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I'd never been seriously ill. But the day I felt a severe tightness in my chest, I knew it was time to go to the hospital. When I saw the anxious expression on the physician's face, I knew something was wrong. It turned out I had three major coronary blockages. My main artery was blocked 99 percent.

"If you'd arrived 20 minutes later," my internist announced, "things would have been a lot different."

I thought of all the things I wanted to do during my life, but hadn't done. And since I was still alive I knew God had something else for me to do. So I decided if I made it through all this, I'd accomplish those things.

Over the next year, I faced many challenges—including open-heart surgery. But after the operation, I began feeling better than I had for months. I returned to the classroom as a teacher and to the pulpit as a pastor. I was given the opportunity to coach a high school wrestling team, which I accepted.

Sure, coaching took lots of time. Many nights I came home exhausted, but it was something I'd always dreamed of doing.

Nancy didn't understand, and worried about me constantly. She saw how tired I looked when I came home and tried to convince me to quit doing so much. Why can't she accept that I want to live a full and active life, now more than ever? I don't want my life focused just on my health issues. To me, that's not living.

When Roy called me that afternoon and said, "Meet me in the parking lot. I need to go to the hospital," I knew something was terribly wrong.

Later that night, the physician's words proved my feelings right: "Roy has a major blockage in the main artery to his heart. He needs angioplasty, he may have to have open-heart surgery, or he could die suddenly during the night."

That was a long night. I prayed for God to give us more time together. While Roy survived the night, the next day he had angioplasty and had three stints put in his arteries.

Several days later, as the cardiologist discharged Roy, he told him, "I wish I could tell you everything will be fine now, but I can't. There will be more blockages." With those words the cardiologist planted fear in my mind.

And he was right. Just as he predicted, there were more blockages and more procedures. Eleven months later, Roy needed open-heart surgery. I vowed after his operation I wouldn't leave him overnight again. I was determined to take advantage of every minute we had together.

I lived in constant fear of his death. Every time Roy left the house I wondered if he'd return home. "Do you have your cell phone?" I quizzed him before he left to take short walks. If he wasn't home in 25 minutes I went looking for him. I began to shelter Roy, like an overprotective mother.

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