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Yesterday afternoon, Hiram went for a run.

The event hardly seems worth mentioning when compared to news of the cruise ship that capsized near Italy, the secretary general of the UN chastising the king of Syria, the race for the Republican presidential nomination, or outgoing governor Haley Barbour pardoning more than 200 convicted felons during his last hour in office.

But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning.

Because this is January in Iowa, a month written off by most joggers as too icy and cold for running outdoors. But this winter, the roads are still ice free and the temperatures much warmer than usual.

But excluding the weather, Hiram’s run is still worth mentioning.

Because it is a grace beyond what many men my husband’s age have been granted. We are surrounded by evidence of this reality. Hiram cares for patients who can’t walk because of serious heart issues. The memory of my wheelchair bound, fifty-five-year-old father in the nursing home never leaves us. We are praying for friends our age and younger who’ve recently had knee surgeries and hip replacements.

But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning for another reason.

In the past year and a half, four friends have lost their husbands. One to cancer. One to suicide. One to the effects of Agent Orange exposure in Viet Nam. One to a brain aneurysm. Two of them were younger than Hiram. Two were older, but not by much.

But Hiram was alive yesterday and went for a run.

His run is worthy of more than a mere mention. It is worthy of thanksgiving, even when my alive-and-well husband who went for a run yesterday forgets to take out the garbage. It is worthy of gratitude, especially when his sweaty running clothes in the bedroom hamper make the room stink. It is an event for which I am usually not grateful enough.

Except for today, when I thank God for my husband who went for a run yesterday.