I woke up again today, just like I've done every day since I was born. It's not hard to understand how we come to take the experience for granted. I've been blessed to watch my grandson grow from the day of his birth one year ago. The blessing has come from sharing firsthand the awe and wonder, the miracle of a new day of life. I have longed for the ability to communicate with him on his terms so that I might learn what he remembers of where he came from, but he is already well on his way to acquiring the language skills necessary to survive in the sometimes hostile environment into which he was born. But for now, surrounded by love, he exults in each new moment.
What Jack will learn as he grows is that the miracle is incomprehensibly fragile. It comes with no guarantees. It can be taken at any moment for no reason. As we "mature", this is what we forget. Because the miracle has repeated itself for hundreds, even thousands of days, it becomes mundane unless we consciously guard against it. That's what being diagnosed with a terminal disease can do for you. It can wake you up to the sacred gift of each moment because there is nothing to guarantee it won't be your last.
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