It was a miracle, the simplest, most beautiful kind of miracle known to mortals. And if you’ve ever held a baby in your arms, you know it’s true.
My miracle happened 11 years ago today. There were no brave rescues by nurses, no major hurdles, or illness to overcome. There was no improbable beating-of-the-odds to arrive at that one divine moment in a hospital delivery room.
The miracle was a miracle, simply because she was. Because she existed. Because she had exquisite eyelashes, and silky black hair, and curled toes and gentle sighs and a little pink face that I held close to mine, memorizing every square inch.
And breath. She had breath.
Life itself is the miracle. And on November 16, Lydia Margaret Lee became ours.
(Note to Anna Marie Lee, age 8: Should you come across the post someday, sweet child, know that you are every bit a miracle, too. We love you both, not because of what you do, but because of who you are. Both of you girls are loved and cherished by your father and I. And I don’t have to wait for anyone’s birthday to say so. I love you.)