Scribed In Light

Last night began like any other.

In fact, I had gone to bed early.

That alone is unusual for me.

I was exhausted and had finally decided to call it a night. The house was settling down. The day was over. Austin was in his den playing with his cat, Pearl. Alan was in our living room watching a movie. Everything felt ordinary.

I had slipped into bed, relaxed in a state of quiet comfort. Then I heard Alan call Austin’s name.

Once.

Then again.

Something in his voice changed.

A moment later I heard him yell.

“SEIZURE!”

There are moments in life when time seems to split in two.

The seconds continue moving forward, yet somehow everything slows down.

I ran.

Austin had suffered a seizure and become trapped in a position that compromised his ability to breathe. As we worked frantically to free him, years of EMS experience flooded my mind all at once.

I knew exactly what I was looking at.

I knew exactly what positional asphyxiation could mean.

I knew exactly how differently this story could end.

Once we got him free, there was no standing around. We immediately began working to establish and maintain a patent airway. We repositioned him onto his side so fluids could drain without aspiration. We monitored his breathing. We worked to help his body recover from both the seizure and the compromised position he had been trapped in.

The reality of the situation was not lost on me.

I wasn’t imagining a worst-case scenario.

I wasn’t allowing my mind to wander into irrational fear.

I knew exactly what such tragic circumstances could mean.

Years ago, while working EMS, I responded to a call involving positional asphyxiation. The victim was a stranger, but as I looked up from working him and saw his wife standing above us, my breath caught full in my chest. He was the husband of a dear friend, someone I had known since my school days.

Despite every effort, the outcome was not what any of us hoped for.

I can still remember standing in the aftermath of that moment.

I can still remember facing someone I cared about.

I can still remember holding her as her world changed forever.

Those memories do not disappear.

They remain tucked away somewhere deep inside you, waiting quietly until a moment arrives that calls them forward again.

So when I saw my son trapped and struggling to breathe, I wasn’t simply worried about what might happen.

I had already witnessed what could happen.

I had stood in that story before.

Only this time, it was my son.

Slowly, his breathing improved.

His color began to return.

The crisis eased its grip.

Eventually we were able to get him settled into his recliner.

The emergency appeared to be behind us.

Then… Pearl screamed.

Not cried.

Not meowed.

Screamed.

The sound ripped through the den and carved into my heart.

For a split second none of us understood what we were hearing.

Then we found her.

Somehow she had become trapped in the recliner mechanism. Her head and neck were caught. The chair would not move forward. It would not move backward.

I didn’t stop to think.

I simply grabbed the recliner and lifted.

Somewhere in that recliner was a grown man recovering from a seizure, but adrenaline has a remarkable way of ignoring details.

I tipped the entire chair sideways while Alan worked to free her.

A few moments later she was out.

Safe.

Shaken.

But alive.

Eventually Austin went to bed.

Pearl ate treats.

The house grew quiet again.

By every visible measure, life had returned to normal.

Yet as I lay awake staring into the darkness, my mind kept returning to a single thought.

How differently this night could have ended.

Not just for Austin.

Not just for Pearl.

For all of us.

---

As I lay there, another realization slowly settled into my heart.

The veil is very thin.

Not occasionally.

Not during emergencies.

Not only when tragedy strikes.

Every day.

Every hour.

Every moment.

We navigate a very thin veil between what is… and what could be.

The strange thing is that I know this.

I spent years working emergency medical services. I have stood in living rooms where ordinary mornings became unforgettable afternoons. I have witnessed the fragile nature of life firsthand. I have cared for a son whose medical challenges have repeatedly reminded our family that tomorrow is never guaranteed.

And yet, despite all of that, I still drift into the rhythm of ordinary life.

I still become distracted by schedules, responsibilities, frustrations, errands, unfinished projects, and the endless demands that accompany being human.

I still forget.

Not because I don’t understand.

Because I do.

I forget because that is what human beings do.

We adapt.

We settle into routine.

We begin assuming tomorrow will arrive because, so far, it always has.

Then life gently—or sometimes violently—pulls back the curtain.

For a moment we see clearly again.

We see that the people around us are not permanent fixtures in our story.

We see that another conversation is not guaranteed.

Another hug is not guaranteed.

Another opportunity to forgive, encourage, apologize, laugh, serve, or love is not guaranteed.

Suddenly… everything that felt urgent a few hours earlier loses some of its importance.

I don’t believe these moments are given to us so we can live in fear.

Fear is a poor steward of the human experience.

Nor do I believe we are meant to spend our days obsessing over how quickly life can change.

Rather, I think these moments are invitations.

Invitations to wake up.

Invitations to notice.

Invitations to remember.

Because perhaps the lesson is not that life is fragile.

Most of us already know that.

The lesson is that we forget.

And perhaps grace, in its kindness, keeps reminding us.

Not so we become anxious.

Not so we become afraid.

But so we become present.

More grateful.

More patient.

More forgiving.

More generous.

More willing to offer the best of ourselves while we still have the opportunity.

---

As I continued reflecting, another thought settled into my heart.

We are entrusted with so much more than we recognize.

Most of us think of stewardship in terms of money, possessions, talents, or resources. Yet the greatest treasures we have been given are often far less obvious.

We are entrusted with people.

Entrusted with influence.

Entrusted with opportunities.

Entrusted with words.

Entrusted with moments.

Entrusted with the ability to ease another person’s burden.

Entrusted with the privilege of being present in someone else’s story.

We are entrusted with a sunrise.

A conversation.

A shared meal.

A quiet evening.

A laugh that echoes through the house.

The gifts arrive dressed as ordinary things.

Perhaps that is why we miss them so often.

We become familiar with them.

We begin expecting them.

We quietly assume they will be there tomorrow.

Until life reminds us otherwise.

Not one thing.

Not one individual.

Not one moment is ours to keep forever.

Austin is not mine to keep forever.

My husband is not mine to keep forever.

My children, grandchildren, friends, and loved ones are not mine to keep forever.

Even this day itself is not mine to keep.

None of these things belong to me in the permanent sense.

They have been entrusted to me for a season.

And perhaps that is why gratitude and humility walk hand in hand.

Gratitude says, “Thank You for this gift.”

Humility says, “I understand it was never mine to guarantee.“

What if wisdom is not found in accumulating more?

What if wisdom is found in finally seeing what is already in our hands?

Maybe that is the invitation hidden within these moments that shake us awake.

To recognize the gifts while they are still here.

To love more intentionally.

To forgive more quickly.

To encourage more freely.

To become more aware of the extraordinary treasures hidden within our ordinary days.

---

I suspect that in a few days, or weeks, life will settle back into its familiar rhythm. The laundry will need folded. The animals will need fed. The dishes will pile up. The routine will return.

And if I’m honest, I will probably forget again.

But tonight I remember.

Tonight I am deeply aware that another sunrise was never promised, yet arrived anyway.

Tonight I am grateful.

Tonight I am humbled.

And tonight I am reminded that the greatest gifts in life often arrive disguised as ordinary things.

May we recognize them while they are still in our hands.

May we live with open eyes, grateful hearts, and a deeper awareness of the lives unfolding around us— never allowing oneself to become so busy making a living that we that we forget to cherish a life.

Walk gently.
Love deeply.
Laugh often.
Contemplate passionately.

Tina N. Campbell
Scribed in Light

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
— John Lennon

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12

“What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”
— James 4:14