I suppose a hero can come from a great many places.
Some are born. Some are destined. Some are made in a burst of fire and flame.
But some heroes are quietly etched, forged by steady, piercing stabs of the everyday.
Called somehow out of who they used to be into a greatness that is so covert, one may not even notice its presence, except for those he rescues each and every day.
With the gentle rock of a colicky baby to the sway of Michael Buble…
With a wrestling match of epic proportion even after a long day of battling the world…
With the little hands held while prayers are said…
In love, a hero is made.
With a walk in the woods and playground adventures…
With laundry folded and bathrooms cleaned and fingernails clipped…
With baths given and pony tails attempted and diaper bags packed…
In the mundane, a hero is born.
With an unending supply of patient and honest answers to an 8-year-old girl’s constant questions…
With a knack to appreciate potty humor and belching and anything hilarious to a 6-year-old boy…
With an every morning “You look beautiful!” to the 3-year-old woman in his life…
In constancy, a hero is destined.
With ICU’s and hospital beds and canes and chronic illness…
With being readily on-call to act as both mom and dad…
(Even when all he wants to do is hold his best girl’s hand at her bedside…)
With hormones and ice cream runs and feminine product procurement…
With medical bills and tests and 1,500 dollars-a-month blood thinners…
With helping her out of the bathtub or into the car or up from the floor…
With wiping her tears and holding her close and reminding her that she is loved and never a burden…
In hard times, a hero is made in a burst of fire and flame.
Just as he is quietly etched…
Beautifully marked…
And sacredly fashioned…
In all the sweet and steady, mundane hours...
Of our each and every day.