I could write some long, trivial post about what I've done today (nothing terribly exciting), what I should be doing tonight but will probably pass over for a good book in bed. I could write about my inspiration, my lack of inspiration, the mundane stresses of day-to-day life. But tonight I am humbled and silenced by tragedies that supersede my very, very surface complaints.

Two things have my heart broken today. Two separate events, two tragedies I can't even begin to comprehend. Two losses that don't involve a shortened vacation or lost luggage, a checkbook shy of a few dollars needed to pay the bills, a text message squabble, a miscommunication with a friend. Those instances are nothing. Events--problems, if you will--like that? I'll take them. I'll take them all with open arms.

Tonight, several of my friends are attending the wake of a beautiful three year old girl who fought cancer so, so bravely. I never had the privilege of meeting this little girl. I do not know her parents, although her father is a firefighter/paramedic on a nearby department. I don't really have much to say about this, because honestly...what *is* there to say? This is a parent's worst nightmare. I can't imagine the immense suffering of the family. While I'm certain they take comfort in her release from the pain, the chemo, the constant treatments and hospitalizations, I cannot imagine the magnitude of their everyday loss. A million dollar smile (and trust me, she had one--I've seen pictures), the random but consistent moments of inquiry and affection that any parent of a three year old knows so well.

There are times when the grief of others--for others--lumps in your throat, and this is one of those times. I have a three year old daughter. And tomorrow, she will wake up and want cereal instantaneously , remind me to divvy out gummy vitamins to her and her older brother. She will request milk from her current favorite sippy (Tinkerbell), she will breathe, she will laugh, she will stomp her feet in a tantrum over something seemingly insignificant to the adult world. But tomorrow night, I will kiss her and tell her I love her as I tuck her into bed. I will do the same with her older brother, the same with her baby sister. I can't imagine waking up everyday without these experiences. Even when I want to tear out my hair, stomp my feet, and lock myself in a bathroom to escape the whining, it's there. *They* are there.  It's easy to take for granted.

Tonight I'm not taking it for granted, though.

Sweet little one, I have no doubt you make the brightest and best angel in the whole bunch. I pray now for your family as they embark on a journey of grief I can't even begin to fathom.

The other instance of which I wish to speak also involves a tragic loss of life. Today, Christopher Wheatley, a Chicago firefighter/paramedic lost his life in a LODD (Line Of Duty Death). Do I even need to express my feelings on this matter?  Most if not all of you know that my husband--my soulmate--is a firefighter/paramedic. So very many of our friends? They happen to share the same profession. To hear of a tragedy like this--something that could've realistically happened to anyone on any department--leaves me speechless and breathless.  A heroic death, but no less of an immense loss. The CFD is mourning one of there own, and the band of firefighting brothers and sisters across the state--across the nation--are doing the same. Friends, family, loved ones, perfect strangers...we all mourn the loss of a true hero. I can only pray for the peace of his fiance, his family, and *all* of his friends--those on the FD and those who are not.  Rest in Peace, firefighter/paramedic Chris Wheatley. 3-3-5

I think that a marriage to or a close relationship (of any caliber, really) with anyone in the armed forces, the fire service, the police force...it really makes you almost hyper-aware of the fragility of life. Approximately four months ago, a firefighter for a village just a short drive from our home lost his life in a LODD as well. I never knew him either, but I haven't forgotten his sacrifice. We were unable to attend the services, but I will never forget the pink tulips we brought to the cemetery. Our flowers were all but lost in the immense displays and outpouring of remembrance, respect, and love--and rightfully so. It hit home, though--the loss of a life so young and full of promise. It was close in proximity, but it was even closer in ways I can't begin to describe. A glaring look at the risks of the job, a lightning bolt reminder of mortality.

Hug your loved ones tonight, my friends. Appreciate what you have and not what you want. I am counting my blessings tonight in a time of unspeakable tragedy for so many, many people.