To the man whose son has cancer. Who sat with me in the public park while we watched his boy swing on monkey bars.
The man who said:
“My son’s cancer turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to us. Made me see how good people are.
“When you drive through your hometown and see banners with your son’s name on them, it changes you.”
To John—the man who adopted five dogs. Whose wife, Mindy, was taken too early. The same man who once encouraged me to keep writing at a time when I needed encouragement.
He probably doesn't even remember that.
To Jennifer, who says most people call her, “Jellybean.”
Jellybean is epileptic. She walks to work since she can’t legally drive. She says that her past relationships haven't lasted because of her condition.
Well, she is on top of the world this week. Her boyfriend is an EMT. He knows how to deal with seizures, and isn’t afraid to help her through them.
He asked Jellybean to marry him last Tuesday at his son’s middle-school band concert.
To the thirty-four-year-old man with severe autism. I’ll call him Bill. Who was abandoned by his mother. The woman dropped him at an ER and said, “I don’t care what you do with him, he’s not coming back here.”
And to the nurse who adopted Bill. Who didn’t just give him a room in her home, but signed papers to make him family.
He now refers to her as "mom.”
And to my mother. The woman who worked harder than any female I’ve ever made eye-contact with. Who didn’t just raise me, but grew up beside me.
Who endured a husband’s suicide, financial ruin, double shifts, single-parenthood, and late bills. Who survived a disease that almost ruined her.
Who still goes for morning walks with her dog, Sunny, saying prayers under her breath.