30 weeks...

When you're on your fourth baby, there are certain assumptions you make. My first three have all been full term babies, ranging between 39 and 42 weeks. For me, there was no thought in my head that a premature baby might be something we needed to get our heads around when we found out I was expecting our fourth.

But when I rushed into hospital a month ago, at 26+3 weeks, suddenly that reality hit.


And I set myself a milestone.

30 weeks.

Setting myself a milestone would have no impact on the situation. When it comes to labour and birth, you realise fairly quickly that control over the circumstances is very limited. That there's a lot of watching and waiting. And yet somehow, the desire to get to thirty weeks gave me milestone... hope... something to count down the days to. It wasn't as impossible as 40 weeks, wasn't as far away as the longed for 37, but at 30 weeks, our baby would have a much better chance of survival, and a much better chance of minimal long term consequences.

Again. No guarantee. No control.

But something to hope for.

And here we are... two hospital visits later... six days of sitting in a hospital bed, hoping and praying that baby would stay happy, and this placenta of mine would start behaving itself. Placenta Praevia is no walk in the park.

We made it to 30 weeks.

And yet at thirty weeks, we are by no means in the "safe zone"... still seven weeks away from term. Two months worth of growing and maturing for our little one to do before he or she is ready to face the world.

30 weeks still seems so small, and vulnerable, and scary...

There are so many stories of little fighters... of little ones, much smaller than ours, who have fought their way out of incubators, who have eased worried Mama's fears, who have gone on to show what amazing strength these tiny little people have.

And yet there are also so many stories which end differently.

I could get eaten up by it all... could spend the next 7 weeks worrying about something I have no control over. What good does that do me, or the baby, or anyone really?

Instead, I preach to myself... tune my ear to that still small voice that whispers through the storming swirl of my mind...

"Trust me. Quiet your heart. Be still!"

And with those words comes calm... peace... we're in the middle of the lake, but the waters are quiet and still. My soul breathes deep.

Thank you Jesus that you bring peace to the storms. Help me trust you.

Amen.