A Surprise Package Arrived

Bury the Ashes. Honor the Life.

I learned many things as I flew through the sky. All three life lessons will help me rebuild the life I need (and want): Make peace (don't keep it); Listen; Enjoy. As I type this description, I think about the picture of mountains and how to move mountains like it says in the Bible (Mark 11:22-25). I am becoming a gentle warrior. This post may be a marker of a new life built on better foundations that will be a testimony to the goodness of God--an undeniable show of His love and His ways.

Good news has arrived ... the piano can be saved!

Set them up. Tear them down. What?

Meet Monday. He lives in Guatemala. His adorable face greeted me when I arrived in August of 2022, a new dog in the household where I stay. At first I didn't understand his name. "MOONdee? Moody? Mahndie? Mandy!" Leo, the Guatemalan who met me when I arrived in the village, introduced me to the pup. Leo does not speak much English, and I had a hard time understanding his accent as he struggled to say an American word. Finally, I heard "Lunes" in Spanish, which means "Monday" in English. I don't know Spanish, but somehow that word clicked. "Monday! Hello, Monday!" Wiggles and wags exploded. That dog LOVES being loved! His fur is so soft that it feels delicious, and he is an absolute cuddle bug. SO FUN! But there is one problem. He . . . urinates . . . on . . . EVERYTHING! Because of that, Monday is not allowed in any of the rooms. He has a penned area in a large portion of the yard complete with a cute dog house. There are times he is free to roam, but all the open areas are subject to piddle mania. Bedroom and bathroom doors are kept closed, but the walkways off of the outdoor spiral staircase are still open for roaming and peeing. I discovered this after I moved my small table and chair outside to write under the vines. It was fair game for the pee stream. Monday and Lobo (the other outside dog) have food bowls on the fourth floor. It used to be an open kitchen and lounge, but it is now a "gated community." Only people and Lily, the pup who is practically a person, are allowed. Lobo and Monday are not allowed "inside" (which is really kind of outside since it is open-air). Their bowls are on the top steps by the gate that keeps them out. The gate is supposed to keep them out. It doesn't. If they are obedient, the pups stay on the stairs. Monday, however, has a reputation for slipping through the bars or under the gate. Lobo follows. Wood pieces have been tied to the metal now, but they still get through when they want to! Chaos ensues. Everyone shouts "¡Afuera!" and chases Monday (and Lobo) back out to the landing. After onlyl a few of Monday's tresspasses, I can add one more Spanish word to my vocabulary. "¡Afuera!" comes as easily as, "Out!" (And it's more fun to say.) While I was in Guatemala, I my mother sent a text to let me know that the results of her biopsy came back: cancer. We sent words of prayer and encouragement back and forth. At one point I said, "I hear in me what I say to the two dogs who are not allowed in the living areas: Afuera! Afuera! So our words when it came to cancer were the same as the pups who tried to tresspass and squeeze themselves into the place where they didn't belong: "Out! Out! Afuera!Afuera!" We said the same to fear. I likened Lily to healing: "Come! Come!" (Which was accurate. She is a delicate princess puppy and doesn't squeeze through anything!) Lily usually comes in quite happy, but she is not bossy. If the other dogs are in the way, she will wait until it is clear. When it is, she prances in and takes up residence. Sometimes all the dogs burst in at the same time when the gate is opened for Lily. That morning as Mom and I texted, Monday burst through and found Lily's food. THEN it was super-hard to get him out! Usually we just do the normal chase while Lily gets out of the way on the sofa. I continued the analogy ... and don't leave anything for fear to feed on! Fear sure can act like those pups. It clambors at every entryway (if you've set a barrier). It will run free and defile everything it can if left to roam. And if it finds something to feed on, it can be difficult to get it back out! I now think of "¡Afuera!" along with a few Bible verses: Ephesians 4:27 (AMPC) 27 Leave no [such] room or foothold for the devil [give no opportunity to him]. Original Greek words give the idea of: Do not grant or give an inhabited room! In other words, I am not giving over my body, my habitation, to those "DOGS" of fear and cancer! 1 Peter 5:6-8 (NIV) 6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 7 Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 8 Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Many translations say, "Cast your care ," but I think "anxiety" is a modern word we all relate to! But here's what's cool: "Casting" is a combination of two words, one with a "direction" element and one meaning to fling ... a fast toss, an immediate, sudden motion. That sounds much like our reaction of "¡Afuera!" Instead of just kicking anxiety out, we can throw it in God's direction. Maybe it's because God is love (1 John 4:8) and "perfect love drives out fear" (1 John 4:18 NIV) . "¡Afuera!" Don't leave any room for anything that does not belong in your life.

Can you believe 2022 is winding down? This year has gone FAST to be sure.  I just happened to come across a concept I had not heard of until I saw an author on Instagram, an older woman who lives in Sweden who wrote a book about döstädning , the gentle art of Swedish death cleaning. [Links below.] How's that for a subject?! From what I see, it looks like quite a light and joyful journey! I am ordering the book on my favorite site: thriftbooks.com . Since this month's word in the "Breathe Collection" is exhale , the thought of döstädning seemed appropriate to consider writing about. Honestly, I wasn't thinking of exhale as anything other than coming to rest, the exhale after a full year, but I am curious about writing with a view to death. If you'd like to join me, here are a few prompts to get us started. I have personally set my atmosphere to include music, dim light, and essential oils. Freewrite on whatever piques your curiosity. Just for fun . . . only write while you exhale (literally). If I said, "Relax! Exhale!" What would you do and why? What do you want to do before you die? Are you ready to die? (Yeah, deep. But I will probably write about this first.) What belongings are important enough to save forever? Why? Write a story connected to one (or more) of those belongings. :-) If you could declutter the happenings of the past year ... What would you toss? What would you keep? Is there anything you would put on display? For example (I know this might be a bit abstract): I would toss the unexplained battles with depression during the last half of the year. I would keep August in Guatemala. And I would put on display the first devotional I wrote for a Guideposts publication (and signed a contract). Here we go! Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: EXHALE Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection . LINKS: Fun post I saw on Instagram: @scribnerbooks (a new book is coming at the end of the month) ... if you like chocolate, you'll love their little video clip with author Margareta Magnusson. Author's Instagram: @swedishdeathcleaning Döstädning Book: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter (The Swedish Art of Living & Dying Series)

Does it Resonate? What does resonate even mean? I had to dive into this a bit since it's time to write about it. The "Breathe Collection" images were chosen first for their look and then given a name. I went on intuition. Now that it's November (and more than halfway into it), I realize that I wasn't so sure what resonance has to do with breathing! My intuitive feeling had something to do with being in alignment--but not necessarily with a breath, just with life . . . or something. LOL. That's the creative mind for you! Turns out, there is quite a lot. I'm actually overwhelmed by the amount of information out there. I won't try to reflect that here. But I'll just say that intuition is pretty cool. There's a bigger world than what I just sensed with my heart. But let's just keep it simple for a writing prompt. This year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "resonate." Let's do something really simple: For one minute, try to breathe in 3 seconds (nose), out 6 seconds (mouth). If you feel calm, change your breathing to a natural rhythm (still in through the nose and out through the mouth but without the longer exhale) and see if you can time it with your pulse. When you feel ready, start freewriting while keeping the calm breathing. If you need a prompt, answer this: "What do I resonate with?" Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: RESONATE Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

Speak Up! Do you know how powerful your voice is? Because I am alone a lot, I sometimes forget to speak. Truly, I do! But my favorite place to speak is in the car when I'm on a long highway. No one hears me there. No one pays attention out there (like they might at a stop light). I declare things there. It's amazing to me how we silence ourselves when others are around. Maybe they NEED to hear someone like you speak up and declare things over your life! As a reminder, this year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "speak." My challenge to you is to take a deep breath and declare some good things! Write about those good things, but yes--really speak them too. You can freewrite however you want, but if you'd like a structure, here are a few options: Think of a time when you experienced injustice. Speak up for yourself on paper. Say all the things you wish you could have said at the time. Write a letter to yourself and "speak" over him/her like you wish someone had spoken over you. Notice the talent and potential of your young self. Acknowledge dreams and desires. Bless your young self with words that could help navigate the best future. Write a list of powerful "I am" statements to speak ... then speak them (preferably every day). What good things need to happen in your life? Write them like a royal proclamation. Level Two Reflection Considering what you just wrote, answer these questions (keep writing it if you have time): What is getting in the way of the good things you want in your life? Notice what triggers those barriers. What kinds of traits or habits do you need to bring those good things to fruition? Food for Thought and Action Step If you don't feel like you have a voice in your own life right now, give yourself grace. But also give yourself a voice behind the scenes. Pen and paper is great! I remember seasons of hiding out in the basement with a notebook and writing out everything that I didn't think I could say out loud. If I could tell that former self something, it would be to actually find ways to SPEAK UP! My heart knew more than my mind did. If I had listened, I may have discovered what was lurking behind the scenes sooner! On the less-weighty side, just remember to speak out loud what you might write behind the scenes. Your voice is powerful! Give yourself words to say. :-) Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: SPEAK Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

September is blurry. I won't bother with the dizziness of my schedule, but it's out of hand. I missed out on key things just because I couldn't juggle it all. This image hits home for that reason. It was chosen for my son when I compiled all the "Breathe" images in this series. I missed my son's 30th birthday . . . twice. Is that possible? Yes. The previous year, I bought a greatly reduced ticket to a writer's conference this year. I did not realize that it overlapped his birthday. We pushed the celebration back a couple of days. My mom and step-dad made plans to travel. I made plans to travel. After a whirlwind month in Guatemala, I had left no margin in my schedule. It was just "laundry and GO!" But I couldn't keep up. I left town late every time. I tried to drive through the night to get to my son. I slept in bits here and there in my car. Then I hit a wall. I couldn't do it anymore. I got a hotel at 4 a.m. and slept. When I woke, I was ill. That was it for me. Not everyone was comfortable being around me with COVID symptoms (I did take a test, and it was negative). I changed course and went to the next destination a day early: a camper on a lake. It is at this place where I contemplated margins and focus (before flying off to the rescheduled celebration, a one-day conference, a nursing home visit, and postponed a trip to North Dakota). I thought about manuscripts and margins. They are absolutely necessary! One-inch margins, double-spaced, with Times New Roman 12 pt font. Always. What's more, each chapter starts one-third of the way down the physical manuscript page. What does my "life manuscript" look like? My draft might have all the formal formatting, but inbetween I've scribbled everything I can fit in! But my challenge was (and still is) that I have too much to fit into my pages. I need to center. And so with this, I give you (and me) a very late writing prompt for September. Stop. Breathe. Center. This is an untimed exercise. If it's difficult to sit and focus without boundaries, go ahead and set a timer for 20 minutes. I am listening to https://youtu.be/lZA4HE7NP0o , so feel free to listen too. Stop everything else. Set your environment (I like instrumental music), and do not write yet. Breathe. Just breathe. That's it. :-) Center. Let your mind get quiet and focus within. Close your eyes and block out external stimuli. If you have music, let your heart feel and respond to it. If you do not have music, contemplate the image with this post. Only write if and when you sense an importance to something you want to say. Level Two Reflection If words did not come during the main exercise, write and reflect afterward. What happened during your time? What does it mean to you? Food for Thought and Action Step I encourage you to embrac e beauty where you find it. Even if the beauty is just giving yourself these handful of minutes to center yourself. I'm quite sure you will see more moments like these by making something like this a practice. What if only five minutes of your morning was like this? What if you did this in bed before ever rising to the day? I think I will try micro versions of this in the morning or evening and see what happens. :-) Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: CENTER Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. Want a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites)? click here

I gasped when I saw the focus this month: SING! Indulge me for a moment, and I'll tell you why. Yesterday morning I hopped a plane (after several rescues from my daughter who came back to the airport twice and then stayed for the final thumbs up--Covid papers; Overweight luggage; MANY SIGHS from me). I landed in Guatemala City and connected with my driver, Sergio. After he helped me get loaded in, he asked through a translation app on his phone if the music was okay. It was instrumental--just piano, jazz. Absolutely it is okay with me! We began to drive and my mind slowed down. These are hymns , I thought. Eventually I said out loud, "I know these songs!" I sang along with one verse and chorus from the back seat. I learned that Sergio's father-in-law is a pastor in Mexico: Vision Tierra Santa (Vision of the Holy Land). Sergio is a Christian and also plays piano. "Jazz? Like this? You play this?" We fumbled around with translations and it seems to me that yes, a little bit, he plays jazz--but mostly Christian worship. He lived in Mexico for 20 years but grew up in Guatemala. He has been back for 3 months. I asked if it felt like home. He said it does. I think about "home" a lot. Anyone who knows me at this point in my life knows that I feel wonderfully launched into an adventure AND horribly displaced. Recently I spent several weeks in a place I lived over 30 years ago. It's where my life took a detour (and I thought it was a leap into destiny). When I left that place, I sang. Music was my life then. When I wasn't teaching it, I was "performing" . . . but I don't like that word. I was offering myself via music to help unite people primarily with God. While I was there, I was at the church my uncle started long decades ago. I imagined myself singing on that stage. It was the same as I imagine myself on any stage of the future . . . I sing my first song to honor God: "How Great Thou Art." I always say it is the song I will sing when I am ready to be visible again. I have not been visible for at least two decades (but God is bringing me out). Yesterday that song came through the playlist during the long journey from Guatemala City to San Marcos La Laguna. I sang it. I sang the whole thing. I sang through tears at the end. The realization that the vision I had years ago about no longer being invisible--me writing in the glass cube on top of a building--was the reason why I was making this trip hit me! I am building that glass cube on top of a building as my writer's retreat and home when I am in San Marcos! And I sang "How Great Thou Art" in the back seat of a car on the way here. Wow. I Hope You Sing! You may not sing in the literal sense, but I'm sure there's something that makes your heart sing. My hope and prayer for you is that you give yourself the room to express whatever that is in your life. As a reminder, this year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "sing." Grab a prompt and let your heart sing! Don't set a timer. Just relax and let yourself revel in the moments. What makes your heart sing? Why? Tell about a time when you released your voice (literally or figuratively) and felt great. Write a poem about singing . . . could be serious or funny. See where it goes! Use my backseat moment and write a story with an unexpected ending. Sing the first line that comes to your head, then write about it. But I want you to really sing it first--out loud! Level Two Reflection Considering what you just wrote, answer these questions (use any or all to explore your inner self after writing): Opposites: What does not make your heart sing? Why? What shuts down your voice? Why? If you could sing one song for the world to hear, what would it be? Why? Food for Thought and Action Step What if you don't feel like you have a voice in life right now? What if you are in a place of silence? Those places happen. I think they are necessary on the journey. Give yourself grace. If you're not singing or soaring right now, write about silence. Better yet, BE silent. Be really silent and see what happens. Set the timer for 15 minutes accompanied by instrumental music that moves you. Don't say anything. Don't write anything. Don't do anything. Just breathe and be. THEN write. Keep this to yourself. I don't want you to censor your own voice! Even if you only have a tiny moment, I'm willing to bet it is a seed of power for the future. Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: SING Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

What makes you laugh? The year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "laugh." Use one of these prompts, set a timer for 5 minutes (or more), and write about: What makes you laugh? Tell about a time when you laughed so hard your sides hurt. Describe someone else's laugh (or your own laugh if you can). Did you ever laugh at an inappropriate or inoppurtune time? What happened? Level Two Reflection Considering what you just wrote, answer these questions (use any or all to explore your inner self after writing): Do you laugh enough? Why or why not? This makes me feel . . . And now I want to . . . Food for Thought and Action Step Joy = Laughter! (At least it does for me.) Are you lauging? If not, take some time to #findjoy . . . and share what you find! Just like collecting tiny stories, tiny joy is powerful too. Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: LAUGH Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection . 

The Gift of Breath (please indulge a longer post about the moment behind this image and my desire for you) It was December when "the machine" arrived. Boots crunched through the snow, leaving a trail of steps that marked the miracle that came to our door. My father relaxed in the hospital bed set up in his living room. The machine hummed. Clear tubes made a path across the floor, up in his bed, around his head, and rested gently under his nose. The tiny ports that tickled his abundant Norwegian nose hairs were like praise hands raised in gratitude. He was sleeping. He was breathing. This image was on my computer as I combed through hundreds of shots to make a calendar. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . the colors flowed in the image much like the breathing I cherished across the room. I thought much of the marvelous gift of breath. I wrote about it. I cried over it. I prayed for healing to come from it. Dad's body released its tension. His lungs seemed eased. A real rest had come to him. He slept long. We had to wake him to move his body for him. He slept through it many times. One position seemed easier than others. If his breathing became labored, we moved him. When it eased, we let him rest longer. "Mom? Mom!" My son's voice broke through my oxygen-laced muse. "I think he stopped breathing." My heart stood still. Time stood still. My legs moved in slow motion across the room. My son and I bent over to listen for breath and watch Dad's chest for another rise or fall. I watched the seconds go by on the wall clock . . . one agonizing tick after another. I wanted to smash the clock. I wanted to force the air to come. I wanted magic. I wanted a miracle. I wanted Dad to open his eyes, suddenly well, all pain gone, a body that was renewed. I know he opened his eyes on the other side that way, but I didn't get to see it. This image was a witness to it all. It became the capstone for this collection. My deep wish for you is that you breathe, truly breathe. Inhale life! Exhale blessing and gratitude. Experience an adventure. Live in a way that breathes so you can catch it, truly experience it, reflect on it, share it, and express your heart - especially to your family and friends. Again, the year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is the hallmark of it all. Use one of these prompts to muse and fuse your thoughts into words. Give yourself some time for this one. If you can set a timer for 45 minutes and add some atmosphere like music, lighting, a scent, a sound, a location (whatever sets a calm tone for you), please do. Muse on this for 5 minutes before actually writing: To breathe means to . . . Use "gasp for air" in an opening paragraph that sets the scene for a story. Write poetry that uses the word oxygen . Do a breathing exercise every few minutes and just freewrite whatever comes to mind. See-Saw Breathe in through your nose - 4 seconds. Exhale through your nose - 4 seconds. Triangle: Breathe in through your nose - 4 seconds. Hold for 4 seconds. Exhale through your mouth - 4 seconds. Double-Double Inhale through your nose FAST - at least double what you would normally. Exhale through your mouth SLOW - at least double what you would normally. Level Two Experience and Action Step If you set your atmosphere, take a picture of it. Mark this moment with an image. If you want to share this moment, I encourage you to post the picture and an excerpt (or a new reflection) about this time of writing. Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: BREATHE Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

How do you catch your breath? The year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "catch." Use one of these prompts and freewrite for 3=5 minutes (or 10 or 20)! When I think of the word catch , I . . . I catch my breath when . . . I cannot catch my breath when . . . If I could catch one moment and hold it forever, I would choose . . . Level Two Freewrite Considering what you just wrote, answer these questions (use any or all to explore your inner self after writing): Why? This makes me feel . . . And now I want to . . . Food for Thought and Action Step This image reminds me of life, the craziness especially. It can be chaos as a whole, but look at those patterns and lines. Each element has a story through it all like a thread in a tapestry. Explore these threads! Regardless of how small they may seem, your tiny stories make stunning elements on their own. You may discover your own priceless gems. Whether you share or choose not to share your discovery, I urge you to begin collecting tiny stories. Get your paper, pen, or computer and get ready to: CATCH Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

What do you want in your garden? What do you want in your life? This month, use your words like seeds and plant them in "future you" and "future others." The year's theme is "breathe," and this month's focus is "bless." I'm thinking of words on the breath that bring blessing. What would bless you? Brainstorm for 3 minutes. No need to write sentences now. What would bless others? Brainstorm for 3 minutes. Now set a timer for 20 minutes (or more) and write with the thought that every mark on your page will come to life. What do you want to see? TIP: You can write these in such a way that you can speak them. I recommend doing that and speaking them often! Of course, if you literally want to write about the blessing of breath, please do! Or anything else that this sparks? Run with it! When I originally chose this image, the phrase "April showers bring May flowers" came to mind. Perfect! Imagine rain coming down full of color and light as you write and saturating the ground, which becomes soft and welcomes your words. How can you bless? Maybe this month you can make it a "thing" to send blessings at every opportunity. Write them. Speak them. Silently send them. Bless! Bless! Bless! Have your paper? Get ready to: BLESS Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

I clicked on the message alert in Facebook. The text was short: “When are you coming home?” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to quell tears that sprouted under my eyelashes. “Home” wasn’t the house waiting for me a few miles down the road my daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and pets. “Home” wasn’t the humble lake home 14 hours away with my son and his dog. “Home” wasn’t the United States of America. “Home” was a village on a lake in Guatemala. Memories floated by as beautiful as the soul behind the words: the morning spent under banana trees, the ease of conversations, the quickness of the hours, the magic spell of tea in the shade and ghee in the sun. It was another world of dirt paths, lush gardens, and hand-made stone walkways. USA life forced my feet on productive paths, with ever-present time ticking away the opportunities to make progress. Lake life in Guatemala had a different rhythm, a different production. Somehow in simplicity, more meaningful work was done under the guise of connection, presence, or benevolence. A flicker beneath my conscious mind felt like a plane ticket turned fan, waving under my nose, “Fly away! Fly away!” while my thoughts corralled my schedule. Two deadlines at the end of the month; Minnesota in the beginning of April; Don’t forget to schedule all those appointments; Get documents notarized and filed; Just three weeks now. Pull yourself together and maybe you can go in May—or June—or July—or August. I shook my head as if to derail the train chugging through my thoughts. It was happening again. Pressure. Piles of to-do lists. Putting off departure dates. Just like December when I threw caution to the wind, tossed frustration aside and cashed in airmiles four months later than planned, I may have to do it again. The other day, I told José that May was the earliest I could come. Now it felt like May was a slow-motion runaway. With demands crowding in, only a miracle could have me on a plane. Not to mention the new requirements for entry: a Covid vaccine, which I had no intention of getting. I bowed my head, eyes still closed, and whispered, “Lord, I want to go to Guatemala. I do not want a vaccine. I’d like a miracle to get me there, please.” I paused and added, “if it be Thy will.” The words were a holdover from formal days of religion. I uttered them to cover my bases, but my heart held the miracle request like a secret love note tucked into a pocket. I continued my conversation in silent thought. You know my heart, Lord. Help me know it too. I don’t want to respond to pressure. I want to respond to the intimacies of Your breath. I just hold space for Your possibilities and my desires becoming clear as I tune myself to Your voice. I peeked at the clock on my computer. It was 11:27, close enough to midnight to make me feel like I should get home from my coworking space and find rest. Should . I frowned at the timed pressure. Every hour or half hour seemed to mark something I should do but wasn’t or wouldn’t get to for a while. Tasks piled upon themselves in my wake. Two weeks passed before the next message. “Did’ja hear the good news?! No more vaccines required to get into Guat!” Two weeks and two days, “Hi, Mamacita” (with a wink). “When did you say you were coming back?” A month had passed. Deadlines still loomed. I vowed to get there soon . . . to the rainforest, to the volcanoes, to the lake and the village and the dogs. My heart reached toward Atitlan again . . . to get to my friends . . . to go “home.” #travel #LakeAtitlan #SanMarcosLaLaguna #Guatemala #SanMarcos #passport #visa #friendship #home #homeiswheretheheartis #LiveLoveGive #RaiseTheRoof #MakeADifference #traveler #TravelLife #DoGood #live #love #give #go

Do you have spring fever yet? I do! I want to get out and breathe (literally). I want to get on the road and explore (literallly). We can do these things in our imaginations too. I remember many times when I felt pent up, and I "solved" it by going to an all-night diner with a book and a notebook. So imagine yourself there with me right now. We met to write. Here's what I propose we do: Freewrite for a while. Let loose. Whatever comes to your mind, write it! Weird, wacky, practical, profound. Just frolic for a bit. It's spring! (Well, almost.) When you've let that mind of yours free from the winter, unwound some stiffness, we can start a guided exercise. Write down something true about the past year. Just one sentence, one fact. At the end of that sentence, turn the period into a comma and add the word "but" . . . . Now explore the possibilities! Have some fun and play into the future of what you can imagine. For example, I might start this way: "Last year was crazy, but it was also an opportunity for curiosity. It fed my desire to travel. Month by month, I never knew where I would be next. Every plan I made changed, but in most cases there was something delightful to devour." At that point, I could go into capturing tiny moments of the last year. Days go by so fast, the we often don't remember later the things we thought in the moment we'd never forget. Did you notice what I did there? I used the "but trick" again. I could have used it more. Maybe that appeals to you. If so, fill your time with buts! If the sentence you first wrote isn't quite gelling, just start with any sentence that's true from the past. Maybe it's a sentence about you. "I was never afraid to _____, but . . ." If it still isn't gelling, how about start opposite. Write something false. Maybe it's something you want to set the record straight about. "Others say I'm _______, but . . . " Breathe into this for just a moment. Let yourself explore a possibility, a truth, an untruth, a hurt, a victory, a dream, teh past, the future. Remember we're at a 24-hour diner, right? So there's no timer on this one. Write for hours if you want. EXPLORE Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

I get desperate sometimes. It's a craving. Time. Expression. Humanity. Productivity. Coffee. I crave it all. And it begets more because inevitably there is some sort of forbidden fruit. In this case, it's forbidden non-fruit. It's also a miniature escape. There's a pattern in this picture. If smart phones had existed, I could have taken a very similar photo in the late 1980s. For some reaons, a patty melt was the golden go-to for an impromptu excursion for decades. Book. Notebook. Water. Coke or coffee (then and now). Greasy burger. Midnight and beyond. I remember a night at Perkins Restaurant & Bakery. Oddly I don't remember the location, but it had to be somewhere between Willmar and Minneapolis, my common route during those days. I spent hours in a booth. Writing. Thinking. Observing. Talking to God on paper. It must have been near the Twin Cities because I remember having a conversation with a group of guys, some of which were African-American. Towards Willmar, which was also close to my home town, Montevideo, it was rare to see any black culture. I also remember a night when I was in the Twin Cities for some sort of school-related conference it seems, but maybe I was just a guest of someone else. I don't remember doing anything other than being there. I was dating someone from the area, and I waited in the hotel lobby for him to arrive for a visit. I was reading a book that I recall being titled Black Like Me , and not long into the waiting/reading, a big group of young black men came through the lobby and noticed my book. We struck up a conversation. They were a part of a performing group going through Minneapolis. I was fascinated! One of them was particularly interested in the story of the book, which was relayed from the experience of a reporter who posed as black in the south. I gave the book to them. I think they may have been from Portland, Washington, because I felt like I sent my book there. Looking back now, I wonder if he is out there telling this story to someone else. Two quick notes about that. First, I ran across that book again! Not mine originally, but that book itself. I never finished it. I think I will soon. Maybe this summer. Second, that night so many years ago was exhilarating for me but not for my boyfriend. His first response when he saw his girlfriend surrounded by a group of black men was a protective fear. I remember trying to introduce him, and felt like he was rude. These guys were fascinating! He just wanted to whisk me away. We talked afterwards. In his suburb, there were no black people. To me, it was ridiculous. But I had the benefit of colored family members. It was one of the things that I talked about with those young men. They were intrigued to see a white girl reading Black Like Me . I was intrigued that they were intrigued! I wonder now if it was actual fear? Or jealousy? Maybe both. I experienced jealousy later in our relationship. Oh the situations of the past. Some wonderful. Some remarkable in ways that can be a little scary. I am thankful for God's protection over my oblivion. Through the years, I disappeared to 24-hour restaurants from time to time. Often I had an agitation of some sort. It's the flip side of the craving coin. In a way it was an escape. Akin to taking a vacation on my bed, it was a miniature adventure that I could afford. I never thought of it in the way that I couldn't afford a "real" vacation. I was comfortable using my imagination. But really I see it now as being mindful. I stepped aside from the flow of life and stopped myself in a booth somewhere accompanied by the Spirit of God, a book, and a notebook. In those days there was no phone with Bible apps or ebooks. Real books on real paper. I do that today. I escape. I attempt to tune in and tune out. I crave connection in my heart. I want the world to stop. But I also want it to go on without me so I can stand aside and watch. Not long ago I read that notebook from the night in Perkins. When I read it, I remembered. I loved seeing how much I noticed and wrote. I want to do it more.

February Writing Exercise--EXPRESS Share your pleasure or pain with story and emotion. What do you love? What do you hate? Why? Who do you love and why? Tell a story where love played a role. Share an experience that shaped your life. Consider sending your expressions to others this month.

Sweat beads gathered. First, the forehead, then the upper lip. Oh yeah! I need a fan! I never remembered it when I was away from my tiny office, but at the first sign of internal heat I regretted forgetting. My tiny, trusty (and slightly rusty) desk fan sat unused at home ever since I resigned my full-time writing job the year before. The face of it had fallen off, but I kept it with the intent of putting it back together or turning it into something quirky and fun. But where to put a fan? My temporary desk was thoroughly cluttered. There was only room for my arms to rest while I typed. The rest was strewn with manuscripts, alligator clips, highlighters, mechanical pencils, headphones, a coffee cup, and The Chicago Manual of Style . The only place was the floor . . . Wait a minute! There was a floor fan in my neighbor’s curbside trash array just two days ago! The fan was not what pulled my initial interest. There was a cool cart with a retro feel. I had considered pulling it out of the pile and maybe even the fan, but it was dark and I wanted to be sure I could clean anything before I put it into my car. Sadly, the neighbor was prompt with the trash pickup and the small mountain was gone by the next morning. I imagined the fan redone in bright colors and sitting on my office floor. How hard could it have been? Take it apart, clean it, and spray paint! I probably wouldn’t have stopped there. I moaned inwardly, My idea came too late! Imaginations drifted to college memories and my tendency to scribble on everything with paint my aunt had given me. The array of colors came in tubes with ball-point tips. It was like writing! Literally. Have ball-point paint? Everything is fair game. Shoe boxes, lamps, pillow cases, sheets, shirts, mugs, even the desk—everything had scribbles on it. A smile came with the memory and faded. What good is a memory? I wondered. It’s just time spent in the past with things that cannot be changed. The forlorn fan in the neighbor’s yard came to mind again. It sat waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . for vision or fate . . . maybe even for me. I could have changed its trash heap fate, but I didn’t have a vision for it then. I pondered the similarity for people. A natural course of life happens without vision at all. A soul is set in a body and plopped into the center of a scenario like the fan. This life we walk out day by day may just be our long walk to the curb where we yield to “fate” and wait, doing our best to stand tall and proud while we’re on display in the earth. But what we need is vision. Vision could have rescued that fan. Even just my vision, had I realized it in time, could have not only rescued it but given it a new, bright, fun life. I thought about how many things I had rescued that lived in my garage or were stored somewhere still waiting for my touch to renovate or restore them. There were other collections of useful things that I could donate or sell . . . still waiting. Those objects did not have much improvement in their fate yet. They were just kept warm and dry while cluttering space while they waited. Oh my Gosh! There's more to it! It wasn't just the vision that changed the situation. It was the action (or lack of it) that affected fate! The revelation caused me to muse, Maybe that’s what a redeemer is? Someone with vision who acts? Maybe it's someone who picks up the pieces and sees a new future, someone who doesn't just rescue us from the curb of life but takes us in, takes us apart, cleans us up, and puts us back together better than we were before! It would have to be someone who dreams bigger dreams for us than we do. I looked to Heaven, winked, and whispered, "I know someone like that!" This time my smile didn’t fade. For the first time, I had a solid idea of what it looked like to be in “redeemer’s shoes," the curious phrase God mentioned the year before on a heartbroken retreat in Mexico. After the whirlwind of my father's death, the request of my employers to resign so I could handle his affairs knocked the wind out of me. I thought I would breathe on the beaches of Cancun, but I usually just sobbed in the exquisite suite. Even so, God planted seeds in my spirit: gentle warrior, redeemer’s shoes, and Psalm 78. Stepping into “redeemer’s shoes” was more of a concept than a concrete action plan. I studied my usual way and looked up scriptures and words for clues. At first I felt like I just stepped into my father’s shoes, but the sense of redemption grew over time. When I was in Guatemala and came across a young boy saddled with 12 years of debt after his parents passed away, I redeemed him from his debts. After that, I looked for ways to redeem. But it faded as responsibilities mounted. I escaped to Guatemala again, but it was different, more demanding. After I returned home for the holidays, I ran to keep up with commitments. The only redemption at the forefront of my mind was my own . . . until today. The simple vision of a fan. The simple thought of an idea being too late. The simple wondering if that’s what redemption looks like—new ideas, vision that usurps fate. I twirled in thought on my chair, Ideas! It was one of my magic words. I can wrap my heart around that. Redeemer stuff? I don't know. But IDEAS I can do! “And you can follow them too,” the Voice said within. “You can trust your ideas. You can trust your heart. You can trust because it's Me within you. Just trust Me. I'm with and within you.” I softened at the holy words. The familiar, Heavenly Voice always carried a dimension of gentle power that fueled my heart and mind. “Thank You,” I whispered. Tears came like an expected friend with a warm hug. That was normal for me. I am a crier, whether it be happy or sad. If my heart is moved, I cry! But then I felt a silly, lopsided grin spread from somewhere deep within and screw itself onto my face, whirring to the imaginations of wild and wacky projects parading through my mind. The sensation came from the same place that fluttered when I had a great idea as a kid, often a surprise for someone and the anticipation of the encounter. It reminded me of when I waited across the hall from the bathroom and could barely contain my giggles while waiting for my brother to discover the inflatable gorilla in the shower. (He made no mention of it; a huge let down!) Or the time I orchestrated a surprise for a friend under the cover of darkness and couldn't wait to hear about the encounter; I engaged it and threw rocks at the window until my friend woke and came to the door only to be greeted by an avalanche of packing peanuts. (Fun!) Memories brought more memories and smiles. At one time, I was an endless source of energy and fun, always ready to pull someone out of a "normal" existence into an unexpected experience. I whispered again, this time with a lilt in my voice and a twinkle in my eye, “I think I’m beginning to see it, Lord.” He matched my twinkle with His voice, “Yes you are, sweet one.” He paused as if watch my reaction. A glitch flickered through my smile. I didn't voice it, but regret was tugging at me for not having seen or understood early enough. The Voice continued, "PS. With Me, you're never too late. I'm THE Redeemer. Redeeming time is my specialty." Oh yeah! I laughed. It seemed obvious with God's voice speaking to my heart. Of course! I couldn't redeem the time on my own! Excitement burst through my thoughts. This was a partnership! Joy tugged at my heart like a child waiting to be fully noticed. I yielded like a waterfall to gravity, and the thrill of trust splashing into Him woke me from the stupor that snuck in over the year. I looked at the calendar: February 1, 2022. I may be a month late, but I think my new year just started now!

This is a timed freewriting exercise with a theme. Set a timer for 10 minutes (or listen to 2–3 songs) and write or doodle whatever comes to mind. Your topic may turn into something completely different. Just keep your hand moving! Don’t stop until the time is up. My current inspiration is the gift of breath, so this month your theme is: INHALE Ready . . . set . . . write! PS. If you would like to have a matching notebook for each month and theme (or just your favorites), click here to see the collection .

The exotic draw of fire and dance brought a crowd to Vida [short for Vida Cocina Creativa (Creative Kitchen Life), a restaurant on the shore of Lake Atitlan in the village of San Marcos La Laguna]. As the first showing ended, the dancer "ate" each flaming torch from his fire fans. The word pictures are so rich for me. We watch in awe as others face flames. We applaud. We are entertained by the years they invest. We avoid our own fire. We are timid to burn. We turn our faces from blinding brightness. But what if we didn't? It brought a scripture to mind: Isaiah 6:6-8 New Living Translation 6 Then one of the seraphim flew to me with a burning coal he had taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. 7 He touched my lips with it and said, “See, this coal has touched your lips. Now your guilt is removed, and your sins are forgiven.” 8 Then I heard the Lord asking, “Whom should I send as a messenger to this people? Who will go for us?” I said, “Here I am. Send me.” What if we let truth burn so deep that we yielded our earth-life to its holy fire? What if we communed with God in a place of flames -- passion, purity, and release? What if we gazed into His brightness and took it as our own? Then we would have something to say.

I heard paws pouncing on the plastic carpet guard in the office. Synneva was snorting at an insect buzzing on the floor near the desk. It was yellow and black. A bee? "Good girl," I encouraged her. "Get that thing!" She looked at me with ice blue eyes as if to reply, "Seriously? You want me to eat it?" I did imagine it. But I was also stung in my mouth this summer when I was working at the outside table and didn't notice a bee in my tea. Not fun. "I get it girl." I patted her and thanked her for downing the insect at least and sat down at the desk to work. Synneva barked and leapt at the window. Another flying foe! I took a fly swatter to it. When it fell, I noticed five others on the ground. What? Five? Something's not right. I made a mental note to ask my son about it later. While I was writing, I heard a buzz at the far bank of windows. I went there with my swatter and found a large bee (at least I think they are bees). Where are all these coming from? I hit it more than once before it was dead. When it fell, I noticed the carpet was dotted with winged black and yellow bodies. Good Lord! What is this? I thought of the old, unused air conditioner that had had a buzzing swarm outside the wooden casing during my previous visit. The neighbor said the bees weren’t as bad this year. I wondered, Is there any honey inside there? I didn't check, but I did imagine myself Googling beekeeping and wondered how much a bee suit cost. There were no bees in the house before. I didn't even know it might be a problem! I examined the old unit inside and outside. No bees there. Curiosity called, and I decided a body count was necessary. I pored over the floors by windows and the side door. There were 92 bees at least, some still wiggling on the carpet. I stopped counting when I noticed another bee in the window and swatted him--just one swat this time. Are they coming in to die? I thought of my father. That's what he did. He came home to die. The bees mostly gathered at the place where the foot of his bed rested. My heart melted and stung with the memory, but this time I did not weep.

This boy. :-) He is the one who expanded my heart to see that I could do more--even for just one person. I shouldn't call him a boy or a kid. Enio is a fine young man who is raising his younger sister after the death of their mother. I wrote about him a bit here: Thirteen Years in My Pocket Enio's serious, kind, and faithful soul marked me again in recent days. He is very young (at least to me--20 years old), yet very responsible. I see him follow through in detailed ways as he works (his boss is my host in San Marcos, Guatemala ). Even when it is not his job, Enio helps others. I observe his ways in contrast to other young men his age (former coworkers) who are involved in a very serious situation against his boss. John 10:10 (AMPC) is playing out before my eyes: "The thief comes only in order to steal and kill and destroy." I won't take long to explain, but a large amount of building materials were charged and sold (stolen!) supposedly to get money to escape to the USA for the "American dream." Once discovered and legally pursued, death threats came. Accounts of other destruction came in, and death threats spread to anyone connected to the side of good. It is tempting to step back. I see the questions weighed. I see a generous and caring man wrestle with the hurt and weight of doing good and yet facing evil. I see others rally around him. I also see an instruction in Romans 12:21 (AMPC): "Do not let yourself be overcome by evil, but overcome (master) evil with good." I looked up the word they translated as "overcome (master)" to find nuances of meaning. I found the Greek word nikáō from nikē . Familiar word, right? Nike: Just do it! But here's what I found: "to conquer; to carry off the victory, come off victorious," and "when one is arraigned or goes to law, to win the case, maintain one's cause." Hate will come toward us without a cause. I heard this referenced the night before this particular situation exploded. John 15:24-25 (AMPC) 24 If I had not done (accomplished) among them the works which no one else ever did, they would not be guilty of sin. But [the fact is] now they have both seen [these works] and have hated both Me and My Father. 25 But [this is so] that the word written in their Law might be fulfilled, They hated Me without a cause. But we maintain our cause and come off victorious by using good to overcome evil. This is enough for me! I am a stranger in this country. I do not know who "deserves" help, and I see more need than I can meet. But my heart is glad that the first person to inspire a kindness one-to-one is a young man with good character. So I will continue to do good when I am able and my heart leads. If evil comes and reviles, I will maintain my cause.

Sunset now spent, chilled panes reflected my bare face against the black night. Enough light spilled from the windows to illuminate the edge of a snowdrift that grew with the wind. Signs of life winked across the lake as families huddled in their homes, warm despite the blizzard. Is anyone else alone? Surely I’m not the only one. It didn’t feel like Christmas Eve. My family traditionally celebrated on the night before Christmas. Finger foods and gifts fed our gaiety. As children, I and my brother thoroughly shook all the packages in the days before. Anticipation was high and didn’t end with the call for bedtime. In the morning, we woke to stockings that were mysteriously filled with small treats and presents. This year, Christmas was at my dad’s house. He had long passed by the traditions of decorations and celebrations. I asked if he wanted a tree. He didn’t. He asked in return if I wanted one. “I don’t need a tree, Dad,” I replied. In the moment, there was contentment. I didn’t want to spend any unnecessary money. Time was precious, and spent together in this way was already a gift. Days later, my son mentioned a tree and how it would look good in the same spot Beth had imagined one. All three of us decided that maybe this year--just this once--yes, a tree would be good. It became my thrifty mission the next day. With small donations to the Salvation Army and Boy Scouts, I returned with a tree stand, ribbons, bells, and a pine tree small enough to fit in my compact car. I and my son worked to erect the tiny treasure near the fireplace where it could be viewed along with the lake from Dad’s hospital bed, now part of the living room furniture. Decorations and lights came from my aunt and uncle. More additions were made from fake flowers from an “explosive cake” gift from another aunt. Another trip to the Salvation Army yielded silver balls and some greenery for the fireplace. It actually looked like Christmas! Gifts waited under the tree and a fondue was prepared--all to be enjoyed when my son returned from his shift at a local gas station. In the meantime, it was quiet. Beth needed some time to reflect. Reveries tightened as my eyes focused on the mirrored image in the window. My father’s home rested behind me in a triple-layered vision on multiple floor-to-ceiling panes. His bookshelf rose to the vaulted ceiling separating the office from the kitchen. I sat at his desk--strategically positioned to easily watch Gunsmoke in the living room or look out over the lake--and tried to discern book titles reflected over my shoulder. Dad didn’t read much any more. His bookcases were filled but dusty. Actually, Dad didn’t read at all now. At least not “earth books” like those he collected over the years. I lifted my heart and silently asked, Dad? Are there books in Heaven? In the next beat, a regret fell along with tears that kicked me in the gut. We should have written a book. It had been a project I hoped would spark his zest for life in recent years. Like everything else, it gathered dust instead of momentum. Even his binoculars on the windowsill gathered cobwebs. She wondered, Do cobwebs gather that fast? Do you have massively productive spiders? Oh wait. Maybe the virus? There was no housekeeper for months with coronavirus precautions and quarantines. Even so, it indicated he hadn’t touched them for some time. He used to pick them up to see the life happening on the lake. If a loon called, his eyes were in the lenses for a close up view. I didn’t touch those cobwebs. They spoke too much, and I didn’t want to silence the voice that reminded me of what Dad liked. Other areas were fair game! I dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed, and attempted to restore the house to order. My son lived there as well, but since “Grandpa” went to the hospital, he had been doing little more than showing up to work, talking to doctors, and drinking beer. My heart ached at the thought of her son having everything on his shoulders for a few weeks. My son and I became a team as soon as the hospital turned into hospice. I laugh to remember the first night when two-person care was needed at 2 a.m. and my son stumbled about only half awake. He grabbed tiny moments with pillows on the floor, moaning about how tired he was. It reminded me of becoming a mother--the sparse sleep, the half-awake feedings. Demands had been high for a while. Even when my son was “on duty,” I listened with a baby monitor as I tried to sleep in Dad’s bedroom. No one slept much or well. Memories of recent days are as blurred as the reflections in the windows, only illuminated by writings as I updated family and friends. Yet some moments were sharp and pierced through the blur with painful gratitude. I knew I could never grasp the magnitude of holding my father’s hand to my chest and pouring out my soul during his last hours. My mind and heart will never let go of my son’s simple call from the other side of the room, “Mom?” The two waited for the next breath. It never came. Maybe I’ll write your book for you, Dad. Maybe those days together were our seeds to be planted into pages? My thoughts drifted to the possibility of not closing the book on my dad’s story. In a way I picked up the ball when I started posting his health updates. A noise scuffled in the front entryway as my son stomped the snow from his feet. Whew! He made it home in the storm! He pulled the snow-crusted beanie from his head as he entered the room, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas.” I agreed and choked back tears, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas at all.” But inside I knew it was the most significant Christmas of their lives. From dust to dust , I thought. Imaginations came to my mind of the grave that allowed a more “natural” burial for her dad’s body . . . a breathable liner (so the funeral director said) . . . wood in concrete . . . frozen flowers scattered on the casket from above . . . a temporary marker waiting to identify a temporary life on earth. When the dust settles . . . I didn’t finish the sentence. It was too overwhelming. The list of to-dos for the estate and wellbeing of those my father cared for was long. It was time to step into his shoes. I took the deep breath that my father couldn’t and vowed, I'll do my best, Dad. If you can do it, so can I . I knew it would be step by step, lesson by lesson. But I'd rather have you here. I have so much to learn. Tears pooled again. Cooled by the wintery window, they left chilled trails on my cheeks. I bit back with determination, clenched my jaw, and picked up the neon-green duster by the desk. My arms opened upward in dedication, and I nearly laughed at the dramatic pose and what my father may think from his heavenly balcony. I embraced it and committed with an inward wink, I know I need to start somewhere, Dad, so I guess I’ll start dusting!

It’s 12:08. No one has peeked in! I wonder . . . My thoughts floated toward my father. 12:10--still no one. Maybe they won’t notice? My defiance was unintended and reluctant. Midnight had come, but I didn’t want to hurry away just because a clock completed its revolution. No visitors were allowed beginning November 25, 2020, which was now 12 minutes in. Just a little longer , I told myself. Once I left, I couldn’t come back and didn’t know how long visitation would be closed down. I’ll stay as long as they’ll let me stay , I resolved. Quiet enveloped me and my dad. He slept still, deep, and peaceful in the hospital bed. The television was on--familiar light and sound for him. My laptop, dimmer and softer, played voices of ministers familiar to me. Occasionally the regular bustle of nurses rose into a wave of activity from the station outside my father’s room. Often it was the one patient who cried out in pain. I prayed for him and all the others spending Thanksgiving in the hospital. Peace for all. Peace be in this place. Peace to all bodies and minds. Grace be upon those helping the . . . Nearer noise interrupted. My heart held its breath, I hope . . . A nurse walked around the curtain that hid Beth’s presence. Crud! She stopped a moment before introducing herself. Beth couldn’t tell if she surprised her. Masks, goggles, and hair coverings left very little to decipher except voices and body language. “I’m Kelly.” She bent down and spoke softly as if to a child, “I’m not going to enforce this, but no visitors are allowed as of midnight.” Her explanation slipped through my ears, forgetting the words the moment they were spoken. The nurse concluded with something else about people staying overnight--frowned upon, it seemed. “I won’t make you go home at this hour, but when morning comes, they will make you leave.” I nodded as the nurse continued, “You won’t be able to come back.” Beth nodded again. “There are some exceptions--” “Exceptions?” My eyes raised with expectation. She looked at the clock as if to acknowledge the time and turned back to the nurse. “How do we . . .” Words left. Tears came. “I don’t know. It’ll probably be based on the patient.” She explained more and more and more and more--end of life, caregiver needs, children. It jumbled in my mind while I sorted through possibilities. I wanted to qualify. None of the parameters fit, and I realized I was glad they didn’t. When it came to end of life, it was great to be unqualified! “I guess that’s a good thing if he doesn’t qualify?” I hoped for affirmation, but the nurse was already busy. I continued anyway. “He’s doing well enough to . . .” I reached for a tissue and started again, “He’s been getting better and better . . .” Words failed. Tears blurred. I whispered, “That’s what we want, even if we can’t . . .” Nurse Kelly finished and turned back to me, “Do you need anything?” “No.” “Water?” I reached for her water bottle and shook it. “Oh yeah. Water. I drank all mine.” My stomach and mind berated me for not asking for food. My arms complained that she hadn’t requested a blanket. Give me a break, guys! I can’t think, okay? The nurse returned with water and a willowy assistant. They made quick work of washing and repositioning. The assistant was stronger than she looked and leveraged her height with sheets and sometimes just her arms to hold my father on his side. It was impressive! I had not observed how nurses accomplished these things. I always left the room when more intimate care took place. This time I barely moved--just adjusted the chair and impromptu desk to the side enough for a person to get between me and my father--then kept my face focused on the computer screen. I hoped to catch some conversation and movements as the nurses worked, but they were done before I had my wits about her again. Nurse Kelly slowed as she wrestled with the CPAP machine. I barely knew anything about it and was no help. Another RN was called, and they both wiggled and jiggled and pushed and pulled. After trying tape, they abandoned the project as the best they could do for now. Kelly’s loud voice barely roused my father, “Are you comfortable?” A slow, barely discernible nod was his response. She turned to me, “I think he’s sleeping through all of this!” I noticed how all nurses--especially the lead ones--talked in loud tones to patients, but normal tones to each other or anyone else in the room. “Yes,” I replied. “He’s been sleeping so well tonight!” My mind piped in, Sleeping is healing! I dismissed it as corny and tried to create other variations to say out loud. It was too late. Kelly was out the door. I got up and readjusted her father’s blankets. Most nurses didn’t pay enough attention to know that he liked to have his shoulders covered. Maybe I got that from him. The thought of bare skin exposed to bedtime air made me instinctively burrow. I moved my chair and table back beside the bed and rubbed my arms. Should have asked for blankets! I considered stripping the therapy chair to get to the sheet below. Two larger-than-life pee pads stood in the way. They didn’t have any liquid, but conversations about poop, blood, and catheters gave me a chill. I’ll just deal with it. It’s only a few hours. Dad’s eyes flickered. It reminded me to keep praying beneath my mask. I probably didn’t need to keep a vigil; he was in good hands. Every day he improved in some area. Wait. Where is the paper? I peeked gingerly near his head as if it would have survived the vigorous duo who washed him earlier. I surveyed the surfaces nearby but didn’t spot the scrap torn from my notebook a week before. Hmmm. Did they notice it? The sheet was written upon briefly explaining the prayer of my friend for him. After he fell asleep, I tucked it in by his pillows. Hopefully it’s somewhere touching his body--or close. I read the note to him earlier. We laughed together about the slow mail and how I arrived before my card did. It held the note among other things. I read the card and scriptures to him before explaining how my friend was healed and wanted to pray for him, so put her hands on an open spread of my notebook and prayed. Much like the prayer cloths their church believed could carry anointing, they figured paper could hold it too! The letter also contained a printout about a book with research showing the healing effect of positive words. I highlighted all the portions that seemed important before adding my own words to the end. “Keep saying, ‘I am strong! God makes me strong! Strength comes to me!’” He smiled as I read it that afternoon. When I pulled the confetti out of the envelope, he laughed. It was practically my signature. “You need to experience it!” I sprinkled the colored slips of paper on Dad’s hospital bed. “I’ll pick it up. I’ll pick it up.” Confetti was always worth the pick-up. This time it was especially worth it--his smile and laughter delighted me. A silhouette in the doorway pulled me out of the reverie. Silent tennis shoes topped with scrubs moved in just past the edge of the curtain. I didn’t look up, but noted that he seemed male. He peeked and left. I’m sure no one wants to ask me to leave. I understood. How awkward to have someone posting a gentle vigil by her loved one before being separated by covid regulations. But someone would have to make the uncomfortable ask. I intended to take every minute I could get in the room. A commercial with an operatic voice drew my attention to the television. Crackers. Is this for real? Crackers? Opera? Bliss crossed the face of an actor as he bit into the crispy snack. My stomach tightened as the laptop chimed in, “Respond to that hunger!” The minister’s message quietly streaming online made me laugh. It was intended spiritually, but the timing was spot on. I wished I had brought the bag of cashews still in the car. Why didn’t I? I imagined sneaking a quick trip to the parking lot, but it was more torture than satiation. I knew I probably couldn’t get permission to be allowed back in. The snack would have to wait while the impromptu overnight visit unfolded. Even though this all-nighter was not anticipated and I usually slept early, I didn’t feel sleepy tonight. I was wide awake despite the white noise of oxygen, pump cycles, and an unexplained low hum. The significance of these moments made little difference to anyone else. It was just me. How could I let even one moment slip by in sleep? I imagined it would be meaningful to my dad too--but he would not know if they chased her out before he was awake. The thought of leaving without one last bit of communication brought tears to my eyes again. Damn Covid! I startled myself with the swear word, then realized it was appropriate. Yes--damn you, COV ID-19! I damn and condemn you. STOP! My mind spat the words around the world. How many families had been hit and hurt by isolation or separation? My mind couldn’t fathom it. Everyone? Has everyone felt it? What about those remote, uncivilized places? Is life the same as usual for them? The modern world of management and reporting had good intentions, but I wondered if world populations would be better off without the “help” of the media and government orders. A stirring from the bed had me on my feet when I realized my dad was uncomfortable. I adjusted the pillows and towels that propped his head. His eyes flickered open and focused on my masked face. “Hey, Dad,” I whispered and rubbed the bald top of his head. His eyes closed again. I wonder if that was my only moment with him? I lifted my mask to take a drink from the water bottle and wished I had thought to lift it when he looked at me. I set the bottle on the hospital tray that held everything for my vigil and remains of Dad’s pudding-like food and drinks. Another goggled stealth nurse popped in, “I’m just checking on him--making sure he’s okay.” I half mumbled and nodded. I was more concerned about getting my face mask back on or getting the water back to my mouth as a reason for having my mask off. I marveled at the split-second spin my mind put on the moment. Wow! That instinct is FAST! The awareness that it would look like I was recklessly breathing maskless caused immediate panic and instant strategy to illustrate the moment by draining the bottle of water. I’m so weird! SO WEIRD! Now out of water, I settled in and returned my focus to breathing quiet prayers, letting my heart express things beyond what I can understand. That was about the only benefit I could think of for the mask requirement: no one could tell that I was praying under my breath. Maybe it was fine to mutter spiritual things in full view, but this way it drew no extra attention. Most people in this area, at least that I was aware of, didn’t pray in other tongues like the Book of Acts described in the Bible. Lutheran churches dominated the landscape and my own childhood. I loved Martin Luther and was proud of the reformation he began, but as far as I knew, Luther didn’t go that far. I assumed that the effect of hearing someone speak in tongues might be what it was for me the first time--FEAR! There’s no need for that , I told myself. Right now, I didn’t want a barrier that might interfere with my purpose or side-rail my time. These moments were dedicated to praying at Dad’s bedside. I remained hidden in the darkened room. With each passing shadow or shuffle of nurses’ shoes, I hoped for more time. Another moment, please? Just a little bit longer. I want every minute I can get .