As my husband, Doug, stood on the busy New York city street trying to stop a taxi, I tried to protect my daughter from the cold December wind and rain. I put my head down to kiss her tiny face.
Frustrated and 1, my husband gave up his attempt to flag down a taxi. I knew the feeling. Just after her first birthday, we 2that our daughter Katie had a rare brain illness. Since that moment, Doug and I felt like runners in a marathon race where the finish line kept disappearing. We knew Katie was running out of 3. It had taken months before we finally 4 a name for the illness, but only a few specialists in the world knew 5 to fix it. Now, as we finally found a brilliant doctor to save our girl, we were in a strange 6in the cold rain.
Just at the moment, a middle-aged woman pulled over and said, "Pardon me? May I offer you a ride?"
7 we could say anything, she continued, "It's really no trouble for8. Just get in."
It was then that I noticed her thick Irish accent，which9 me up like hot soup. We 10 said, "Thanks! Roosevelt Hospital, please," as we got in her car for the ride.
"Are you going 11 the baby?" she asked us.
I nodded my head, holding back my tears.
At the hospital, we 12 her a dozen times for the ride, as the woman hugged me. I noticed her face was wet with tears. She promised to pray for us before she left.
After three more visits to New York and two more 13surgeries，Katie is cured. But the 14of the Irish Angel still rang as a constant reminder of a tiny ray of light that appeared in our15days. We would pray for her just as she did for us.
