Doctor Responsible for Pope Leo’s First Miracle Breaks Silence After Saving Premature Baby With Prayer

On some nights, medicine feels infinite armed with machines, protocols, and the collective wisdom of centuries. On others, it runs into an unshakable wall, where no dosage, no procedure, no skill seems enough. In January 2007, inside a Rhode Island hospital, that wall rose swiftly: a premature baby with a heartbeat so faint it could vanish between breaths, and a doctor who had already exhausted every medical option.

What happened next would eventually ripple far beyond the hospital ward to the Vatican, to the history books, and into the papacy of Leo XIV, the first American to lead the Catholic Church. It began with a whisper, a plea to a priest who had been dead for more than a century, and it ended with a child’s life restored in ways science still cannot explain.

The Night That Changed Everything

January 14, 2007, was the kind of winter night when hospital corridors hum quietly, their fluorescent lights casting long shadows. But inside Memorial Hospital in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, the maternity ward was anything but still. A premature infant later identified as Tyquan Hall had just been delivered via emergency procedure after doctors detected an alarmingly weak heartbeat in the womb.

From the moment he arrived, the odds were stacked against him. His pulse was faint, his breathing shallow, and his body struggled to respond to neonatal resuscitation. For nearly an hour, a team of specialists cycled through every available intervention: ventilators, medications, and the full arsenal of neonatal recovery protocols. Nothing worked. At one point, his heart stopped altogether.

Dr. Juan Sánchez-Esteban, a Spanish-born neonatologist on duty that night, had seen critically ill infants before. But this case carried a sinking finality medicine, in all its precision and urgency, had reached its limits. In that moment, he did something unorthodox for a physician trained in evidence-based care: he stepped back from the machines and whispered a prayer.

The words were directed to Father Salvador Valera Parra, a 19th-century Spanish priest known for ministering to the sick: “Fr. Valera, I have done everything I can. Now it’s your turn.” The room’s focus remained on the monitors, the hands working over the tiny body. And then, against every expectation, the rhythm returned first tentative, then steady.

Within minutes, the boy was stabilized and transferred to Women & Infants Hospital in Providence. By the end of two weeks, he had made a complete recovery, showing no signs of brain injury despite prolonged oxygen deprivation, an outcome that seasoned medical staff quietly admitted was extraordinary. In the years that followed, Tyquan would grow into a healthy, active young man, his early brush with death remembered by those present as something far beyond medical explanation.

From Medical Anomaly to Recognized Miracle

In the medical charts, Tyquan Hall’s turnaround was recorded as an unexpected recovery. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, it became something far more profound. The Church defines a miracle, particularly in the context of canonization, as an event that is instantaneous, complete, and lasting, with no possible scientific explanation. By those standards, the 2007 Rhode Island case raised more than a few eyebrows.

The first formal steps began years later. In September 2014, Church officials from the Diocese of Providence opened an inquiry in collaboration with the Diocese of Almería in Spain, Father Salvador Valera Parra’s home region. For nearly two weeks, witnesses were interviewed, medical records reviewed, and expert testimony collected. By early 2015, the case had moved to the Vatican’s Dicastery for the Causes of Saints, where theologians and independent medical consultants examined the evidence.

The investigation found that Hall’s recovery met the three core criteria:

• Instantaneous: His heart and vital signs normalized within minutes after the prayer.
• Complete: Follow-up evaluations showed no neurological deficits or lingering illness.
• Lasting: Nearly two decades later, he continues to live a healthy, active life.

In June 2025, newly elected Pope Leo XIV formally declared the event his first recognized miracle as pontiff. The recognition was not just symbolic; it advanced Father Valera Parra’s cause for sainthood, moving him from “Venerable” toward beatification.

For many in the Church, the declaration was also a statement about the relevance of miracles today. Father Timothy Reilly of the Diocese of Providence called it “a reminder that miracles are not relics of the past” and noted the remarkable nature of the intercession: a Spanish priest who never set foot in the United States, invoked by a doctor halfway across the world, intervening in the life of a child in Rhode Island.

What began as a desperate moment in a hospital ward had now been enshrined in Church history as a bridge between faith and medicine, and a story destined to travel far beyond the walls where it began.

Pope Leo XIV: The First American Pope

When Cardinal Robert Prevost stepped onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica on May 8, 2025, the crowd in St. Peter’s Square erupted not only because a new pope had been chosen, but because history had been made. For the first time in the Catholic Church’s two-millennia history, the pontiff hailed from the United States. Taking the name Leo XIV, he also became only the second pope from the Western Hemisphere, after his predecessor Pope Francis of Argentina.

Born in 1955 on Chicago’s South Side to a school principal and a librarian, Robert Prevost’s early life was steeped in faith and education. He entered the Augustinian order as a young man, studying mathematics at Villanova University before earning a master’s in divinity. His path then led to Rome, where he completed advanced studies in canon law at the Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas.

While many clerics spend most of their careers in parishes or administrative offices, Prevost’s calling took him far afield. In the mid-1980s, he began missionary work in Peru, where he spent more than a decade training seminarians, serving as a parish priest, and guiding communities through political and social turbulence. His leadership eventually brought him to the helm of the entire Augustinian order, based in Rome, where he served two terms as prior general.

By the time Pope Francis elevated him to cardinal in 2023, Prevost had also been the bishop of Chiclayo, Peru, and prefect of the Vatican’s Dicastery for Bishops, a position that shaped episcopal appointments worldwide. Known for his conciliatory approach and balanced politics, he was widely seen as a bridge between progressive and traditional factions within the Church.

His choice of the name “Leo” carried symbolic weight. Leo XIII, the last pope to bear the name, was remembered for his diplomacy and his encyclical Rerum novarum, which addressed the social upheavals of the Industrial Revolution. Pope Leo XIV signaled a similar desire for unity, social justice, and engagement with the modern world—from artificial intelligence ethics to the plight of migrants.

The 19th-Century Priest at the Heart of the Miracle

Long before his name was whispered in a Rhode Island hospital room, Father Salvador Valera Parra had devoted his life to the sick and the poor of southern Spain. Born in 1816 in Huércal-Overa, in the province of Almería, Valera entered the priesthood at a time when poverty, disease, and political unrest were constant companions in rural communities. Parish accounts describe him as a tireless pastoral worker walking miles to reach the bedridden, bringing food to hungry families, and offering spiritual consolation to those abandoned by society.

He was not a figure of high ecclesiastical rank or political influence; instead, he built his reputation through daily acts of mercy. Known especially for ministering to the sick during outbreaks of disease, he often cared for those whom others avoided. In the eyes of his parishioners, Valera embodied the Gospel’s call to serve “the least of these,” living out a humility that persisted until his death in 1889.

The Catholic Church formally recognized his heroic virtue by naming him “Venerable Servant of God,” the first step toward sainthood. For beatification, the second step at least one miracle attributed to his intercession must be confirmed. In June 2025, that requirement was fulfilled when Pope Leo XIV declared Tyquan Hall’s survival a miracle linked to Valera’s prayerful intervention.

For Father Timothy Reilly of the Diocese of Providence, the significance lay not just in the recognition itself but in the improbable nature of the connection. “He never came to the U.S. Never came to Rhode Island,” Reilly remarked. “And yet… the doctor called out and called upon his name… he decided to intervene.”

With this recognition, Valera’s cause advances toward canonization, potentially making him a saint whose story spans centuries and continents from 19th-century Andalusia to modern-day New England. For the faithful, his life and legacy now stand as a reminder that compassion knows no borders, and that acts of service can ripple far beyond one’s own lifetime.

Reactions and Broader Implications

The Vatican’s recognition of the 2007 Rhode Island case as a miracle sparked celebration among many Catholics, particularly in the Diocese of Providence, where the event unfolded. Clergy there described it as a moment of spiritual encouragement a reminder that the extraordinary can still occur in a modern hospital ward. Reverend Timothy Reilly called the declaration “a blessing not just for Rhode Island, but for the Church,” emphasizing how the intercession of a priest from 19th-century Spain had unexpectedly touched lives across the Atlantic.

For Dr. Juan Sánchez-Esteban, the case’s spiritual dimension did not overshadow his professional obligations. In public statements, he avoided naming the patient due to privacy laws, but stressed the universality of care: “We remain committed to providing care grounded in compassion, excellence, and respect for every individual and their beliefs.” He also noted that the hospital welcomes patients of all faith backgrounds or none at all, underscoring that inclusivity remains central to its mission.

Beyond Church circles, reactions were more varied. Many people of faith saw the case as evidence that prayer retains a vital role alongside medicine. Others, including some Christian groups, voiced theological objections to invoking prayers to deceased priests, arguing that such intercession should be directed to God alone. Meanwhile, skeptics questioned whether the recovery was truly unexplainable, pointing to occasional instances in medicine where critically ill patients recover for reasons science does not yet understand.

A Legacy That Transcends Time

The survival of a fragile newborn in a Rhode Island hospital nearly two decades ago is now woven into the history of the Catholic Church. For believers, it stands as a testament to the mysterious interplay between prayer and healing. For the medical community, it is a humbling reminder that even the most advanced interventions cannot account for every recovery.

Pope Leo XIV’s decision to recognize the event as his first official miracle bridges two worlds often seen in tension, science and faith, by affirming that both can coexist in the shared goal of preserving life. It also shines a light on the quiet, steadfast work of those like Father Salvador Valera Parra, whose legacy of compassion continues to inspire well beyond his lifetime.

Whether one views this case as divine intervention or a medical marvel, its enduring power lies in what it represents: that hope can emerge even in the most desperate moments, and that human connection through care, prayer, or perseverance remains one of our greatest forces for survival.