The day Ethan is born begins earlier than normal.

I wake up before the sun, already aware that this day is different. Everything feels weightier, holier, more fragile. I am taking in every movement, every little reminder that Ethan is still here with me, still tucked safely inside me, still a part of me in the most physical and intimate way a child can be.

I know this is the last morning I will carry him like this.

My last chance to eat is around five in the morning, and I had thought about setting an alarm to make sure I had a little something before heading to the hospital for my C-section. But I am already awake around 3:30 a.m., unable to fully settle, unable to fully sleep under the weight of what the day might hold. So in the quiet of the early morning, I have one of our favorite snacks, peanut butter and banana, smiling to myself at how much he always seems to love it. Even in that small moment, I am aware that it matters. It is one more shared thing. One more familiar rhythm. One more memory with him.

Eventually, I do fall asleep for a little while.

When morning comes, everything is simple and quiet. I listen to the Worship Initiative devotion for the day as I brush my teeth and pack the last few things into my bag. The routine feels ordinary, but underneath it, everything is different. Underneath every motion is prayer. Underneath every task is surrender.

I cry out to God as I get ready.

I ask Him to be with us no matter what this day brings, to prepare our hearts as much as they can be prepared, and to give us strength for whatever moments lie ahead. I ask Him to go before us, to sit with us in the unknown, and to carry us when the weight becomes too much.

Before we leave for the hospital, I know there is one more thing I want.

I want one last walk.

Just Austin, Ethan, and me.

So we go down the street for a short walk together, and in some ways it is so simple, but in my heart it feels sacred. The sun is shining through the trees, and everything feels still for just a moment. I take a quick snapshot of the two of us, of what can be seen from the outside, but there is so much more held in that moment than any picture can capture. I am walking with both of my boys. Ethan is still with me, still moving, still mine in this hidden, held way.

That walk matters so much to me because I do not know what the day will bring.

I do not want to be naive. I know we are going into a major surgery. I know we are asking the team to try to get Ethan out in one piece, to handle him with extraordinary care, and I know that request could create complications or make things harder in the procedure. There is a part of me that knows how much is unknown, and because of that, I want one more quiet moment with my boys. One more breath of normal before everything changes.

As I walk, I feel the presence of God, and the quiet nearness of Ethan. I feel the tenderness of the morning and the mercy of being given this moment before we leave for the hospital.

When we arrive at the hospital, we are met with such kindness. It is not lost on me that God has handpicked the people who will be with us that day.

Part of our care team is there, and they have little things for us, small thoughtful gifts that speak volumes about the care they have shown us all along. They let us know they have been thinking about us and praying for us. They offer us a small recorder so we can record Ethan’s heartbeat if we want to. They give us a little heart to place on me or on him. It is such a tender kindness, and from the very beginning of the day, it is obvious that we are not walking into this alone.

From there, the day begins to move quickly.

There is the familiar hustle and bustle of the hospital, but underneath it is something different. This is not routine for us. This is holy ground. This is the day we will meet our son.

Nurse Annie and Nurse Rachel care for me so beautifully in those hours before surgery. They are compassionate, attentive, steady. They make all the difference in the world. In the middle of all the preparation, they help us know that we do not have to rush emotionally just because the schedule is moving quickly. They help create space for us to pause, to breathe, to take a beat when we need it. They understand the weight of what this day is, and their kindness is a gift from God to us.

Even in the middle of everything, I feel peace. Not a peace that makes sense, the reality of the day is far too heavy for that but a peace that can only come from God. The weight of the situation is overwhelming, and yet somehow the Lord is present in a way that holds me steady.

Even though we arrive at the hospital about two hours before the procedure, the time goes by in what feels like two minutes. They get me settled and hook me up to the monitors. At one point they ask if we want to hear Ethan’s heartbeat, and of course we say yes.

So for the next stretch of time, however long it really is, the room is filled with the sound of Ethan’s heartbeat.

It is strong. Steady. Precious.

That sound fills the room while the nurses continue preparing me, while we talk with the anesthesiologist, and while everyone gets into place for what is coming next. Because I had some complications during my C-section with Austin, we spend some time going over the plan carefully. They walk through what they are going to do differently to try to keep me from getting as sick as I got last time. They talk through how they want to help me stay as aware and coherent as possible when Ethan is delivered. Once again, I am struck by how skilled and compassionate this team is. They take the situation seriously. They handle everything with such care and attention.

They do everything they need to do, and everything works the first time.

It is such a small detail in some ways, but in a moment like this, every kindness and every smooth step feels like mercy.

As we are almost ready to go to the OR, they bring my dad up. He is a pastor and is going to be in the OR with us. They also bring up a dear friend who has offered to take pictures during the procedure. The care team has even blocked off the room next door to the birthing suite for our family so they do not have to wait in a public space. That level of detail is so thoughtful. So compassionate. So helpful. It is one more reminder of the way God has gone ahead of us and provided for us through people.

Then comes the first real wave of emotion.

It hits as we are getting ready to leave for the OR.

For 232 days, Ethan has been connected to me as his lifeline. For 232 days, I have carried him, nourished him, sustained him, protected him. My body has been the place where he has lived and been held. And now we are standing at the threshold where that will change.

The weight of that is almost unbearable.

I am not ending his life. I know that. But I am acutely aware that we are arriving at the moment where he will be separated from me, and the anxiety of that crashes over me all at once. It feels like we are standing at a crossroads I never wanted to reach.

We ask the medical team for a moment.

They all step outside.

Ben comes over to me, and together we pray. We cry out to God and ask Him to help us through whatever is coming. We ask Him for strength, for courage, for peace. We ask Him to hold our hearts steady. We ask Him to be near to Ethan. We ask Him to help us endure whatever this day is going to ask of us.

That prayer is not polished. It is desperate. Honest.

And God meets us there.

After that, we call the medical team back in, and we proceed.

They take me to the OR, and Ben, my dad, and our friend get ready to join us there.

The whole day feels like one of the fastest moving days of my life. Time almost stops making sense. At some moments it feels like everything is happening in double time. At other moments it slows down so much that it feels suspended. I can never quite tell what moment I am living in or how much time has really passed.

Once I am in the OR, the room fills with people. My care team is there. The NICU team is there. My support team is there. It is bright and clinical and full of motion, and yet somehow it also feels sacred.

Before the procedure begins, my dad prays.

He prays over the doctors, the nurses, every hand that will care for us, and over Ethan. He asks that God would guide every moment, that His will would be done and that His presence would fill the room.

Then the procedure begins.

There is pressure, movement, talking, activity, but underneath all of it is the deepest anticipation I have ever felt.

Time no longer makes sense as I wait, wondering if I will get to meet him alive here, or if our first meeting will be in heaven.

I know that at some point they will cut his umbilical cord, and I do not know if that will be the end of his life. I do not know if we will get seconds, minutes, or nothing at all. Only our Maker knows what is about to happen.

So I breathe.

I wait.

I wonder.

I pray.

At one point, Dr. K says that they are at the point where they can see baby Ethan and they are getting ready to take him out.

Those next few minutes are impossible.

Looking back now, it is about three minutes that it takes them to get Ethan out because of his condition and because they are trying to be so careful with him, trying to give us the best chance at as much time and as much dignity as possible.

But from where I am lying, those three minutes feel impossible to survive.

And then he is here.

They lower the curtain so I can see him, and we watch him take a breath.

A real breath.

In that instant, it is a miracle.

They bring him close to me and Ben, and there he is our son, our Ethan. I get to say hi to him. I get to tell him how much I love him. My dad prays a prayer of blessing over him.

Then they gently take him to clean him up just a little and quickly look him over.

Ben and my dad go with him.

The medical team has him wrapped up pretty much as soon as he comes out of me, so I do not really know the full state of him. I do not know exactly what he looks like yet or if he is still alive or already slipping away. All I know is that I saw him breathe, and that alone feels like a gift from God.

And that is when I start having trouble breathing.

I do not know whether Ethan is still alive or not, and I am trying to process everything all at once. At the same time, the doctors are having a little bit of complication with me and begin working on me quickly. It is a blur of emotion and physical strain and uncertainty.

Through all of that, one thing matters so deeply to me.

I do not want Ethan to be alone.

Ben stays with him. My dad is with him too, taking video of the moments I will later get to watch back and treasure. Ben is talking to Ethan, loving him, blessing him with his presence every second that he can. While I am being worked on, my heart is with them.

And then my sweet nurse Annie steps in beside me.

She sits next to me and helps me breathe through what feels like eternity.

Her calm presence steadies me as I wait.

Finally, the NICU nurse brings Ethan back over and lays him on my chest.

She tells me he still has a heart rate.

It is low, but it is still there.

And then there he is.

My baby.

On my chest.

His cheek resting against mine.

He is warm.

He is so beautiful.

And when they place him on me, it feels so familiar. Ben says you can see him just kind of nestle in to my cheek, and it is such an amazing moment. Because of Ethan’s condition, he had not been able to move around much in the womb. During ultrasounds, when we tried to get a picture of his face, we learned that he liked to stay tucked in. He would always have one arm up near his face, and he always seemed to rest with his left side tucked in close.

So when they place him on my chest and his face nestles in next to mine, it feels like something we have seen before.

Like something he knows, safe and familiar.

Like he is tucking into his momma just as he had always done.

In those moments, I try to find the words for everything I want to say to him.

I tell him that he is loved.

That he is amazing.

That he is strong.

That he is beautiful in our eyes.

That we are so thankful he is part of our family.

That he will always be part of our family.

It is an incredible gift to be able to say those things to your child, not knowing whether you will ever get to meet them alive, and then being given even these few moments to do exactly that.

For several minutes, I talk to sweet Ethan while he rests against me.

And then, a few minutes later, the nurse comes back to check his heart rate again.

She comes to listen to his heart.

And when she looks up at the clock, she does not have to say anything.

I know.

In that moment, I know that my sweet Ethan is in the presence of Jesus.

I know that his body is made whole.

No matter what I will see later, no matter what marked his body here, no matter how broken things looked in this world, he is no longer limited by any of it. He is healed. He is whole. He is in the arms of our Savior.

Ethan Michael is so strong and so brave.

He spends 19 minutes with us here on earth outside of my womb, and I am so thankful for every single one of those minutes.

When he is not with me on my chest, his dad is beside him, talking to him, loving him, making sure he is never alone.

People all across the world have been praying for a miracle.

And I believe God gave us one.

His miracles do not always look the way we think they should.

I was told Ethan’s condition was incompatible with life. I was told he would likely pass before he was even born. And yet God, in His mercy, gave us 19 minutes.

Nineteen minutes to meet him.

Nineteen minutes to see him breathe.

Nineteen minutes to tell him how loved he is.

Nineteen minutes to hold him close and speak blessing over his life.

Nineteen minutes will never feel like enough. My heart still aches for more. It hurts in ways I do not know how to fully describe.

And yet I can still say that God was good to give us those moments.

I can still say that my miracle was 19 minutes.

I understand that Ethan was never meant to stay in this world. I will never fully understand all of God’s reasons or ways, but I can trust His plan. And I can be thankful for the impact Ethan continues to make on our lives, on the lives of our friends and family, and on the lives of people who hear his story and are touched by it.

Even now, God is still using Ethan.

Eventually, the doctors are able to stabilize me and move us into post-op recovery, where we are given quiet, sacred time to be with Ethan.

But the heart of this day is not found in any medical detail.

It is found in Ethan,

in the goodness of God revealed through him

Through his strength.

Through his life.

Through his 19 minutes.

Through the love he drew out of all of us.

Through the faithfulness of God that met us in the most painful and holy moments we have ever known.

And even though my heart is shattered, even though the hurt is real, even though 19 minutes will never feel like enough, I can still say what I know to be true.

God is good.