"All right, Sarah," the Irish accent encouraged. "You're doing just fine, lamb! Three more deep breaths and then push!"

Eighteen hours, thirty-seven minutes, and counting – she had scarce seen a babe before put up such a fight! Twice, they'd nearly lost the wee mother now, and a third turn could take them both home to Jesus. If the baby lived, he or she would be her first. While there stood the "room for one more" rule for Irish families, this might well be her only. As it stood, only the grace of God would see them both through the night with their health.

The three deep breaths came and went easily enough, and the push that followed seemed not to cost the mother so dearly. She steadied somewhat as the color returned to her freckled cheeks. Just moments ago, she had been as chalky and speckled as a fresh-laid egg! Finding the rhythm of her breath again appeared to renew her strength. According to the nurse, she had been fully dilated for hours now. For some reason, though, nothing could quite convince the little one to come out!

"That's the ticket!" urged the nurse.

A resolute breath gave the mother-to-be some fortification. In quite a final sort of way, she pushed up on her elbows and set her jaw. The old Irish strength, they all called it in maternity. As the sisters always said, the Blessed Virgin held a new mother's hands. Sometimes, as it went, she led the way to Heaven. A nearby sister who'd been hovering by the doorway quietly excused herself. With the way things looked now, this little family would be needing Father Fitzgibbons's aid before too long.

As the sister hurried away, the mother-to-be set to make a valiant, hopefully-not-final effort. Sweat dripped down her forehead from the hours of exertion, but she remained steadfast. One deep breath, two clenched hands, and she let out an almighty roar. She had no time to think, only to feel something inside of her let go. Vaguely, as if through cotton-wool, she heard the Irish nurse yell. After, she heard only her blood pumping in her ears.

It could have been minutes later, or it could have been hours. Sarah felt, however vaguely, something nudging her shoulder. The rush of blood continued in her ears, drowning out coherent thought. Instinctively, though, she attempted to shift in the direction of the touch. Next moment, a clear and unmistakable sound pierced through the fog in her head.

"Oh my…" she sighed as someone helped her sit up.

The Irish nurse held something so tiny, swaddled in white hospital blankets.

"Congratulations, Sarah," the accent reassured her. "By the grace of God, you've had a boy – a beautiful little boy!"

As the nurse placed the tiny bundle in the new mother's arms, the little one let out a scream to rattle the windowpanes!

"We-ell, will you listen to that?" the voice of Father Fitzgibbons broke in over the wails. "He'll be a fine tenor with lungs like that."

Sarah shifted automatically, trying to cover herself more appropriately with her hospital gown.

"Oh, don't you worry about him, little mother," the nurse encouraged. "We only got the Father as a caution. You two fought a hard fight there. For a moment it looked… like we might need him."

Before Sarah could formulate a response, the little red face screwed up again and howled like a Sunday cantor. Father Fitzgibbons had been around for enough of these that he excused himself before the nurse could hurry him out. The old Irish nurse knew that tune and refrain well. She helped Sarah adjust again so that the baby could have his first breakfast. Mother and child settled back into the pillows and blankets quietly.

"It did look for a while like we might lose you both," the old nurse told her gently. "But, Lord help us, we're fighters, our people…"

Sarah nodded, holding her son at a better angle.

"He'll be needing a good strong name in honor of a fight like that" the nurse continued. "Have you and your husband chosen one?"

The new mother nodded again as her little one finished up with his first meal. By instinct, she lifted him up on her shoulder and rubbed his tiny back. Almost without looking, the nurse reached for a towel and tucked it in where it would be needed. "Gas!" Father Fitzgibbons always said. Sure enough, the first burp came and both women smiled – one more thing they could be sure worked properly!

"So?" she, the nurse, urged. "What'll it be? A family name?"

Sarah smiled with tired eyes as she cradled her now-sleeping baby.

"Steven," she half-whispered before continuing, "Steven Grant."

The nurse reached for the baby. Her other nurses were ready to remove all the linens and help the mother clean up. Sarah clutched him close at first, reluctant to let go at all, but she trusted the old Irishwoman. He fussed quietly in the strange arms. Gas again, thought the nurse. As the other nurses swarmed her bed, Sarah kept a hawk's eye on her baby. Of course, the old nurse had held hundreds, if not thousands of new babies. He'd hardly be safer anywhere else. Soon enough, they had her clean enough to return her son to her arms.

"Welcome to the world," whispered the nurse as she carefully helped mother and baby get situated once more, "Steven Grant Rogers."

The old Irish nurse could see a lifetime of good for this boy, but alas… she couldn't see him becoming a priest!