Dec. 25—If Foster had waited one more day, he’d have been a Christmas baby.

But his time came late the afternoon of Christmas Eve. To paraphrase an axiom, time waits for no baby.

The night before Foster’s birth, as I sat writing this column in the living room of my daughter Sam’s home in North Carolina, my 2-year-old grandson, Finn, slept soundly in his bedroom.

He was in no way prepared, despite Sam talking to him often about the baby growing inside her, for how his life was about to change.

His lack of understanding was clearly demonstrated over the past several weeks whenever he was asked about Foster’s whereabouts.

“Here,” Finn would say, pointing to his own belly.

As he slept on the eve of Christmas Eve, perhaps Finn was dreaming of a new brother. But more likely, he was thinking of Christmas lights.

After I had taken him to a large and colorful display earlier in the evening, he had repeated probably 100 times during the 10-minute ride home, “More Christmas lights, Grandpa, want more Christmas lights!”

Finn fell asleep repeating that wish, but he did ask once for Mommy and Daddy. I had to remind him that Mommy was at the hospital getting ready to welcome Foster into the world, and that Daddy was on a ship far, far away, helping keep the world safe for all of us.

Two hours after Finn drifted off, my wife, Tammy, sent a text from the hospital. The nurses were preparing Sam to be induced. Foster’s appearance was imminent.

A photograph accompanied Tammy’s text.

Tears immediately welled in my eyes.

The photo showed Sam reclining in the hospital bed. Her face, a little rounder and fuller than usual in her advanced state of pregnancy, instantly evoked memories of her as a little girl.

She was waving at the camera, grinning with a mixture of anticipation and concern.

Seeing her like that transported me back a little more than 33 years to the night of her birth.

She was our first, and we were eager to meet her — and anxious about what the immediate and long-range future might hold.

Could three decades have passed since that long, exhausting and miraculous night at Community Hospital in Anderson? Like other parents who have become grandparents, I felt a twinge of sadness reflecting on that question.

Time rushes like a river, sweeping all of us along.

Now, Sam has her second son, and Tammy and I have our second grandson. Foster Scott Harris was born at 3:16 p.m.

He came just before Christmas, not as “the” son of God but as “a” son of God.

He will never change the world in the way Jesus did, but his impact on our family will be profound.

He’ll bring joy and worry, pride and humility.

Foster will be not just a son and a grandson but a nephew and a cousin. And maybe he’ll become a parent and, eventually, a grandparent.

It’s all in front of Foster, his unknown story poised to unfold.

And someday, maybe three decades from now, Sam will see a photo of Foster, shot from just the right angle at just the right moment, and it will transport her back to his childhood.

Editor Scott Underwood’s column appears Mondays. Like him on Facebook. Contact him at scott.underwood@heraldbulletin.com or 640-4845.