It's almost Christmas. Christmas is the same day that I met MacGyver. The day that was like me standing on a coin spinning on a table. The day that would soon change everything.
My husband carries the suitcases. He buckles my ski boots and unloads the groceries. He holds my hand tightly as we walk along the icy sidewalk. He does all the night driving. He makes me chamomile tea when I have a stomach ache, and cappuccino in the morning when I awake. He carried my own backpack loaded on top of his when I sprained my ankle in Nepal. In the Himalayas. For three days. He holds the door open for me and cleans the ice from my windshield. He puts up with moodiness and craziness from me. He cooks me exquisite meals. He cuts me wood for the fire, takes out the trash, rubs my feet and listens to my babble. He was the only person I could stand to touch me when I was in labor, and I grabbed onto his shoulders so hard that he was bruised for days afterward. He blazes our trail.
17 years ago I was planning a trip to Mexico, and had not the slightest clue what was about to happen to me. I was about to be given the greatest gift of all.