On Nov. 5, at 7:38 p.m., our lights flickered back on, after almost six days of darkness. A flood of miracles followed: Light streamed cheerfully from as many rooms as we wanted; the fridge groaned into wakefulness and started chilling our food to the perfect temperature for safe eating; cool clear drinking water came streaming out of the faucet, in quantities so generous I could just let it pour over the soapy dishes and down the drain; the toilet cistern filled itself in anticipation of anything slightly non-hygienic that might be nice to have disappear.

We did little dances of delight. And, then, a second wave of miracles followed: Our internet figured its way back to us, somehow, through whatever mysterious systems it follows, and the TV booted up and offered my husband his beloved Sunday night football, suddenly animating the living room with grunts, whistles and brilliant colors.

How could we feel anything but deep appreciation and gratitude? Deep gratitude for those crews from Florida, and other states, who came in their hundreds to help us in our darkness. They figured out how to even approach the three crazy tangles of trees and wires on our road and worked high, in the trees, with their flashlights, late into the night. They came to our aid, solving one problem at a time, so that we might go back to the miracle life we take for granted.

I think about Americans in Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands, who still don’t have power or water after so many weeks, and I wish these wonderful line crews could just keep going and help them too. I’m so aware of how privileged I am.

Sue Allen