One Word

Sixty seconds never went by without a machine beeping.  It was usually signaling that her oxygen levels had dropped below the parameter set on the machine.  Respiratory therapists would come and do their treatment on her, which was similar to when a massage therapist performs a percussion-type regimen on your back.  She never found her "massage" quite as relaxing as I do.  Her oxygen levels would improve if I held her up to my chest with her face squished against my collarbone.  Then I could smell her head.  You know the smell of a baby's head - it can't be described by or compared to anything else on earth...other than a baby's sweet, head smell.  I would hold her on my chest for hours.  I wouldn't be able to feel my legs since they were being sandwiched between her and a hard, wooden rocking chair.  She slept.  I cherished.  Soon we would be interrupted by doctor's rounds, a dirty diaper, or meds that needed to be given.  I remember thinking that only one word described how I felt at that moment - lucky.  The luckiest girl in the world to be holding this Glory.

I haven't used the word lucky to describe anything relating to my world since those days in the CVICU rocking chair...

Until now.

And blessed be his glorious name for ever: and let the whole earth be filled with his Glory...
Psalms 72:19