We sailed on a faux pirate sailing vessel to our snorkel site.

After clambering onto the padded seating that ringed the boat, we were given cauliflower soup in artisan bowls. Truffle oil glistened on the surface, tantalizing on this hot day with a hot soup offering.

The soup was delicious, and the flavor gliding past my palate was unfamiliar and mysterious. Unable to identify the spice profile, I ate it all anyway. It was a traditional island greeting for guests, we were told.

We reached the beautiful dark turquoise waters, and listened to the safety briefing as they anchored the sailboat. At last, into the water!

The sand below was white, and the ghosts of former coral formations lay pale on top of it. Floating, still, I listened to the crunch of the parrot fish as it ate the dead coral, depositing with the rest of the sand on the floor of the ocean.

I swam a bit, looking around, and finding a swarm of infinitesimal fish at the surface – clear, and tiny like gnats. I wondered if this was similar to the krill that the world’s giant whales lived on.

I swam toward the shore, and large coral formations materialized before me. Standing taller than I was, I carefully avoided getting too close. From my safe distance, I could see larger fish cutting in and out between the branches.

I surfaced, cleaning my mask and clearing my snorkel, and turned back toward the boat.

Soon I was over clumps of sea grass. I stilled myself, floating in the rhythm of the sea grasses below – back, and forth. Back, and forth. Arms outstretched, I breathed in the peaceful feeling of being one with the ocean.

Clown fish weaved through the green blades below me, and a blue tang surprised me by racing past me to the left. Various fish of color and size moved below me. I spent several minutes watching, my breathing slow and even. I was an interloper, but not one to disturb the life around me.

I started my move to exit their peaceful home, and smiled at the school of angel fish under the sailboat. I paused again to watch the coordinated movements to and fro, glinting bright on one side, muted on the other.

Reluctantly, I pulled myself back onto the swaying vessel.

Seated again on the thick padded cushion, I relaxed as I dried in the sun. The breeze was comfortable now, and the trip back was much cooler for the dip I had taken in the clear water.

I felt blessed to experience this day in Bonaire.

Six years ago, a tree fell in our back yard.

It was in the middle of the night during a heavy downpour. I was awake by chance, hearing a strange noise I had never heard before. It was a “whoosh”, but amplified by a shudder.

The tree fell backwards and to the side, landing on the four foot fence between our house and our neighbor’s yard.

Because it didn’t land on our roof, hallelujah, we waited until morning to examine the damage.

Half the tree had cleaved off. On inspection, we noticed that the whole fallen portion was rotten from the inside out. It was full of burr holes from the insects that take advantage of dead wood.

We began the task of cutting up the tree and hauling it away.

The long, formerly skyward branches were draped over the fence…and crushing my beloved confederate jasmine.

If you are not from the South or familiar with this plant, it is a vigorously climbing, spring blooming flowering vine. It has little cream colored blossoms that smell like heaven. They are very fragrant, and fill the air with their perfume late spring and into early summer.

The tendrils of the jasmine that had previously rolled like a wave over the fence were now crushed.

As we cut and removed the tree limbs, we removed the smashed the smithereens remnants of the vines.

It was cleaned up. The jasmine had good roots, but no where to go. So it lay on to ground for four years, a riot of waxy emerald leaves, and scant blooms.

Two years ago, we had to get a new fence.

The pile of jasmine was stepped on, disrupted…but still rallied each spring.

Every spring I’ve looked at that pile of jasmine, and mourned the great swell of blossoms that it used to be.

Yet I never did anything about it.

This year was different.

My husband and I bought some lattice, and a sturdy post.

He measured and placed the framework on the fence.

Painstakingly, we separated the serpentine branches of the jasmine, separating the spiny dewberry tendrils from the jasmine vines. One by one, the jasmine vines were placed in between the spaces of the lattice.

The big root system was secured with some fabric, and the whole of the pile that had lain on the ground for six years was now propped up.

You may have had a disaster in your life. Something major that knocked you down – or knocked the wind out of you.

Maybe you have been just a shell of yourself, stagnant, motionless on the grounds that you didn’t feel worthy, or that you couldn’t do it anymore.

You kept trying, though, even as the stings and barbs of the enemy tried to entwine you.

What you needed was someone to come alongside, pick you up, secure you to the Root, show you the way to go again.

If you’re the one that’s struggling, don’t give up. Pray to your Abba Father – He will help you.

If you happen to be the one that sees that pile of growth trying to happen…get in there and help.

I’m looking forward to watching it climb toward heaven again, filling the air with its sweet, soulful fragrance.

It is overcast and 67°.

Outside, the yardwork has been done – attending to the pool, raking and scooping leaves, feeding the birds.

The dogs have had their romp in the yard, running full blast and chasing each other around the perimeter of saltwater.

I’m halfway through my radiation treatments, and I’m tired.

The humidity is a delightful 52%. All too soon, it will be too humid to go outside without being cloaked head to toe in moisture.

While the breeze is sweet, and the air is dry, I open the French doors from the kitchen and the master suite – opened to the screened in porch.

For a few minutes, at least, the air conditioner/heater can be turned off.

These are the moments I savor.

The constant background noise of the pool, fountain, and waterfalls.

The peep of tiny birds heading to the feeder.

The comfortably cool breeze passing through the doors that are normally closed to it.

I’ve got the heating pad on my aching joints, and a book in my hands to read.

First, though, I close my eyes and listen. Feel. Appreciate.

Summer seems far far away.

There’s a challenge going around to come up with a word of the year – something that will be your word for 2024.

My word, after much contemplation and reflection, is “focus”.

Ironic word for me, with my raging ADHD.

Keeping my focus for any length of time is difficult, at best.

Maybe that’s the reason for it.

Focus for me this year will be mindfulness of where my focus is.

Am I focusing on the potential outcomes, or the actual reality? This is a big one. A lot less stress if I stay focused on the right now.

Am I focused on hindrances to what I need to do, or focusing on how I need to do it?

Will I focus on what I have done – or on my list of to-do’s?

Most importantly, do I focus on Who is in control, or what I think I can control?

This focus challenge for me will lead to a lot less anxiety if I can be aware of what I am looking at, and how I am looking at it.

I am focusing on the moment to moment. The “now”. Step by step.

I think this will help me a lot in 2024.

It was 1970 something, and I was in the second grade.

I was six years old, and our class was presenting a Christmas play for our friends and family.

For weeks we had worked on our little version of “Twas The Night Before Christmas”.

We had gathered our costumes from items requested by our teacher from our parents. We made a mantle and faux fireplace where Santa would come through and make his appearance.

There was a 6’ long table behind the fireplace, hidden by the festive prop. At the appointed time, the little fellow playing Mr. Claus would slide off the table, and come through the chimney, much to our dramatized surprise.

I was Mama in her kerchief, rocking safely in a rocking chair, pretend knitting in my lap.

As the disembodied voice narrating the familiar story read on in the background, I put on my best Mama face, and concentrated on being a convincing adult.

Until it was time for Santa to appear.

Instead of the well rehearsed slide off the table, he fell off – in the process, he knocked forward the entire mantle and fireplace facade from the back. As it fell down onto the stage with a clatter, it revealed the table behind it, and a santa on the ground with his hat askew,

I roared with laughter, accompanied by rocking so vigorously that the chair I sat in nearly threw me backward!

The audience joined in, surprised, and I looked for and found my parents, laughing as they vigorously clapped.

It was a moment of pure joy.

Today, all these decades later, THIS is what I picture when I hear that familiar story being told.

When my daughter was 10 years old, I took her and her brothers to Walt Disney World for the first time.

I was a divorced mom working full time as a nurse, and I had saved my money and budgeted for months to find the cheapest way to get there for the weekend.

The four-day weekend only cost me a total of $1300 – today that would be about a days worth of fun at WDW, not including gas and food.

I digress.

At one of the parks, there is a ride called the Tower of Terror. I’ve always wanted to go on this ride, but I’ve been too afraid to go.

Now I was at the park with my children, my young daughter begging to go on the ride. “OK!” I said with skepticism “I’ll go with you, but you’ve got to go on this ride!”

We made our way up the hill to the hotel that serves as a façade for this ride. As we snaked through the line, the kids were excited, pointing out different facts about the ride.

Then we turned down a little path that took us to our own elevator car.

Suddenly, my daughter didn’t want to ride the ride anymore.

We were literally at the precipice of stepping up on the ride.

I told her “Nope! You begged me to go and we’ve made it this far. There’s no going back now“

And we rode the ride.

It is now one of our favorites – I know it’s one of mine!

I woke up this morning and realized I punched a ticket for a journey that I didn’t ask for it, and that I don’t want.

Tomorrow, I see the surgeon, and all of this is going to become very real. No more closing my eyes tightly through ultrasounds. No more closing the folder because I don’t want to read what’s in it.

It’s not gonna be fun, I am not gonna enjoy it, but I can’t turn back now.

I can only hope that in time, I will look back on this as time that the Lord got me through – the first step of a terrifying journey that I am ultimately victorious over.

I was a first year nursing student.

It was my initial week of clinicals – the first week of hands on, with patients, putting into practice what we had spent a semester learning time, in an actual hospital.

Like most things, the lessons to be learned that day could not be found in a book.

The hospital was old. The urinals, bedpans, and emesis basins were all metal, and had to be rinsed out before going down to soiled utility.

Our instructor gave us our assignments. We eagerly walked toward our patient rooms, ready to be the nurse, fresh white scrubs clean and pure against the dingy hospital walls.

As soon as I walked in my patients room, I immediately knew she was dying.

There is an intrinsic “knowing” that can’t be explained. We had not studied death and dying yet, and I had never been around anyone who was dying.

Yet I knew as I walked into that semi-darkened room, I knew that my assignment for the day had nothing to do with assessing vital signs, and everything to do with assisting a soul.

I greeted her warmly by name, telling her my name, and that I was going to take care of her today.

She looked at me with huge, pleading eyes. She could not speak – she already was past that point.

My mind scrambled, trying to process in my head the thoughts that were behind my kind smile and murmuring words.

In report, I had learned that her husband had just left to go get a haircut. I remember being told he had stood by her side since her recent admission, and was finally taking a break.

I knew she was going to take this time to spare him having to see her transfer her citizenship from earth.

I looked over at the closed curtains, and briskly strode to them, snatching them open, leaving the sheers to filter in the bright morning sun.

Turning back to my patient, I did my head to toe assessment efficiently, noting she was quickly becoming soaked with the intense sweating called diaphoresis that comes before the final breath is drawn.

I clasped her hand, and she looked at me with an intensity that shot to my core. “Ma’am” I said gently, “let me go get you some clean bedding. Let’s get you dry and comfortable! I’ll be right back!”

I swiftly dashed out the door, around to cleaned utility room, and grabbed fresh sheets, towels, and a gown.

I wasn’t going to let her die in a puddle of her own sweat.

I returned to the room, and set the bedding down. “Let me get you dry and comfy” I said, as I placed a draw sheet over her, and began to unbutton her gown.

Slowly, but with absolute purpose, she brought her right arm up, laying her bruised and pale hand over the place where her right breast used to be. I stared into her eyes and nodded. “Don’t worry” I reassured – “I’ll keep you covered.”

I methodically went about changing her soaked gown under the draw sheet, ministering to her dampened body with warm, dry linens. I had a fellow student help me change the bedding, gently rolling her to and fro as we went through the basic bed making lessons we had learned. My helper left the room, and I turned my attention back to those pleading eyes.

I held her hand in mine. “Look what a beautiful day it is!” I smiled gently into her now terror filled expression. “It’s going to be okay – look at that sun shining in here!” I leaned in closer, whispering now in her ear. “It’s okay – if you want to go, you can, you know!”

It was like a switch turned. Her hand fell limp, and I tucked it under the crisp sheet. Her head moved just enough for her eyes to look toward the window, and immediately I saw the beginning of the change in her, one that would lead to the final outcome.

My heart raced, and I had a moment of panic. I cracked the door and called for a couple fellow nursing students, intensely whispering to them that I needed to step out for a second and get a drink of water, and they silently came in, standing on either side of her, murmuring words of comfort as they clasped her hands.

I made a bee line for the water fountain, gulping in water, and taking a couple of deep breaths. Had I done enough for her? Was I prepared for this?

My instructor appeared suddenly. “Get back to your patient” she snapped militantly.

“I didn’t leave her alone. I just needed a moment”. As I looked into her face, I knew she had given me this assignment today, knowing full well the probably outcome.

Resolute, I stood tall and walked past her, back into my patient’s room.

Now my patient was transformed, her breathing haggard and irregular, in the Cheyne-Stokes pattern that comes shortly before the final breath. My eyes darted back to the door frequently, looking for the return of her husband, lest he come in without knowing what what happening. I held her hand in mine, silently praying.

Then she was still.

I put the stethoscope that was stiffly hanging around my neck into my ears, and confirmed what I knew. I stepped out and asked the charge nurse to get the doctor.

He came and listed to her chest as he felt her wrist, and pronounced her deceased.

My fellow students and I straightened her hair, placed her arms gently at her sides, smoothed the blanket, and exited the room.

I positioned myself outside the room, perched on the edge of a chair, and waited for her husband.

Within minutes he came striding up the hall, eyes on her door.

I stood up and walked to him before he could get to the door – “Sir, the doctor needs to speak to you!”

And we stood in silence while the charge nurse got the doctor.

I don’t remember what happened next, because my caregiving for this situation had come to an end, as we were leaving our clinical assignment for the day.

As we walked out of the hospital to go to our cars, arms laden with notebooks and flash cards, I reflected on the day.

Her last purposeful movement was to bring her right hand up and lay it over the place where her right breast used to be.

This one, slow movement taught me more about breast cancer and it’s effect on the psyche of a woman’s heart, mind, and soul than any textbook ever would.

Or could.

I’m on a roller coaster and I want to get off.

My Diabetes has not been fun today.

I’ve had two hypos. (Diabetes slang for hypoglycemic incidences. )

Between hormones and the stress of knowing that I have cancer now, my blood sugars are all over the place today.

Strangely, I have not had enough carbohydrates and calories today. I’ve had three meals and three snacks! But somehow it’s not been enough.

The fun thing about Diabetes, sarcasm, is that you can do it all right and still have it come out all wrong.

Just knowing that the stress and hormones are messing with my diabetes, makes me wonder what’s coming up next going to do to my faulty pancreas. And me.

There is so much to think about.

I don’t want to think about it.

I have to deal with this urgent low sugar.

I don’t have a choice.

I’m not enjoying this.

Breast cancer.

These are the words I did NOT want to hear today.

I had a good day at work, and was only overcome by nerves at the thought of my upcoming appointment one time. These intrusive thoughts were quickly squashed by the hugs and support of my fellow nurses, and I left for my appointment at 1430, my mind a blank slate.

My appointment was at 1500, but I was taken back at 1530. I was placed in a small room with a door, and immediately I was apprehensive.

I know what they do with these small rooms.

I focused on my surroundings, specifically the two disturbing abstract paintings hanging above our heads. Square and white, with some faded blue green in the background, they were overlaid with cuts and smears of red.

They did not spark joy.

In short order, the beautiful young radiologist who had done my needle biopsy came in. She was as kind and as friendly as she was to me 48 hours ago, introducing herself to my husband, who was beside me with his arm around me.

Then she got down to business.

“I’m sorry…you have cancer”.

I made a concentrated effort to hear the rest.

She was so glad I got regular mammograms. This was a very tiny spot. More positive calming words.

Another woman had a folder, full of information for me to read.

In one pocket , the copy of my diagnostic imaging.

In the other, loads of information about my status as a breast cancer patient, and the potential paths ahead of me.

I had my information. Now I wanted to leave.

I walked quickly out, and my husband grabbed my hand in an attempt to stop and embrace me. I said no let’s go – I was shaking and feared I would completely fall apart.

I got outside into the bright sunny day and pulled my cell phone out. Between tears and shakes and nerves, I had a hard time dialing the number of the surgeon I wanted to do my next surgery on my breast.

Her office was kind and sympathetic, hearing the tears in my voice, and the fear that hovered over and around my words. They scheduled me for an appointment, even before any data had been transmitted, and I was strangely comforted. I was doing SOMETHING about this damn diagnosis.

We walked to our separate cars, and I doubted my ability to drive. After a few minutes of sitting in his car, I got into mine, and began following him home.

I don’t remember the drive.

I made the calls to my mom. My children. My best friends.

I was reassured. I reassured. I cried.

I cried some more.

Then I came home and decorated the Christmas tree with my husband and son.

Last week I had a series of medical tests.

Tomorrow, hopefully, I’ll get a definitive answer.

In the mean time, I’ve been in the in between.

In between hope and fear.

In between past and future.

It’s uncomfortable.

As I drove to work today, my biopsy site throbbing with pain, I counted my blessings.

I also fought off doubts.

I realized that we are all in the in between.

We start when we are born, and when we die, we go to our permanent rest.

As a born again believer, I know I’m going on to eternal life in heaven. No more pain, tears, or illness.

In this great in between that is life, this is just a footnote.

When I expand my microscope to a telescope, I take my eyes off a biopsy, and look to the heavens instead.

It’s where my help comes from – my help comes from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth.

Until tomorrow, I remain in the dark.