Eight years ago today, my nephew came into this world. He was beautiful and perfect as he lay in the incubator. We watched him through the hospital window.

“Why aren’t they covering him up?” my mother said. It seemed to her that they should have wrapped him in a blanket by now and brought him out to see us. But they kept him naked under warming lights, like French fries needing to say fresh.

Still, all seemed well to Bob and me, so we bid goodbye to my brother, sister-and-law and the rest of the family and went home to eat supper. No sooner had I put a pot of pasta on to boil when I got a call — come back to the hospital, now.

It seemed the baby would not warm up. His temperature was too low and he was turning blue. He was being trussed up and whisked away to Texas Children’s Hospital. They took a photo of him with his parents before he left. My brother’s face was ashen, my sister-in-law’s stoic.

At Texas Children’s they gave my brother a diagram of what was wrong with his baby — TGA, transposition of the great arteries. In short, his heart was wired wrong. The blood vessels in his heart needed to be restrung, and the doctors at Texas Children’s knew how to do it. They did it all the time. My nephew had open heart surgery when he was three days old, while we prayed Psalm 91 in the waiting room. Dad calls it “Psalm 9-1-1.”

Today my nephew is a soccer-playing, swim-meet winning eight year old with shaggy blond hair and an unmistakable swagger.

Thanks to Texas Children’s and God, of course, today is a good day.