Not a kidney transplant story, yet. Soon we all hope.
By Sandra Baucom
I have lived in Concord, North Carolina, for many years, but some of the sweetest chapters of my life began the day Craig and his family moved in next door. My husband, Dennis, and I welcomed them to the neighborhood ten years ago, and before long, they were the ones who checked on us after storms and whose children felt free to run through our back door without knocking. Every summer, their kids splashed in our pool, their laughter drifting across the yard like music. We shared meals and stories, and kindness showed up in small ways, like Craig carrying our trash bins to the curb or his kids arriving with a plate of still-warm cookies they had helped bake. Those moments settled into the rhythm of our days the way sunlight settles into a familiar room.
For most of my life, my home was a place where people gathered. The house used to come alive on evenings when friends crowded around the table and the scent of supper lingered in the air. I remember sitting on cold metal bleachers, wrapped in a blanket, clapping until my hands stung because one of my grandkids had just scored. Showing up for my family became one of the joys of my life. Those were full days, and I treasured every bit of them.
Then everything changed.
In 2022, I learned I had stage 3 kidney failure. By the next year, it had progressed to stage 5. Strength thinned in small, steady ways. Some mornings, even brushing my hair felt heavier than it should have been. I noticed the change the day I had to pause halfway up the stairs, one hand gripping the railing while my breath caught behind me. During that season, I lost my longtime best friend. Dennis received a cancer diagnosis. Not long after, he spent nearly a month in the hospital with an illness no one could explain. There were mornings when I steadied myself on the edge of the bed before walking to his room, but I still made my way there. I sat in the same chair by his window, holding his hand while the monitors hummed around us. Now, by the grace of God, he is feeling much better, and he sits by my side with the same devotion. Our marriage has become a picture of what it means to serve one another in sickness and in health.
In August of 2024, I began peritoneal dialysis at home. I am grateful for the life it preserves, but the weariness settles deep. Some afternoons, my legs feel as heavy as wet towels, and even lifting a laundry basket seems like more than I can manage. There are mornings when my coffee grows cold on the table because I cannot quite gather myself to begin the day. I retired from my customer service job in May 2025 because my body could no longer keep up. Those who love me can see how much this disease has taken from me.
I have been on the transplant list for two years now. My days stay close to home, measured by how far I can safely go. I turn down trips I once would have taken without a second thought. The world feels smaller.
Through every trial, my faith has carried me. Each morning, I open the blinds and whisper a simple prayer for enough strength to meet the day. When discouragement creeps in, I hum the hymns my mother used to sing, letting the familiar words settle my heart. At night, Dennis and I pray together, our hands intertwined, asking for grace for whatever tomorrow brings. These small practices steady me more than any declaration ever could.
This past Christmas, something remarkable happened. Craig told me he sensed the Lord guiding him toward a choice he could not ignore. There was a calm assurance in his voice when he said he wanted to donate one of his kidneys to me. He believed it was a way to love his neighbor as himself. We cried together. Light seemed to fill the room the way dawn softens the edges of a long night. His wife hugged me tightly, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself imagine a future with more strength than struggle.
Two weeks later, the story shifted. Craig learned he was not a candidate to donate because of underlying health issues. The news settled into the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. The hope we had been holding loosened from my hands before I realized I was letting go. Even in that disappointment, I felt the Lord steadying me, reminding me that the story was not finished.
So, we pray. Every day, we pray for the kidney that has not yet come. Some nights, before I fall asleep, I picture myself walking through the neighborhood without stopping to rest, and that picture keeps me going. I keep a small basket by the door with thank you cards, ready for the day I can write one to the person who gives me this gift.
My insurance will cover all donor expenses, and Dennis and I are prepared to cover any additional costs. We long for the chance at renewed life. Hope continues to rise in ways.
If something in my story has touched you, I would love to talk with you. Hope often begins with a conversation, and sometimes a single yes can change everything.
~ Sandra Baucom (Facebook profile is hyperlinked if you’d like to reach out)
Update: She messaged me last night as I was putting this post together and said, “I just had to tell you that I just had a girl message me and wants to talk about being a donor. I am overwhelmed!“
