The Date That Changed Twice

How July 13 Became Both My Hardest and Most Grateful Day

My birthday is July 14, but for as long as I can remember, I've never been able to think about it without first thinking about July 13. Most people look forward to birthdays, and I do too, but before July 14 ever arrives, my mind always goes back to the day before. It's a date that has shaped my life in more ways than I could have imagined.

I was one day away from turning nine years old. My brothers, the neighborhood kids, and I were outside playing street baseball, just like we had done so many times before. If you've ever seen The Sandlot, that's probably the closest thing I can compare it to. We had our own version right there in our neighborhood. Third base was a tree in our front yard, and that was all we needed to have a ballgame.

A while back, I was looking through some old family pictures when I came across a random photograph of me standing next to that tree. At first, it was just another childhood picture. Then it hit me. That wasn't just a tree. That was third base.

Funny how a picture can do that.

We were in the middle of another game when my mom came running out of the house screaming. I don't remember if we ever finished the game. I don't remember who was winning or even exactly what Mom said. What I do remember is that my Uncle Paul, Aunt Susan, their three-month-old son David, and my cousin Travis had been struck by a drunk driver. Aunt Susan and David were killed instantly. Travis survived. Uncle Paul fought for exactly two weeks before passing away on July 26, 1973. I was only one day away from my ninth birthday. I didn't understand everything that had happened, but I knew life wasn't going to be the same.

We were living in California then, but every summer we made the trip back to Idaho to visit family. In 1973, we had returned home only a week or so before the accident. If we had stayed just a little longer, there's a good chance I would have been riding in that car with Uncle Paul, Aunt Susan, Travis, and baby David. It's not something I dwell on, but every once in a while I think about how close life can come to taking a completely different direction.

Looking back now, I realize something else changed that summer. For almost eight years I had been the youngest in our family. Then, on June 24, 1973, my little brother Greg was born. Less than three weeks later, the accident happened. In what seemed like an instant, our family changed forever. My parents made the decision to adopt Travis and raise him as their own. Mom suddenly found herself caring for a little boy who had just lost both of his parents, while Dad spent much of his time caring for Greg and trying to hold everything else together. Neither of them had asked for those roles, but they stepped into them because that's what loving parents do.

At eight years old, though, I didn't understand any of that. I wasn't thinking about grief, adoption, or the impossible situation my parents suddenly found themselves in. I just knew everything had changed. For a while, it felt like I had lost my parents too. Of course I hadn't. They loved me every bit as much as they always had, but as I looked around, everyone's attention seemed to be focused on someone who needed them more than I did.

As a little boy, all I knew was that life wasn't the same anymore. My parents weren't moving away from me at all. They were running toward everyone who needed them most.

For the next thirty-seven years, whenever July 13 came around, that's where my mind went. Before I celebrated another birthday, I first remembered Uncle Paul, Aunt Susan, and David. That's simply how the calendar worked in my mind. July 13 always came first.

Then, thirty-seven years later, July 13 changed again.

By the summer of 2010, years of kidney disease had finally caught up with me. One thing that still humbles me today had nothing to do with the surgery itself. Long before the transplant ever happened, members of my family began volunteering to be tested to see if they could donate one of their kidneys. They weren't asking what the odds were or whether it would be inconvenient. They simply wanted to know if they could help.

There were six boys in our family, and every one of my brothers said yes. Other family members were willing to be tested as well, and we had already decided that if none of my brothers turned out to be a match, my children would be tested next. It wasn't a conversation anyone wanted to have, but it was one we needed to have.

In the end, it was my younger brother, Rob.

Later, I learned more about what those months had actually been like for him. Being a living donor isn't as simple as finding out you're a match. Rob went through months of medical testing, appointments, and a psychological evaluation to make sure he understood exactly what he was volunteering to do. He and Kaylyn had five young children of their own, and they had to answer the same questions any young family would have to answer. What if something happened to him? What if there were complications? Those weren't easy questions, but they were real ones.

A couple of years after the transplant, Rob spoke at BYU–Idaho about that experience. As I listened, I realized there was a part of his story I had never fully understood.

He talked about the medical testing, the psychological evaluation, and the questions he and Kaylyn had to answer before moving forward. Someone asked him what would happen to his wife and their five children if something went wrong. It was a fair question, and one he couldn't answer on his own.

So he took it to the Lord.

Rob described taking a vacation day and driving to the Rexburg Idaho Temple. He sat in the Celestial Room seeking direction when a thought kept coming to him to open a Bible sitting on a nearby table. Twice he resisted because, as he later explained, he hadn't come there to read; he had come for an answer. Finally, he opened the Bible and found Proverbs 16:9:

"A man's heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps."

Rob came to believe the Lord had been directing his steps all along.

Then he said something that has stayed with me ever since:

"Throughout all of this I remember thinking how much I really wanted to be the donor. Deep down within myself I know why I wanted to donate, but to this day I can't articulate why. They are feelings that are difficult for me to put into words. Just know it is something that I really wanted to do."

When I hear those words today, they mean even more to me than they did then.

While Rob was walking through all of that, my job was pretty simple.

Just hold on.

The transplant team believed we were close enough that, if possible, they wanted me to avoid dialysis. Those last few weeks weren't easy. I spent most of my time at home. Some days I'd get so sick I'd throw up, eventually feel a little better, and then wait for the cycle to start all over again. It became a pattern. Get sick. Recover a little. Wait for it to happen again. The doctors kept telling us we were getting close, so every day became one more day to make it to the transplant.

Through all of it, Kathy Lee was by my side. She was watching her husband grow weaker while holding on to hope that help was just around the corner. I don't know how many quiet prayers she offered during those weeks, but I know she never stopped believing we'd make it.

Finally, the day arrived.

We drove to the hospital together that morning. I honestly don't remember much of what was said on the drive. Months of waiting, praying, testing, and hoping had all led to this day. It had finally arrived.

Before long, Rob and I were lying in hospital beds next to each other waiting to be taken into surgery. Kathy Lee never left my side. Kaylyn was there with Rob, and Ashley and my mom were there too. I remember visiting for a while, but I honestly don't remember much of the conversation. Some moments in life aren't remembered because of what was said. They're remembered because of what was felt.

Then they came to take Rob.

He would go first.

Before they wheeled him away, we looked at each other and told one another how much we loved each other. I don't remember either of us giving a speech. We didn't need one. We were brothers, and in that moment, those three words were enough.

I watched him disappear through those doors knowing exactly why he was there. He wasn't having surgery because he was sick. He was there because I was.

I cried.

A little while later, they came for me. Kathy Lee leaned over, kissed me, and told me she loved me. That's the last thing I remember before they wheeled me into the operating room.

When I woke up, I don't remember who spoke first or what was said in those first few minutes. I do remember seeing Ashley standing near the window in my room, but most of those early moments are a blur. What I remember most is how I felt.

For weeks, my body had been shutting down. I had grown used to feeling sick. I had grown used to wondering how much energy I would have that day or whether I would end up getting sick again. Then I woke up, and almost immediately I knew something was different. After feeling so bad for so long, it's hard to describe how good I felt. I knew something had changed.

Later, my transplant surgeon came into my room with a smile on her face. She told me everything had gone well and then said something I've never forgotten.

"As soon as we connected the kidney, it immediately turned pink. That's when we knew it was working."

It wasn't until the next day that I was able to walk down to Rob's room. He was still sick from the surgery, and neither of us said much.

Every year around my birthday, I find myself thinking about July 13.

For thirty-seven years, that date reminded me of loss. It reminded me of a little boy whose world changed overnight, of an uncle who fought for two weeks before passing away, of an aunt and three-month-old cousin whose lives ended far too soon, and of a family that would never be quite the same.

Then July 13, 2010, gave me another reason to remember the date.

I've thanked Rob countless times over the years, but I don't know that words can ever fully express what his gift has meant. Because of his willingness to say yes, Kathy Lee didn't lose her husband. My children didn't lose their dad. My grandchildren have a grandfather they otherwise might never have known. I've celebrated sixteen more birthdays. I've written books, started a podcast, and had the opportunity to tell stories that matter to me. I've continued serving in my Church. I've experienced thousands of ordinary moments that once weren't guaranteed.

Those ordinary moments are the ones I treasure most. They aren't the big milestones most people remember. They're the everyday moments that are easy to overlook until you've almost lost the chance to experience them. Family dinners, bedtime stories with my grandchildren, phone calls, serving in my Church, walks with Kathy Lee, watching another sunset—those moments have become some of life's greatest blessings. None of them make headlines, but together they've become the life I almost didn't have.

A few days ago, I asked Rob if there was anything he'd want people to know sixteen years later. His response didn't surprise me, but it reminded me once again what kind of man he is.

"I am so glad the transplant was successful, and that things are still going well sixteen years later. Heaven's hand was in, and continues to be in, so many details of this transplant. I'm grateful for His guiding influence."

I feel the same way.

When I was almost nine years old, July 13 became the day I learned that life can change in an instant.

Today, July 13 reminds me of both.

It reminds me to mourn those we've lost.

It reminds me to celebrate those we've been given.

Every July 14, as I celebrate another birthday, I'm reminded that birthdays are never something to take for granted. Mine certainly aren't.

Some gifts can't be repaid.

They can only be honored by the way we choose to live afterward.