My First Zeke Wink

You know when you buy a red car and suddenly red cars are everywhere?

Out of nowhere, or perhaps not by accident, the number 18 became my tiniest glimpse of hope in a season when hope felt invisible. I wasn't the first person to recognize the significance of the number 18, but I never imagined how deeply it would come to mean something to me.

On the evening of December 17, completely out of the blue, my water broke. Maybe "broke" is too gentle a word. Immediately, I knew.

Zeke's life was coming to an end.

(I'll save that story for another day.)

As labor progressed and my son made his entrance earthside, our nurse (who also happened to be my sister-in-law) called out, "Time!" In that moment, the clock began counting every precious second of Zeke's earthly life.

I won't go into every detail, but those 18 minutes were beautiful. I held my son. I loved my son. He knew nothing but warmth, love, and the voices of the people who had been waiting to meet him.

When "time" was called a second time, everything had changed.

It was quieter. Gentler. The room that had just welcomed new life settled into complete stillness. I wasn't watching the clock. I was focused on the soft voice of the nurse as she lowered her stethoscope and quietly said, "I no longer hear a heartbeat."

Stillness.

In every sense of the word.

When I learned that Zeke had lived for 18 minutes and had been born on December 18, it was the first time I felt even the smallest glimpse of purpose beginning to unfold.

From that day forward, the number 18 became my "red car."

One evening we were unexpectedly seated at Table 18 in a restaurant. My seven-year-old daughter innocently asked if they knew us because of the table number. I smiled.

Later, when I decided to donate the breast milk I had prepared for Zeke, my five-digit donor number began with 18.

Coincidence? Maybe.

Or maybe not.

I've learned that in tragedy, heartbreak, and loss, we often cling to anything that reminds us we aren't alone. Sometimes it's the smallest things that help us believe there is still goodness, purpose, and hope waiting to be found.

I believe God places little reminders along our path. What many people call "God winks." Gentle moments that whisper, "I'm still here."

So every time the number 18 crosses my path, I smile.

It's no longer just "red car syndrome."

It's my own little Zeke Wink.