dq. Carried by Grace: A Father’s Faith, a Son’s Fight, and the Long Road Home After a Near-Fatal Electrocution

Carried by Grace: A Father’s Faith, a Son’s Fight, and the Long Road Home After a Near-Fatal Electrocution

In the quiet hours of early morning, when hospital corridors hum and machines keep steady rhythm, Hunter Alexander’s father has found himself replaying the same thought again and again: God touched my son.

It is the only way he can explain what has unfolded over the past two weeks.

He is the first to praise the trauma surgeons whose precision steadied trembling odds. The nurses who adjusted ventilators and medications without missing a beat. The therapists who gently began coaxing movement back into limbs that once hung in terrifying uncertainty. He speaks of their skill, their discipline, their refusal to give up.

But in his heart, he believes something higher carried Hunter through.

Two weeks ago, the 24-year-old lineman lay on a ventilator after a near-electrocution accident that could have ended his life in an instant. The surge of power left devastating injuries. Doctors warned of catastrophic swelling. There were unknowns that no one could predict. And perhaps most crushing of all, there was the possibility that he could lose his arms completely.

For a father standing at the edge of that reality, medicine alone felt too fragile to hold onto.

“I remember looking at his hands,” he later said quietly. “And not knowing if they’d ever move again.”

Those first days were defined by uncertainty. The swelling had to subside. Circulation had to be monitored constantly. Surgeons performed procedure after procedure to stabilize damaged tissue. Infection was a looming threat. Every small change in vital signs brought fresh waves of anxiety.

Yet even in the most clinical moments, hope flickered.

Gradually, the ventilator was removed. Hunter began breathing on his own. The color in his hands improved. Subtle signs of responsiveness replaced the stillness that had once gripped the room.

Now, just fourteen days later, the conversation has shifted from survival to discharge.

They are waiting for hospital approval on a home wound vacuum device — equipment that will allow him to continue healing outside the ICU walls. If everything clears in time, he could be released soon. Maybe even today.

That possibility feels almost unreal to a family who, not long ago, braced for the unthinkable.

Occupational therapy has fitted Hunter with a new splint designed to position his left wrist correctly as nerves and tissues continue to recover. He has begun oral antibiotics to guard against infection. Pain medications are being carefully adjusted in preparation for managing discomfort at home rather than under constant hospital supervision.

These are not dramatic interventions. They are quiet, practical steps.

But to his father, they represent something monumental.

“That’s how close he is,” he said, looking over recent photos on his phone. Photos from just days ago reveal stark differences — reduced swelling, improved positioning, the early stages of healing where once there was only trauma.

He calls the changes miraculous.

Still, the journey is far from over.

Surgery number six is scheduled for next week. Skin grafting is likely necessary to repair areas damaged by the electrical burn. Doctors have been transparent: recovery will not be quick. Nerve regeneration takes time. Strength must be rebuilt slowly. There will be setbacks. There will be frustration.

But what once felt like a fight for survival has become something different.

The rebuilding phase has begun.

And in that transition, faith has deepened.

Hunter’s father does not dismiss science. He does not diminish the expertise that has carried his son through the most dangerous days. In fact, he praises it with visible gratitude. But alongside the sterile language of medicine — grafts, antibiotics, splints — he speaks of prayer.

Friends, coworkers, church members, strangers online. Messages poured in from across the country. Vigils were held. Hands were raised in living rooms and sanctuaries alike.

He believes those prayers mattered.

He believes they were heard.

When asked whether he truly thinks something beyond medicine intervened, he does not hesitate.

“I do,” he says simply.

For Hunter, the next chapter will look very different from the life he lived just weeks ago. There will be physical therapy sessions. Follow-up appointments. Learning new ways to move, to grip, to trust his body again. Adjusting to life outside the constant watch of ICU monitors will bring both relief and anxiety.

But it will also bring something he has longed for: home.

Closer to familiar walls. To his own bed. To the steady comfort of family nearby. To sunlight not filtered through hospital blinds.

For now, the family waits — paperwork pending, discharge plans forming, the hum of machines still echoing softly around them. Each hour feels like a countdown not just to freedom, but to a new beginning.

Whether you see it as medicine, miracle, or a mysterious combination of both, one truth remains undeniable: a young man who once hovered in uncertainty is now preparing to walk out of intensive care and into recovery.

And for a father who feared losing his son — and possibly his son’s arms — that shift feels nothing short of grace.

As Hunter prepares to adjust to life beyond the ICU and closer to his heart — home — messages of encouragement continue to arrive.

If you believe in the power of healing, faith, resilience, or simply the strength of a young man refusing to give up, leave him a note of support.

He’ll be reading.