The guy next to me at this coffee shop seized up and folded forward. On his way down he face-planted onto the communal bench I was sitting on and split open his lip. About a quarter cup of blood made its way out of the gash. A quarter cup might not seem like a lot (or maybe it does), but if you were to smear it on a wooden floor of a coffee shop (and some on your hands and face) it would be more than necessary.
I felt guilty and grateful. Guilt overcame because I felt like I could have caught him on his way down and guided him away from the bench. About 10 seconds before, out of my periphery, I noticed something odd—he was oriented in my direction and slightly shaking. Then he fell out of his chair and onto the bench.
I'm grateful that I have my health. This man obviously had some physiological handicaps. I can't imagine not being able do to something as simple as going to a coffee shop without the worry that I might randomly need medical attention.
With all the possible diseases, conditions and injuries that are possible in life, every day that I have my health is statistically a miracle.