Born on the Fifth of July

Celebrating 20 Years of Life, Breath, and God's Mercy

On July 5, 2005, my wife Debbie received a double-lung transplant that saved her life. This July marks 20 years since that day, and it’s impossible to let the anniversary pass without looking back in awe and gratitude.

Debbie had lived with scleroderma since she was a teenager. By the time we were married in 1984, I knew the disease would be part of our story. But neither of us could have predicted how hard that road would get. Scleroderma stiffened her joints, constricted her esophagus, and eventually began to compromise her lung tissue. By the mid-'90s, oxygen tanks became part of daily life, and regular visits to pulmonary doctors eventually became the norm. By the early 2000s, we realized that without a transplant, she wouldn’t make it.

We were living in Chicago, having moved back after several years in Santa Fe, NM. One unexpected thing we’d noticed: when we visited Chicago, which sits much closer to sea level, Debbie didn’t need oxygen. But at 7,000 feet in Santa Fe, the air was too thin. That eventually led to our decision to move back home in 2000, where Debbie could breathe a little easier—but within a few years, her continuing decline brought us right back to the same point.

In 2004, Debbie was finally placed on the transplant list at Loyola University Medical Center. By June 2005, her breathing was becoming more and more difficult, and she was near death. When the Fourth of July weekend passed without a call from Loyola, I felt completely deflated. In my mind, I couldn’t help but begin planning her funeral. There were moments when hope seemed like a distant memory. I can still remember the strain in her voice with the weight of fighting to breathe, and the heaviness that settled over our home like a fog. We prayed constantly, sometimes with words, sometimes only with tears. And then the call came.

It was the call we had been waiting for. It was Loyola, calling in the mid-morning hours of July 5, "Get to the hospital." Lungs were available. A match had been found.

What followed was a whirlwind—rushing to the hospital, praying without words, signing paperwork, talking with transplant coordinators. Everything was moving fast, but somehow time felt suspended. There was adrenaline, urgency, and a quiet undercurrent of awe. Nurses were waiting. It was as if the world had suddenly snapped into motion after months of exhaustion, anxiety, and holding everything together day by day. And through it all, there was this overwhelming awareness: something holy was unfolding.

And by God’s mercy, the surgery was a success. The lungs worked, but not without 70 long days in rehab, much of it on a respirator. Her body had broken down so much that her muscles were not strong enough to use them at first, and the surgery had paralyzed her diaphragm. The lungs were in great shape, but Debbie had a long road ahead. Not just barely surviving, but stepping slowly into a second chance at life.

The months that followed weren’t easy. There were setbacks. There were follow-up surgeries. Infections. Side effects. Fear. But there was also something new: air. Real air. Without tubes. Without a machine. She could breathe. Walk. Sing out loud. Pray aloud. Laugh. I remember one of the first times we danced together again. It was in our living room. The joy of that moment was its own kind of quiet celebration. We held tight to Psalm 18:16—"He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters." That verse became a lifeline during the darkest stretches, and now we were living in its rescue.

This milestone—20 years—means more than a number. It marks two decades of memories we might not have had: watching our kids grow up, becoming grandparents, celebrating birthdays, family dinners, vacations, quiet mornings, and loud holidays. It means twenty Fourth-of-July celebrations that meant more than fireworks and burgers—they became a tradition that reminded Debbie and me of life, of breath, of God’s exceedingly abundant provision.

Debbie shared recently how every transplant anniversary feels like a birthday. In a way, it is. Her life was reset. The fifth of July became a dividing line: before and after. Debbie wrote a letter of thanks to the donor family, though it had to remain anonymous. And while there’s no way to thank them enough, we’ve honored their gift by living gratefully. Fully. Worshipfully.

If you know Debbie, you know her strength—not the physical kind, but a quiet, fierce endurance that comes from the Lord. Though she may appear physically weak, her spirit is anything but. Twenty years ago, she was frail and breathless. Today, she joins in family game nights, plays with the grandkids, and still laughs with that same deep joy that made me fall in love with her all those years ago.

Today, we tell this story not because we are the heroes—far from it. God is the true hero of this story. He walked with us through the valley of the shadow of death. We felt His presence—quiet, steady, and sure—very often. When fear loomed and strength failed, He was there. We remember and honor Him first. We also honor our children, Karin and Eric, who lived this with us, as well as Debbie’s sister Sharon and her husband Ken, Debbie’s parents, and my brother Dave and his wife Pam, who walked every step of that journey beside us. We are deeply grateful for all the family members who stood by us and helped carry the weight of that season, and for the countless friends who sat with Debbie during her long rehab, offering comfort, encouragement, and presence when it was needed most. And most of all, we honor the Lord, who carried us through every valley and lifted us with His promises. As Psalm 18:2 says, "The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge." He was and continues to be.

We live differently now. We know what it means to value each moment. We know the weight and the gift of time. We know what it is to pray desperate prayers and watch God answer them in ways we didn’t expect—but will never stop thanking Him for.

So today, we say thank you. To all who prayed, helped, and stayed near. To all who gave Debbie the support and care she needed. And most of all, to the Lord, who writes stories of resurrection not just in Scripture, but in ordinary lives. Her health challenges continue, but so does our gratitude—for the life she’s lived, and for the continued support of friends, family, and God Himself.

Here’s to 20 years of God's grace—and to every breath still to come.