Full-Size Candy Bars and Full-Heart Moments

Tonight, the little ones will come around in their costumes—tiny superheroes, sparkly princesses, ghosts with crooked sheets, and zombies missing half their fake blood. Their laughter will fill the street like music, and the air will hum with that unmistakable Halloween excitement. The porch lights will glow, buckets will rattle, and little voices will call out, “Trick or treat!”

It’s such a simple tradition, but for us, it holds so much more.

Last year, we tried handing out candy together. Tim wanted so much to be part of it—to see the smiles, to feel the joy, to take part in the ordinary things that used to come so easily before life changed. But the noise, the lights, the constant motion—it was too much. I saw the seizure coming before he did, that familiar shift in his eyes and body, and my heart sank. I finished the night alone, smiling through tears as I passed out full-size candy bars to the kids who squealed with delight, unaware of the storm that had just swept through our little world.

But this year… this year is different.

This year, he asked, “Can we try again?”

And without hesitation, I said, “For sure.”

Because that question alone—that wanting—means more than anyone could ever know. It means hope is still alive. It means he’s still fighting. It means he refuses to let fear define what our life can or cannot hold. I am so proud of him—of the courage it takes to want again, to try again, to believe that this year could be different.

So tonight, we’ll do it again. We’ll hand out the full-size candy bars—the ones that make the kids light up like Christmas morning. And as we sit together, side by side on the porch, I’ll be praying quietly that he makes it through without a seizure, without fear, just full of joy. I’ll pray that his smile comes easily, that the laughter of children becomes medicine, and that for this one simple evening, life feels normal again.

Because it’s not really about candy. It’s about living.

It’s about taking the moments life gives us—no matter how small—and filling them with love, courage, and gratitude. It’s about making the most of the life we now have, even when it looks different than we once imagined. It’s about seeing victory not in the big milestones, but in the little triumphs: the steady hands holding a bowl of candy, the laughter shared between waves of trick-or-treaters, the deep breath of peace that comes when joy wins, even for a night.

Tim has taught me that bravery isn’t loud or showy. It’s quiet. It’s choosing to try again when your body has betrayed you before. It’s asking for a second chance at something as ordinary as Halloween because it means something sacred—it means being part of life again. And that kind of courage? It humbles me every time.

So tonight, when the doorbell rings and the porch fills with excited voices, I’ll look at him and smile. I’ll see the way his eyes light up, the way his heart softens when he sees those kids beaming up at him. I’ll see the man who keeps fighting to find joy in a world that’s tested him in every way possible. And I’ll whisper another prayer—that this night is sweet, simple, and seizure-free.

We’ll hand out those candy bars—tiny pieces of happiness wrapped in bright foil—and maybe, just maybe, this year will be one of those rare, perfect nights. The kind that feels like grace wrapped in ordinary moments.

Because life now isn’t about what we’ve lost—it’s about what we still get to do together.

And tonight, that means handing out full-size candy bars to delighted little faces, sitting beside the man who refuses to stop trying, and holding onto hope—one small, beautiful moment at a time.