He could have been just another sandy-haired kindergartner with a cut lip. His doctors thought so. "Just a bad bruise from his fall on the basketball court," they said with a recommendation of ice and rest.

But his mother knew differently and pressed for more tests. Within the blink of 24 hours, Jake began the fight of his life against an infestation of flesh-eating bacteria which caused his face, head, and neck to swell. His body fought as hard as it could, but within 48 hours of his accident, his chances of survival were poor.

They could have been just another family with a sick child. "A private matter," some would say, in hushed tones meant to help preserve anonymity. But his school principal knew differently, calling for prayers of healing in the classrooms and the PTA meetings. Jake's mother sent messages through the principal and we all began to learn about high-powered antibiotics and hyperbaric chambers. We held our children tight in silent gratitude for healed bruises and mended scrapes.

He could have been just another statistic, a child struck down by one of the toughest infections known to medicine. Flesh-eating bacteria have killed men 3 times Jake's size, 5 times his weight. But we all knew better.

Or at least we prayed that way. For six long weeks we read the nearly daily emails from Jake's mother about his progress. To stay ahead of the infection, doctors removed skin and muscle and bone. We wept when Jake lost his eyelids to the infection, and rejoiced when the skin grafts to replace them held. What was just a child's wound became a family's wound, and that family grew from his father, mother, and two younger sisters, to an entire school, then an entire parish, until Jake's story touched not only an entire county, but people all over the world.

Fundraiser after fundraiser was planned, any thing to help. One pizza parlor announced that they would donate a day's proceeds to Jake's family. The demand was so great that by 5pm the manager was hunting the county for more ingredients. A nail shop offered proceeds from pedicures and manicures. The eighth grade rock band donated CDs of their songs for sale. Jake's entire school, dressed in orange and arranged in a heart shape, posed for an overhead photograph for his bedside.

But most of all we prayed and we prayed mightily, sometimes with tears, always with hope. Until finally, against all odds, Jake came home and even better, Jake came to school, face swathed in a bandage to protect his tender skin. A face that doctors weeks earlier had said would never resemble a child's face again, but today is nearly whole again.

We could have all looked away and tragedy would have been a passing moment for most of us. Instead, we turned to each other and to Jake’s family and all of us were blessed by healing and grace and, most of all, community. All because Jake isn't really just another little boy.