I'm exhausted. It's late. I sit and rock. Her downy soft head nuzzled against my chin, I breathe in her newborn smell, wanting to savor this moment always. It's my last night in Atlanta. I've been here 3 weeks.

The two of us have snuggled together each and every night, in the quiet, late hours, hoping her mama might get 1, 2 maybe 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

This sweet babe must know it's my last night with her. Her little eyes are wide open. She studies my face as if to inquire, "why won't you stay Gramma?"

"Little one," I say, "I will miss you so much." I pull her close against my chest, stroking her soft hair against my cheek.

Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I'm not ready to leave you. I have so much to tell you, so much love I want to impart to you.

I blink back the stinging tears. I don't want sadness to mar this beautiful moment.

Has it really been 3 weeks since I arrived, with great anticipation of seeing this baby be born? I almost witnessed her first breath, but at the last minute, only her daddy could accompany my daughter to the operating room.

A miracle birth.

I am blessed. Abundantly blessed.

Yes, sweet one, so fresh from God. You were created and formed from the heart of the Father. You've been given gifts and talents, abilities and personality so unique there has never been and never will be another person like you.

You are valued. Your are cherished. You are loved. Your newborn scent is intoxicating. I inhale deeply.

Truthfully,

Joanne

"He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young." (Is. 40:11)