Seventy-one years ago, tomorrow, my father was born. In the Mississippi delta, September of 1938, there was no hospital for a delivering mother to find. I don't know what, if any prenatal care my grandmother had. We have no way of knowing my Mamaw's actual due date for Papa. I still wonder just how far along she was in her pregnancy. The only information I have is that, after eight healthy deliveries, my grandmother gave birth to the man you see in this picture. Thankfully a doctor was there to help my Mamaw. When the doctor held my father in his hands, there looked to be no hope for Papa's survival. Papa was tiny. Too small to survive. Too early for his lungs to have developed. Papa's body fit into one of the doctor's hands, while his head fit into the other. Premature births can be a devastating experience and the parents are not promised tomorrow. Papa weighed in at about 2.5 pounds. The doctor believed that this baby was dead. Until... Don't you LOVE that word? Until my father let out a bellow. The doctors response? Nothing wrong with those lungs! Don't you love it?

This wonderful man who raised me truly does have a set of lungs. Ones that should not have been fully formed when he was born. At first he slept in his older sister's baby doll bed. When winter came, he slept in an open dresser drawer. I hope that you someday get an opportunity to hear my father sing. He followed the Lord's call into music ministry. He's seen countless changes in music. He even recorded a record when I was a little girl. No one sings How Great Thou Art like my Papa. Lisa & I believe that they honestly don't make them like our Papa! When he calls my office to talk to me, he announces himself as Papa. So you can call him that too. So, I welcome you to celebrate Papa's (Donald Moore) birthday tomorrow. That's what we will be doing.