the same, and I promise she 100 percent meant it—I’m certain of it because her eyes said as much.
I led us in a short prayer and must confess I didn’t expect the Great Physician to answer it.
“Dear Lord, if it be Your will, please let me be sick instead of Bailey so she can feel better. Amen.”
Later, I didn’t recall much about that mini-sermon preached at my daughter’s bedside. Evidently, she did.
A few months later, I became ill with the flu and was quarantined to my bedroom—a necessary precaution in the days preceding Tamiflu’s release. Bailey kept insisting to her mother that she had to thank me for something; it would make me feel better, she promised.
Jill eventually relented, as did I—a gesture more for Bailey’s sake than mine, considering how horrible I felt. We allowed her to stand just inside the door of our bedroom, but no closer.
“Daddy, Jesus answered your prayers, so thank you.”
The furthest thing from my mind was gratefulness, answered prayers, or anything else for that matter, except survival... but it did make me curious.
“Okay, Bailey, that is so sweet of you to say, but thank you for what?”
Hardly able to contain her excitement, she continued: “Jesus answered your prayers, and that’s why you’re sick, not me. Thank you, Daddy.”
A father’s bedside prayer to drive home a theological truth to his little girl is one thing. A little girl’s sincere willingness to die so that her brother might live is wholly another.
The Lamb of God who “came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,” and who “laid down His life for the sheep (Jn. 10:10–11)"—well, that is entirely another, and the most divine act of all.
