I pulled on my gloves, hesitating a moment as my eyes caught on the thin pink line of my still-healing cut. For half a second, I hated the sight of it, marring the smooth skin of my forearm. But then I set my jaw. That scar meant I had survived. That I had people who loved me enough to dig through the night to reach me. I decided right then that every time I noticed my scar, I would say a prayer of gratitude for each and every blessing that I had.
