God gives second chances: My liver failed, I was on death’s door, yet God found a way to save my life when I saw no way

Does God give second chances? Becca Hurt’s body went into liver failure after she dulled her pain, depression, and anxiety with alcohol. Doctors gave Becca eight weeks to live, yet God wasn’t done. He made a way where Becca didn’t see a way, saving her life.

If you enjoy Becca’s story, you can read faith stories like Becca —or learn how to write your own — in the book, “Faith Storytellers: Unleash the Power of Your Story.”

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Becca Hurt drank alcohol to drown her pain, depression, and anxiety, causing a health crisis when her liver failed, and doctors gave her eight weeks to live. God had something else planned. She’s pictured here with her Dorkie, Mason, who’s now in heaven.

By Becca Hurt

At 39, it looked like I had it all together — a successful career, friends who loved me, family who supported me, weekends filled with travel, laughter, and fun. But underneath it all, things had been building up for a long time.

The relationship I had poured myself into turned out to be deeply unhealthy. When it ended, it left me hollowed out and vulnerable in ways I didn’t fully understand. Shortly after, an unfulfilling job transition ended in job loss, and everything began to unravel quickly.

I was exhausted, lost, and silently battling anxiety and depression. I searched for comfort in unhealthy places, especially alcohol. It dulled the pain for a while, but inside, I was crumbling.

My body began sending desperate warnings: yellow-tinged eyes that stared back at me in the mirror, weakness so profound that even walking across a room became nearly impossible, the inability to eat more than a few bites, and a fatigue that no amount of rest could fix.

But I ignored them. I didn’t want to face the truth.

My liver was failing, and I prayed: ‘Let thy will be done’

I hit my breaking point in June 2024. I was at home, alone, and I couldn’t move. My body was wracked with relentless vomiting, and I was too weak to even get up off the floor. In desperation, I called my mom.

I told her I needed her to come get me, to take me home with her. I thought maybe a little rest and care — some comfort only a mother could give — might help me bounce back.

But once I got there, things only got worse. I curled up in her bed, trembling and in pain. It felt like my body was going to explode from the inside out. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t something I could just sleep off.

Becca’s liver was failing. In the hospital, doctors said she was close to death. On the edge of consciousness, Becca remembers a priest delivering last rites. She remembers praying: “Let thy will be done.”

After my mom and sister-in-law arrived, I watched, dazed, as they dialed 911. Everything after that felt slow and surreal. I was teetering on the edge of consciousness when I felt strong arms lift me carefully onto a stretcher. The world outside blurred as the ambulance moved down the street, sirens muted behind a thick fog.

I felt myself slipping. Just like in the movies, things began to fade to black, and for a moment, I thought: “Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the rest my body has been begging for.”

My liver was failing. The doctors believed there was nothing more they could do. They recommended placing me in hospice care. They didn’t tell me directly — I had no memory of any of it — but they relayed the news to my mom.

A priest came into the room to administer my last rites. He spoke gently, solemnly. And when he asked if I was ready, my response was simple: “I’m ready.”

I felt no fear. Just acceptance. I prayed: “Let Thy will be done.”

I had nothing left but a fragile whisper of hope in God.

I made it through that night. And then another night. And another — mostly in a drug-induced sleep. At some point, I awoke to a doctor standing at my bedside. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m sorry ...  you have about eight weeks to live.”

I cried.

I felt fear then — sharp and cold — but strangely, I also felt this was the culmination of everything that had brought me here. “Is this how it ends?” I thought.

And yet, behind the scenes, something unexpected was happening.

The same doctor who had looked me in the eye and told me I had about eight weeks to live hadn’t given up. Quietly, he was fighting for me. While others had accepted the inevitable, he was working to find a way.

The hospital didn’t have the resources to save me, but he transferred me to another facility. A hospital with nearly no availability. A place where, miraculously, I still had a chance.

I was trapped in physical agony and spiritual warfare, but deep down, I clung to one truth: If God wanted me home, he would take me. If not, he would make a way.

And so, I surrendered. Completely. My life was no longer mine to manage or fix or fight for. And in that surrender, I found peace. I cried. I prayed. I asked God to either bring me home or bring me healing — but either way, I begged him to hold me close.

And he did.

A liver became available for a transplant after a priest gave Becca last rites. The medical staff at the hospital called it “rare,” but to Becca it was a miracle — and proof that God is a God of second chances.

God is a God of second chances

With renewed hope at the new hospital, I was unaware that my insurance company had denied the hospital’s request to place me on the transplant list. Insurance deemed it “medically unnecessary.” In other words, the world did not see me as fit enough to save.

But somehow — despite that — my doctors, my family, my friends, even strangers I’d never met continued to fight for me. They refused to let the system’s decision be the final word. While the paperwork said “no,” their faith, love, and persistence said, “Not yet.”

With just a couple of weeks left in that eight-week prognosis, something happened that no one could have predicted.

A liver became available.

My sister and I were in my hospital room when we got the news. I was barely conscious, drifting in and out of awareness. In the corner of the room, I saw a little girl in a white dress, with dark hair, whispering words of encouragement. She didn’t look at all afraid. Her presence was calm, peaceful.

To this day, I have no idea if she was real or imagined. Maybe an angel. Maybe a figment of my hope. But I remember her.

The medical staff called it “rare.” I call it miraculous.

I’m not sure why God saved my life while others he brings home to him, why God opened a door where there was no door. And yet, he did. He breathed life into a body that was fading fast. Suddenly, the conversations about hospice were replaced with preparation for a transplant. The impossible became possible.

I was overwhelmed. Awestruck. Grateful. Humbled.

The same girl who had once numbed herself with alcohol was now being healed — by God himself. Through science. Through doctors and nurses. Through friends and strangers. Through the relentless love of my family, who advocated for me every single day, who made phone calls, filled out paperwork, prayed without ceasing, and never gave up.

I knew then: I wasn’t being punished. I was being redeemed.

As I was being wheeled into surgery, I heard horns and bells ringing somewhere in the distance — sounds of celebration. It felt like a true homecoming. Not the end of a story, but the beginning of something new.

What I know now to be true about God — what I didn’t fully understand before — is this: God is not just a healer. He is a redeemer. He doesn’t just save lives. He restores souls.

I didn’t deserve a second chance. But God is a God of second chances. And this life I’ve been given again, it’s not just mine. It’s his. 

Becca Hurt lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and believes she is here for a reason after receiving a liver transplant after doctors said she’d only have eight weeks to live. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and finding God in the quiet and beautiful parts of life. Becca tries to live life purposely, share her hope with others, and reflect God’s goodness however she can.

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