Today marks the celebration of my firstborn child. She is, in all manner of speaking, 13 years old. Normally, on her birthday, if I’m home with her, I tell her the story of her birth. 12:20 eastern daylight time. About how I was blessed enough to be the first nonmedical staff to hold her tiny helpless body. How I was the first to speak love and grace and of the love only the Father offers to all of His children. I am just as tearful today as I was that day, despite working through the 12:20 pm time.
I was just blessed with the opportunity to pull her from her friends to give her a brief hug, tell her happy birthday (which I told her before my shift this morning) again, and tell her I love her.
Blessed father. An occasion to see into His heart, too, for me.