Slowly, Simba transformed from a hyper pup to a disciplined, intelligent dog. And my boys?
They grew too — more patient and more responsible.
And Vincent? He was alive again — his once solitary life now filled with purpose, laughter, and something he thought he’d lost forever.
One morning, he wheeled up to my porch, holding a book.
“I wrote this years ago,” he said, handing it to me. “A guide to training Shepherds.”
I turned the worn pages, reading his careful, handwritten notes.
“You gave me back something I thought was lost, Sandra,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on Simba.
My throat burned.
“We should’ve met sooner,” I whispered.
“Maybe we met at the right time,” he said.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Vincent wasn’t just a neighbor anymore. He was family.
And maybe, just maybe, we had saved each other.
A year later, I found myself sitting in my car after dropping the kids off at school. But this time, I wasn’t staring into nothing. I was watching Vincent in his front yard, setting up an agility course for Simba’s afternoon training.
My phone buzzed with a text from Adam: “Mom, don’t forget it’s Vincent’s birthday tomorrow.
Can we do something special?”
I smiled, remembering how last week, Vincent had helped Ashton with his history project about military service dogs, and how he’d stayed up late telling stories about his time in the service, his voice full of pride and pain.
That evening, as we gathered for our weekly family dinner, I watched Vincent laugh at one of Adam’s jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Simba lay at his feet, protective and loving, just like his predecessors in those old photographs.
“You know,” Vincent said, as the boys cleared the dishes, “I used to think God had forgotten about me. Sitting in that chair, watching life pass by… I thought I was done.
But He hadn’t forgotten. He was just waiting for the right moment to send me what I needed.”
“What was that?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, tears in his eyes. “A family.
A purpose. A reason to smile again.”
Tears of joy welled up in my eyes as I simply nodded. Vincent had taught us that every ending can be a new beginning.
That the wheelchair wasn’t his prison anymore… it was just his seat at our family table.
And as for me? Those morning moments in the car had transformed. Now, instead of wondering about the point of it all, I knew the answer: The point was love.
The point was family. The point was finding purpose in helping others find theirs.
And sometimes, the point was making a disabled veteran smile again.
Source: amomama
