18 years ago, after six weeks of preterm labor and bedrest and hospital stays and every-three-hour medication, with my OB's permission I stood up, and promptly went into labor. And so Luke came into the world, causing a bit of trouble even before he could breathe. Today I was called to emergently evaluate another 36-week preemie who, like Luke long ago, was not quite catching on to the work of life in this world, and was looking a bit sick. I doubt that punky little "Esther" will ever be 6 foot 3 inches or a freshman at Yale, but who knows. In the blink of an eye, it seems, that little being in the incubator that just ripped ones body open will be a huge being far away ripping ones heart. The in-between stages of precocious words and scrappy roughhousing and passionate soccer and reading Lord of the Rings umpteen times and mountain climbing and spotting lions and flying alone across oceans suddenly collapse into a blur, and the newborn is an official vote-capable adult. There are few people in the world I would have more confidence in, or find more interesting to be with. Which makes the little detail of seven thousand miles pretty sad. Thanks to my mom, who braved the train alone to New Haven for a pre-Birthday visit, loaded with goodies. Thanks to Jessica and Thomas Letchford, who are friends-closer-than-a-brother(sister) in the best sense, with meals and a cake and fun. Thanks to a suite full of great guys who will probably sing and be wild. Thanks to strangers who will make this first family-less birthday for Luke a good one.
Happy 18th Birthday Luke. We love you more than the mountains are high.
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