Over Half of Twenty

January 10. The tenth day of the year. The birthday of Rod Stewart, Charles and Laura Ingalls, Frank James, Ethan Allen, Frank Sinatra Jr., Stephen E. Ambrose, and football player Jack Delhomme.

My birthday.

10 AM, on a Sunday morning in Ukraine, a little dark-haired, blue-eyed baby girl was born to Tanya and Igor. Their Eldest. She was born with the chord wrapped around her. The doctors doubted she would make it. For five days, she lay in an incubator. Her mother was allowed to stand at the window and cry for half an hour, each day.

Her father's sister, Irina, came the Sunday after the 10th, wanting to know what she could do. Pray, Tanya asked. Please pray. And so they did.

And that little baby girl, whose life seemed to be over before it began, was miraculously healed, with atheistic Ukrainian doctors proclaiming it a mircale.

And so it is. And so I am. The dark hair has lightened a little, turned sepia by the sun and the ocean and the trees. The sky blue eyes have long ago darkened into a warm brown.

But the prayer! It's lasted. And it's grown, and I've grown, and I'm still growing. In fact, I don't think I'll ever stop.