I believe in prayer. I believe in miracles. Not only because I choose to, not only because I am simpleminded. I believe in these things because I’ve seen them.

I have seen, firsthand, what happens when groups of people decide to align their intentions and pray. Stuff happens. Real stuff.

I have seen children with pediatric cancer come back from the edge. I have seen grown men dying of kidney disease unexpectedly make a turn for the better. I have seen people come out of comas. I’ve watched doctors scratch their heads when a 10-year-old boy with brain cancer suddenly, one morning (snap!) had no tumor at all.

My friend Morgan Love needs prayer.

Morgan is a beautiful young woman who has spent more of this year in the hospital than out of it.

Morgan is a sophomore in college. Her hair is Scot red. Her accent sounds like Locust Fork, Alabama. Her eyes are bright.

She used to be so healthy. Her face, full and animated. Her smile, vibrant. Her personality, cheerful and meek.

Loud people sometimes overlook Morgan because she’s so quiet, content to be outside of the stage lights. But most people find themselves drawn to her, they can’t explain why.

But after months of living on a feeding tube, after months of living in a mechanical hospital bed, her muscles have atrophied, her intestines have shut down, her body has become so frail she can’t walk. She spends ninety percent of her days sleeping.

What kills me is how fast it all happened.

Only a few months ago, Morgan and I were hiking through the mountains together. It was a bright, clear day. We marched through the woods. Morgan, clutching the straps of her backpack. Me, wheezing.

We stopped for a break so the middle-aged dork could catch his breath. We sat on a natural bench made of stone. I could see her feeding tube poking from beneath her shirttail. I could see the pulsing veins in her pale neck, throbbing with each heartbeat. The thin veil of sweat on her forehead.

We were silent, with nothing but the trees and birds for our musical accompaniment.

“People don’t know,” she said, staring off into the mountains.

“What don’t we know,” I said.

“People just don’t know what they have. This world. This life. It is all so wonderful. It’s all so beautiful and perfect.”

And I just looked at her. This child who knows so much more of life than I do.

“Being on life support changes you,” she said. “Do you know what you think about most when you know you’re going to die?”

I said nothing.

“You wish,” she said, “that you wouldn’t have turned down so many opportunities to be alive.”

Last night, they took her to Atlanta. The children’s hospital ER. Hopefully the doctors there can figure out what’s wrong. God knows nobody else can.

She texted me a picture of herself in the hospital. Her eyes are still just as bright and clear as they have ever been. Whereas mine are full of many rivers.

Please pray for my friend.