"Dad, I can’t breathe." My 10-year-old son, Zac, stood at the top of the stairs last night, chest heaving, tears welling in his eyes. I hurdled toward him two steps at a time, settling my hand on his back. "Sit down, Buddy." My wife, Kathy, rushed out of our bedroom. I looked up while rubbing Zac’s shoulders. Kathy widened her eyes. "Emergency room." I nodded. "Let’s go." Zac had been fighting off something the past few days. Barking cough. Congestion. Sore throat. But he seemed to be improving. An urgent care visit the day prior had put him on the mend. Now only an hour into bedtime and he couldn’t catch his breath. We arrived at the ER and five minutes after check-in, they put him through a rigorous gauntlet of tests and treatments. Throat swab. Nose swab. Blood test. Urine test. Chest X-ray. Neck X-ray. CAT scan. Fluids. Steroid. "I'm scared," Zac said as I walked with him back from the bathroom. He pointed at his forearm. "I don’t want them to put that thing in me." I stopped him and gave him a hug. "I know. It’s not fun. But the IV will help you." After his medical gauntlet, we waited behind the curtain, Zac lying in bed, Kathy and I hunched over in chairs beside him. The clock ticked past 12:30am. He took deeper breaths. His heart rate settled on the screen. He closed his eyes. His hands relaxed. Rest. Beyond the curtain, emergencies echoed around us. "Code stroke in room 204." "Mommy, no! I don't want to!" "What’s your relationship to the patient?" "I'm her husband." I gazed at Kathy, appreciating the righteous beauty of a caring mom. Then at Zac, the dirty-blonde boy who introduced himself by wrapping his tiny hand around my finger the day he was born. Two precious gifts. Given by God. Bestowed upon a messed up man who deserves neither. Thank you, Lord, for my beautiful family. Help me to never squander any moment we have together. We have so few. And we don’t know which one may be last. The curtain pulled back as the doctor entered. "He's fine. Everything was negative. Just looks like a nasty case of the croup." Zac, eyes half-open, pointed at his IV. "Can I get this out?" I smiled. "Let’s go home."