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Through Fog, Toward Clarity, With Gratitude
About 40 years ago, I was on the practice field before the game with the Marching Virginians in Blacksburg, VA. It was a late-September Saturday, 9 AM, and the fog in the Appalachian valley was so thick we could barely see the person in front of us. Guided only by the drum majors’ whistles, we double-timed into formation—the outline of Virginia itself—when John Williams’s Superman fanfare broke out.
As the music lifted, so did the fog. Cold dampness turned into sunlight and warmth, and when the haze cleared, we discovered dozens of cows had gathered at the fence to watch. In five years with the band, I’d never seen that many bovine fans. It was a moment of clarity etched in my memory.
This morning I had another. Yesterday I could only make out my hand. Today, through the fog of healing from eye surgery, I could see my fingers. Small progress, but progress.
The engineer in me says: if it’s improving, there’s still hope. The human in me says: this is a rare chance to experience the miracle of sight itself. Healing is scary, uncertain, and painful—but it’s also a reminder that our bodies want to mend. Bones knit, muscles repair, vision returns in fragments. Once is more than enough, but even once is a gift.
Today, I choose gratitude—for healing, for vision, and for those cheering me on (thankfully not just cows this time).