My story is not a story of great battles won. My story is not a story of mighty works. My story is not a story of helping humanity see the light. As much as I wish it is.
My story is the story of grace. It is a story of being accepted when I shouldn't have been. My story is a story of wrongs being overlooked. Of other people standing with me when they didn't have to; when I myself, if I were in their shoes, wouldn't have stood. A story of sacrifices and sweat and tears by others.
My story is not a story about me. It is about other people. EVerything good in me now is a result of other people who sacrificed for me, who cried for my sake. I am a walking talking testimony of sacrifices made by other people. I put up a face here, and walk the streets alive because somewhere out there is someone who prays consistently for me. I didn't wake up alive this morning because I have to. But because someone else sacrificed something selflessly so that I could be alive today again.
To live such a life for a minute is precious. To live such a life everyday every moment, every hour is indescribable. A prisoner who is allowed to live on for a day, when he should have been executed, will feel the same. He would see daylight in a different eye. He would even see the brick concrete walls of the prison with a different light. He would shake the hands of the prison guards, knowing that he couldn't have been seeing and meeting life when he was already dead and gone.
The air that everyone breathes will smell to him like the sweetest he has ever smelt. He would literally treasure every minute of that day.