We’d just stepped from the chilly ICU, past the detailed nativity (minus a baby Jesus), and into a frosty, December 5th sunrise. Sun was just peeking above the horizon, but those rays shone pillars of hope. Someone handed me a plastic cup of orange juice that felt like glory in a cup, a little bit of life.

The night past had been the longest night of my life and felt like a living, breathing nightmare. Only this one truly was real, and I couldn’t wake up. And he hadn’t woken up—yet. He still had a ventilator tube down his throat and a heart that had literally been in a surgeon’s very own hands a couple hours before.

He’d called me at work, confused, the night before, expressing some strange symptoms. Two clinics and two hospitals later, I kissed him goodbye as the surgical team wheeled him away. Dr. R showed us the images—a severely dissected (ruptured) thoracic aortic aneurysm—and shared how he wasn’t hopeful he’d be able to repair it. I still can see him rolling out of sight—my love, my future, my dreams, my man, all rolled into that bleak OR.

Family and friends gathered, chatting, and ordered food. I didn’t understand how anyone could even entertain the possibility of eating. My stomach, nerves, and chest were so tight, even trying to choke down water was impossible. Instead I wrote a long letter to him, and I prayed. And prayed. And begged. And bargained.

And against all odds, my God heard. He heard, y’all. He had a plan and purpose that transcended all those disbelieving that my Rudy would survive. My God was in that OR eleven years ago guiding Dr. R’s hands, literally cradling my love’s heart. There were complications, yes, but none were too hard or too big or too severe for God.

That baby Jesus wasn’t in the manger yet because aneurysm surgery was all through the night of December 4th. He hadn’t yet arrived. So I imagine, for me, that nightmarish night felt kind of like those ancient people who hadn’t heard from God in so, so long, and they were aching with anticipation and expectation. And with His arrival, all of heaven and creation rejoiced. Then I imagine, for me, that felt a bit like seeing that sunrise of hope after hearing the surgical team share how much worse the aneurysm was than first thought, but that surgery was a success! Because I knew, I knew, Who was in that room, holding Rudy’s heart, breathing life into his lungs, and already smiling about the future years.

December 5, 2014, Rudy had planned to take me to see The Nutcracker Ballet. And, that is one of the first things he remembered after waking up—that he’d be unable to take me. My sister, Leah, bought The Nutcracker on DVD, and Rudy and I (okay, mostly me because he was so medicated) watched it in his ICU room. Because he’s Rudy and very persistent and thorough, he called the box office and explained the situation. They generously gave us tickets for the following year.

And you know what, we went! Rudy, himself, made it out of the chilly ICU, down into a drab step-down room, past the baby Jesus-less manger scene, and into the frosty December, his future, and our life. Since his aneurysm, we’ve made it a point to go see The Nutcracker Ballet every year as a celebration tradition. That year following aneurysm surgery that the ballet so generously provided for? That year, Lily went along in my pregnant belly. God had a plan, and His plan was so good!

This year, the 11th anniversary, we opted to stay home and watch the ballet online due to Bentley’s declining health. Lily and I planned and decorated. We made homemade tomato soup and jalapeño cheddar sourdough. Each of us painted a nutcracker. Being together, celebrating life was, and is, so sacred.

Oh—and we had little teacups of orange juice. Sunshine. Hope.