Nancy and I went for a walk at Lion’s park this evening—just as the sun was nearing its final descent behind a few wisps of clouds just above the Olympics. A wind was blowing across Port Washington Narrows, full of the scent of salt water and sea. As we came around the final bend, heading back toward the parking lot for our first time around, the sun slipped behind the clouds, irradiating them in magnificent glow. Seven Canada geese slowly glided along out on the water.

The wind picked up just then, full in my face and full in my lungs—blowing through the tall, ornamental grasses growing along the path, tousling their tassels like a school boy’s hair, all about the sound of the wind rustling through the grasses and through the leaves and branches of an aspen overhead. Like awakening from a sound sleep, I suddenly felt uncommonly alive. To the west the Olympics lay nestled in a blanket of dark clouds. Dusk was settling, as another day drew it’s last and final breath.

All around was life, the carpet of grass slowly growing green, ducks cavorting out in the middle of the narrows, Nancy walking at my side—hand in hand, seagulls flying high overhead, their forlorn cries falling from above. As we came around the north end of the park, the wind was sighing through a cascade of branches of an old, weeping willow. A giant of a long needled pine--like so many hundreds of porcupine stuck in its branches--stood stately next to the willow.

Along the beach on our third and final time around, a flock of geese flew overhead seemingly in disarray as they fought for position, but then—resolving their spat—they formed a perfect V and continued on their way south for the coming winter. I whipped out my phone to catch the scene—but too late. Nancy having walked a little ahead called back, “Here comes another flock.”

I pointed my smart phone up at a tree overhead just as a flock of Canada Geese flew into view, circling around until splashing down their landing out on the narrows. On the way home crossing over the Warren Avenue bridge and looking west back over Lion’s park, Jupiter shown brilliant above Green mountain. Pulling into the church parking lot next to our house, Mars hung red in the southern sky, with Saturn faintly glimmering just to the east of a half lit moon. I thought to myself, “It’s so good to be alive!”

Today I celebrated 35 years of sobriety. Some might want to congratulate me on such a momentous achievement—but I could no more have achieved sobriety and stayed sober and off drugs than I could have flown to Saturn this evening to fly through its rings. I am beyond words grateful to the One who has had my back, who promised me so many years ago, just months into my sobriety,

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6 (NIV)

Through each of those years, month by month, day by day, moment by moment, it is Jesus who has carried me through. In the wildness of my living, I never thought I’d make it past 26. I am so grateful for a life I never expected to live—a life unmerited, undeserved, a gift of God’s grace! I am so grateful for my wonderful wife and best friend Nancy—unanticipated, unmerited, and undeserved—also a gift of God’s grace—along with our two, deeply loved daughters, Sarah and Nicole! Too often I think we take life for granted, not stopping to see those by our side, to be grateful for this incredible gift of life, in us and in those we love and who love us in return! These moments we have are hallowed moments, moments to be noticed and moments to be savored!”

Thank you to all of you who at some time—more recently or long ago—graced my life with your friendship and presence! Maybe we don’t say it enough—but I love each of you! May you find eyes to see this gift of life all around you and to once again remember that what really matters are those we love, who love us in return.

© 2022 by Grant Christensen. "Freely you have received, freely give." (Matthew 10:8b NIV) You are free to share--copy and redistribute in any medium or format--as long as you don't change the content and don't use commercially without permission of the author or author's family.