Nine Years

I remember when he was first born and the doctors didn’t know if he was going to survive. I remember when my eyes saw him for the very first time, and the sinking feeling in my heart when I realized he wasn’t crying…because he wasn’t breathing. I remember the controlled flurry of panic in the room as tubes were being pushed down his throat. His life mattered, and a team of people fought to keep that little one alive. Mostly I remember that while he was yet suffocating he looked at me, clutched my trembling finger in his hand and squeezed it with every last bit of might left in him.

He was telling me that he had a will to live, a desire to be born into this world, and he was fighting for that opportunity. With all my heart I’m grateful that he was granted that right to life. I’m thankful that he made the choice to fight, because the choice was his. Not mine, not the doctor’s, not my wife’s. It was his life and he made his stand.

Today he is a shining hope to me. He is a help to his mother, a teacher to his sister, a leader among his friends, and he is counted among the saints…he is one of the three greatest blessings in my life.