My husband’s “Alive Day” happened on the first day of Spring, something I don’t believe is a coincidence. So each year, on the day that officially begins the season of new life, I say a prayer. I thank God that my husband was sucked out of that Humvee, and for the men who rushed to his side to administer medical attention, even as bullets whizzed all around. I thank God for the two children we were blessed with after the incident, and for the one we were fortunate to already have, who gave her father motivation to keep pushing through each painful day of recovery. And, I thank God for all the extra time. Seven years have passed since that terrible, wonderful day that my husband’s life was spared, seven years of family vacations, birthday parties, anniversaries, and Christmases, the opportunity to hear “Daddy, look at me!” and to say, “Honey, could you help me?” and all the other little moments that have passed by in a happy blur, that, though they may not be significant enough to be remembered, breathed beauty and meaning into our lives without us even realizing it. Because, even though we aren’t able to spend each “extra” day physically together, my husband is still here. Alive. And I will never take for granted how easily it could be the opposite.
“Alive Days” are the kind of “birth” days where the gifts just keep on coming.
