The other morning, after my second trip back inside to gather things I’d left behind, Hubby put his key in the ignition of our beloved little station wagon and turned it to the “crank” position. Nothing happened; no “warhnnn, warhnn, warhnn,” no sputter or chug. There were no headlights and no radio. It was pouring rain, thanks to Tropical Storm Ida, we were dead in the carport, and I was already five minutes late for work.

Hubby opened the hood, and I ran around in circles. After various tappings and mutterings and flapping of arms, Hubby declared the battery deceased. I looked out at the driving rain, and shivered in the cool damp. Then I changed clothes, clamped on my helmet, girded my loins, hopped on the scooter and headed down the driveway.

Luckily I know the way to work by heart, because I couldn’t see a blasted thing. The rain spattered on the visor of my helmet, and every once in a while I had to stop and wipe down the plastic with one of my poor old numb-with-the-cold hands. I hit every puddle between my house and the shop, and I could feel the water dripping from the hem of my pants into my shoes. At each stop sign and traffic light, I sat hunched against the cold and scowling at the cars passing by. They were all full of people who got a big charge out of my situation.

When I arrived blue-lipped and waterlogged, a half hour late, The Boss looked up, rolled his eyes and went back to reading his e-mail. He uttered not one word about my selfless sacrifice. Why, I’d risked life and limb just so the citizens of our cold wet city could have the benefit of my customer service skills on that day.

I’d brought along a change of clothes, and after I toweled off and changed, I got down to work. I put the kettle on for a cup of tea and clicked on the television before I picked up my framing tools. The phone rang a couple of times, and I worked with it tucked between my shoulder and my ear, by turns griping and laughing about my adventurous ride to town.

On the television, news anchors were talking back and forth and a shot of Fort Hood, Texas, dominated the screen. I’d been horrified along with everyone else when word came a few days earlier that a gunman had killed 13 men and women, and wounded some 31 others, so I was interested in the memorial service that was scheduled to begin momentarily.

I was captivated, heartbroken and very proud as I watched one of the wounded soldiers being helped to his seat. He struggled, in obvious pain, but he walked while someone carried his wheelchair. One by one, the living victims who were well enough to attend the ceremony limped in and took seats of honor.

When Army Chief of Staff General George Casey began his remarks, I was particularly taken with the Bible verse he quoted. It was from the book of Isaiah and it went, “then I heard the voice of the Lord say ‘Whom shall I send and who will go for us?’ Then I said, here am I, send me.”

I thought about that verse for the rest of the memorial service. I thought about the 13 helmets and pairs of boots lined up that morning out in Texas, symbolizing lives taken by a terrorist. I thought about being wet and grumpy, and irritated that The Boss hadn’t acknowledged my great sacrifice. I thought about the soldier who was so intent on helping the victims that she didn’t realize she’d been shot herself. I thought about the baby inside one of the victims, never to be born.

There I was, warm and dry after all, sipping tea and working for someone who lets me watch television and talk on the phone while I do the work that I love so much. I have a comfortable car for the battery to go dead in, and a trusty scooter to boot. I have dry clothes to put on after a ride in the rain. I have a daddy who, after 46 years, still drops everything and comes running to help change a dead battery. I’m probably not going to be shot by a terrorist, because other people make sacrifices. Other people stand up and say, “Here am I, send me.”

I am thankful.