Every February my mother pauses at key moments to remember with me what happened in 1990. Sometimes she has simply walked into my bedroom as close to 3:08 as she could catch to sit on the edge of my bed. Even when we’ve been on opposite sides of the world, she’s left voicemails. Because this story is important, precious.
Ya see, she went in to labor at 25 weeks. Though the doctors were able to hold it off until 28 weeks, 28 weeks still wasn’t a safe place for a baby girl, especially that long ago. Dark words were uttered in haste by a doctor attempting to prepare a first-time mother for what he thought was coming, but the Lord had other plans for her, for me. All three pounds and six ounces of me.
Lungs that had just developed under oddly translucent skin took their first breath long before morning’s first light on February 25th; and just like that, a heart continued to beat, partial to winter’s cold and early mornings.
It’s still beating, and so we remember. With a love that looks fear square in the eye and sends it back to where it came from, when the prognosis is bleak or the words are dark or the outcome is uncertain, a resolute hope takes deeper root, because we pause and we remember. Like Jacob at Bethel.
Neither of us are crazy about birthdays, we just don’t like the attention and fanfare; but what a day to pause and remember that if God can breathe life into death, then surely He has the rest under control!