On the morning of the 28th, Maria set off by train from Madrid to Seville. I live in Málaga and, as we usually do, we’d been messaging each other, as we do with my other daughter. I knew she was on the train and was waiting to receive that message from her telling me she’d arrived well at her destination.

During one of my breaks at work, I realised I still hadn’t received her message. I had a sinking feeling, a sense of unease that’s hard to explain. I messaged her, but I didn’t know that, in the meantime, my daughter was going through one of the most terrible experiences a human being can endure.

Shortly afterwards, I received the news that would change our lives. A terrible train crash had occurred.

The AVE train on which María was travelling, in carriage number 8, had collided with another Iryo train and plunged down an embankment. And my daughter was there. Maria never lost consciousness.

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What I am now learning, through her own accounts, sends shivers down my spine. My daughter was trapped in circumstances that make it even harder to understand how she managed to survive. There were other carriages on top of hers. The chances of locating her were slim. They couldn’t see her, nor could they hear her. Meanwhile, she was there, conscious, going through moments of sheer agony. She tells me she had panic attacks, that she felt she was dying, that she thought she would never see us again. There was someone beneath her and she even felt as though she was stepping on them. That gave her a horrible feeling.

My daughter was trapped, not knowing if anyone would find her

She was trapped, not knowing if anyone would manage to find her. And then something happened which, when Maria tells me about it, I find it impossible not to view through the lens of my faith. Despite the panic, there were moments when she managed to stay still. She found a sense of calm and strength that even she herself cannot explain. Suddenly, she found the strength to shout.

And someone heard her.

It was a firefighter who managed to hear her from a distance. He said a few words to her that Maria remembers.

“You’re in a really bad way, but we’re going to try and get you out of there. Be patient”.

Time kept passing; and she felt as though she were dying. And, in a supernatural way, she managed to shout again: ‘Help, I’m dying!’ Finally, four firefighters managed to rescue her.

Through my faith, I see the hand of God. I feel that the Holy Spirit was sustaining her and guiding her even when she wasn’t aware of it. That God was there, in that place where no one could see her, where it seemed impossible to find her, where darkness and fear might have overcome her. Perhaps Maria cannot yet understand it all, but I can tell you how I feel. And when I think that she was trapped, that there had been carriages on top of her, that they couldn’t locate her, and that a single scream was enough for someone to hear her, I see a miracle once again. The accident had happened at around nine o’clock in the morning and, at about a quarter past eleven, I received the news that they had found Maria.

I cannot explain what I felt at that moment. She had lost a great deal of blood, her injuries were very serious, and she needed urgent surgery. But she was alive. And from that very first moment, I began to see the hand of GOD. I saw it in the fact that they found her, that they were able to hear her, that those firefighters never gave up trying, that they managed to get her out of there, and that she was placed in the hands of the professionals who were going to fight for her life.

I don’t mean to say that it’s all been easy. It has been devastating.

I have felt fear, anguish, helplessness and a pain that only a mother can begin to explain. I clung to that word as never before. It wasn’t simply a verse I was recalling. It became my prayer, my cry, my way of clinging to GOD when I had absolutely no control over what was happening. I would say to Him:

“Lord, lift Maria up. I ask You to take her hand. To hold her, to protect her, to carry her through. I believe there is still a purpose for her life". I didn’t know how it would happen, or how long it would take, or what lay ahead for us. But I chose to believe. And whilst the doctors worked, I clung to the promise that GOD was still in control.

The invisible wounds

The miracle also involves wounds that cannot be seen. María has spent days in the ICU, sedated, undergoing surgery and fighting for her life. She has had to get through some very critical moments and still has a long physical recovery ahead of her.

But there is another part of this story that now worries me and moves me deeply: her emotional wounds. María was conscious during the accident. She experienced it first-hand and now she also has to face the memories and the consequences of what happened. She has insisted on knowing the truth about what took place. She wanted to know, she asked questions and she needed answers. And finally, she had to face some terrible news: learning that her travelling companion had died.

As a mother, I would have wanted to protect her from that pain. I would have wanted to spare her that second emotional blow. But I realised that she, too, needed to know the truth and begin to process what she had been through. Now there are some particularly difficult nights. Maria remembers, feels afraid and asks me to pray for her.

And I pray. I pray for her bones, for her injuries, for her recovery, but also for her mind, for her memories, for her heart and for her nights. Because I have come to understand that there are wounds that do not show up on any X-ray and that they, too, need healing.

I want Maria to feel safe again, to be able to sleep peacefully, and for her memories not to take her back, time and time again, to those moments of anguish. And through it all, I keep asking the LORD to take her by the hand.

Something about Maria that moves me deeply

There is something she is giving me these days that I cherish deep within my heart.

Maria acknowledges that she has experienced a miracle. She herself gives thanks to GOD and speaks to Him. It moves me to hear her because, in her own humility, she tells Him that she does not know what GOD has seen in her, that she does not know why He has protected her in this way, that she feels she does not deserve it.

And when I listen to her, I think of the greatness of GOD’s grace. My child, you do not have to deserve His love. You do not have to understand everything. You do not have to find an explanation right now. And there is something precious about seeing her seek God precisely now, in the midst of everything she is going through.

Because I do not just want Maria to recover physically. I want her heart to find peace, her faith to grow, and for her to discover that, even in the darkest moments, she is not alone.

God has sustained me too

If there is one thing I have experienced over the last few days, it is that God has not only been sustaining María. He has sustained me too.

But time and again I have experienced a strength that did not come from me. And I have realised something… Faith does not mean not crying, not being afraid or not breaking down. Faith means that, even when you cry, you know who to turn to. I have felt GOD’s embrace through so many people. People who have prayed from Spain, Switzerland, Argentina, Mexico, Germany, the Netherlands, California, London and so many other places. Entire churches have joined together in prayer. People who know María and others who do not even know her personally.

When a mother can do nothing but wait by a hospital bed, knowing that there are so many people crying out to GOD for your daughter is something that sustains you deeply.

I have learnt that we are not alone. That prayer unites us, that faith sustains us, and that GOD can give us strength even when we think we have none left.

Maria was moved up to the ward yesterday, Monday afternoon. Today I can talk to her, I can hear her, I can interact with my daughter, see her asking questions, see her smile at times and, above all, see her determination to pull through.

Now I can sit beside her talking, and my heart can only say: thank you, Lord

It doesn’t mean it’s all over. There’s still a long way to go. A physical, emotional and psychological recovery that will take time, patience and a great deal of love. But how could I not give thanks? When I remember that morning, when I think of carriage number 8, of the impact, of how she became trapped, of those screams that managed to get her heard, of the four firefighters who rescued her, of the blood she lost, of the emergency operation and those first days in the ICU, and now that I can be by her side, talking to her and listening to her, my heart can only say… Thank you, Lord.

I don’t know why María survived and others did not. I have no explanation for the pain of the families who have lost their loved ones, and I would never presume to find a simple answer to such a tragedy. But I can bear witness to what I have experienced… to how GOD has sustained us, to how we have found strength, and to how we have received every small step forward as a gift.

I don’t know how long this process will last. I don’t know how many more tears remain to be shed, nor how many difficulties we will have to face. But I do know that I don’t want to let go of the LORD’s hand. I have clung to Him more than ever. And I still believe that María has a purpose. I don’t know what it is; I don’t presume to know GOD’s plans, but I believe her story does not end on that train.

I believe there is still life, dreams, experiences, people to love and a long way to go. And when I pray for her, I no longer ask simply that she should get up from a hospital bed. I pray that she may also rise above everything she has been through. That she may rise above her fear, her painful memories, her difficult nights and everything she now needs to heal from. That she may walk again, enjoy life again, and laugh again without fear. That her heart may find rest. And that one day she may look back without the pain being the only thing she remembers from that experience.

That is why I continue to cling to that word which has been with me from the very beginning… “And taking the girl by the hand, he said to her, ‘Talita cumi’; which, translated, means, ‘Little girl, I say to you, get up’” Mark 5:41.

Because I, too, need to get up every day, and because I want to keep seeing how María gets up, step by step, holding God’s hand. Talita Kumi, Maria. I say to you: get up. Get up from your wounds, your fears and your difficult nights. Your story doesn’t end here. And I, as your mum, will keep praying, believing and walking by your side.

And if there’s one thing I want to be remembered from this testimony, it’s this. I don’t want people to remember only the accident that nearly took my daughter’s life. I want people to know about the hope that has sustained us, the faith that has lifted us up, and the GOD to whom we continue to cling. To Him be all the glory.

Cristina García is the mother of Maria, a passenger on the AVE train involved in the accident on Wednesday 28 October, near Urda (Spain).