My life is in something of a holding pattern at the moment as we await the arrival of another grandchild, Sam. He's actually not due for almost two more weeks, but as he tried to put in an early appearance the week before last, we have all been expecting him to show up at anytime. After the early warning, however, he seems to be content to lie low. I've told his mama that he appears to be a prankster. Nonetheless, my bag is packed, and I'm ready to head out at a moment's notice.
When our daughter-in-law first began having contractions, her doctor sent her home on bed rest for a few days, which thankfully stopped the process. The news sent my mind racing back in time 30 years to the 10 weeks I spent on bed rest before Sam's daddy was born. Thirty years ago, being born after only 6 1/2 months gestation was essentially a death sentence. The treatment to stop early labor was basically Benadryl, alcohol and a lot of prayer. Fortunately I was cared for by a physician at a teaching hospital, who gave me an experimental drug when things threatened to get out of hand, and it worked. With the help of our church, many friends, and God, our youngest son arrived safe and sound only a week early. I've been prompted in the last week to write the story for this son, who is now waiting for his own son to arrive, to remind him that every baby is a miracle, and that he was more of a miracle than most.
Grace and Peace,