Since we arrived home from the hospital, many have asked me how Seth’s doing. My default reply is that he’s been sleeping a lot, so yeah, I guess he’s doing okay? Seth slept 75% to 95% of the time the first two days we were home. The past two days, he’s slept 75% of the time. I did the basic math at dinner tonight, and that means he’s been sleeping an estimated 18 hours out of each 24 hour period. “Seems about right,” I said. Seth smiled with little reply as he walked back upstairs to bed.

I trust Seth is sleeping so much because the trauma his body has experienced has worn him down. I trust Seth is sleeping so much because some claim radiation makes you tired. I trust Seth is sleeping so much because the invisible emotional, mental and spiritual toll cancer has on an individual has to be managed somehow. And I trust Seth is sleeping so much because it’s helping him heal.

Since Seth was admitted to the hospital 10 days ago, I’ve been having an unusually large number of dreams about my trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion, about children and swarms of children. Last night, the dreams went even further back to the dream camera I purchased five months ago. In the dream, I was on location for a photo shoot at a hotel or a building that was very large with long hallways and a lot of elevators. I arrived at the shoot only to realize I’d forgotten my two lenses, so I started heading back to find them, only to forget where I’d left them. It was an ugly cycle of forgetting and not knowing. I had the body of the camera with me, but I was getting distracted by children and people and all I really wanted to do was take pictures. But I couldn’t because I didn’t have my lenses.

I trust I’m dreaming so much about my trip to the Dominican, Compassion and children because I haven’t had an opportunity to fully process the trip. I trust I’m dreaming about my trip to the Dominican, Compassion and children because part of me wants a do-over. As in, bring me back to the morning of January 8, 2015, and let me do the whole month over again, but this time, take away the eye cancer part of it. I trust I’m dreaming about photography because my brain is still way back in September when I bought the camera, way back in December when I stopped seeing patients for speech therapy. I haven’t had a chance to fully process all the old things with all the new things. And the lenses? Well, I’m not sure I have clear sight of anything right now. I’m ready to experience and photograph this new life, but I can’t quite get my bearings. I still need those lenses. I trust God’s giving me vivid dreams to help me process all of this.

Since we returned home four days and eight hours ago, I’ve been daydreaming a lot more than I would’ve ever imaged, especially given the circumstances of eye cancer, caregiving and heavy unexpected responsibility for home and the kids. Yet, I’ve allowed my brain to go there, to places in the future, to spaces I’ve yet to see. I’m still experiencing some of that emptiness, that hollowness I wrote about two days after Seth’s eye cancer diagnosis and the day I left for my trip to the Dominican Republic, on January 10. But I’m beginning to wonder if that’s part of what new normal will look like. What’s next isn’t easy. There’s not a clear paved path, but it is good. In fact, I’m believing it’s very, very good. I’ve sensed strongly for a couple weeks now that I need to go back and weave a few more threads together from the past three years. I know exactly which threads need to be woven. It’s just a matter of sitting down, doing it, and waiting patiently to discern what’s next.

I trust I’m daydreaming so much because I’m clinging to hope for a better future. I trust I’m daydreaming so much because God wants me to believe and trust that He has a very specific and good plan for the rest of my life. I trust I’m daydreaming so much because right now, I’m in a space where I’m living and acting in complete faith. Very little is known. And I’m a planner, organizer, and analyzer. So daydreaming is my way to bridge all of the unknowns with hope for a bright future. I trust I’m daydreaming so much because when it is time to move on to some semblance of “new normal,” I’ll have even more direction and clarity about what’s next. There will be trouble. But it will be good, as promised. God will heal. All things will be made new. And we’ll continue to rest in peace knowing there’s hope. For tomorrow is a new day.

 

 

 

 

Words turned into sentences. And sentences turned into paragraphs. That’s when she knew it was time to write again. It’d only been 60 hours since she published last, but it felt like a week. Yes, that’s how she always knows it’s time to free the wild beast of her brain that’s constantly moving, constantly drafting, constantly writing the inner-workings and outer-workings of life.

They arrived back home in relative peace and quiet that Saturday, long before the oldest two dazzled the doorway with energy from basketball and a birthday party. “Welcome Home Dad” strung across the mud room wall. The floors were clean. The counters pristine. A “Get Well Soon” balloon floated above the kitchen island along with Elmo and a big Valentine heart. His favorite treats – Reese’s cups, Reese’s Pieces, and Diet Coke – sat with an about-to-bloom summer yellow plant. Two Valentines’ boxes had been crafted with care, chocolate chip cookies and pink frosted cupcakes filled the countertops. Mom made the place comfortable while they’d been at the hospital. That was for sure.

Her husband went to bed, first thing. So did three-year-old babe. She sat, wrote a bit, who knows what. Her body felt slow, she wasn’t sure what to do or where she fit in this nothing’s-normal-anymore home of hers. Seven and a half weeks had passed since she wrapped up her last day of therapy, but new normal’s never set in. They had no clue, no clue, that they’d be facing cancer when they decided six months ago that she’d stop working to stay home and pursue far-fetched dreams of writing and photography. But now, yes now, she was here, in no normal land, back home after her husband’s week-long eye cancer treatment. She let herself sit. Just sit. This wasn’t normal, but it was new.

Nap time passed. Her oldest arrived back home from basketball. Her husband woke up a bit from his groggy slumber. They ate a dinner of the weeks’ leftovers and he returned to bed. He apologized to his son; he’d promised a movie together on the couch, but he just couldn’t. He needed to sleep. After a while, she tucked babe all quiet into bed and spent time with her son as best as she could. She knew she wasn’t the same as dad, but heck, one parent’s better than none.

She awoke early the next day, before the crack of dawn. Babe was awake, loud and a little needy. Dad was asleep, quiet and a little irritated with the noise and activity. So mama brought babe downstairs to play and do whatever, because that’s about all she could handle. This would’ve been a church day, but her son was being picked up for basketball and her daughter needed picking up from that overnight birthday party. So she let thoughts of church pass by, even though, even so.

She’d changed her husband’s eye patch and shield earlier that morning when babe awoke. His eye was puffy, really puffy. They weren’t sure why, but it was really itchy too, so he took his pain meds and got back into bed for a long day’s rest.

A friend brought a crock pot full of spaghetti sauce, cookies, and oranges peeled, ready to go. Thank God, she thought. She really hated to cook, and was in no mood to do so considering the circumstances. Her husband came to greet the visitor briefly, stayed long enough to eat and that’s it. He went back upstairs for more rest, and she gathered the leftovers, enough for another meal, maybe two.

The rest of the day was haphazard and semi-restful. The kids played and watched too much television. She did a little this and that, picking up laundry that had accumulated in the past 24 hours, putting dishes in the washer, and gathering piles of Polly Pockets babe had strewn across the couch. She struggled for a bit of normalcy, for a bit of new normal, so during nap time, she re-opened books for the business that’s closing slower than expected, and pushed that much closer to the finish line. She invited the kids to play Uno; even babe played most of the while. Color and number matching is soothing, even for a three year old who doesn’t have much of a clue yet.

Her husband slept, then slept some more. She kept checking and checking, but there was nothing he wanted to do but stay in bed. Occasionally, she’d enter and he’d be in bed with headphones on, listening to a podcast with his eyes closed, or catching up on Game of Thrones season three. But sleep was his activity of choice. So she let him be until 9:30 p.m. when she invited him down for a new episode of Walking Dead followed by a night cap of pain medication to ensure full rest.

Morning came again. With it came a glimpse of normal, of routine. Her husband awoke with the babe at 5:45 a.m. She put drops and healing ointment in his eye, then refreshed the patch and shield with the breathable tape she’d grown to love for some odd reason. It was a noisy, hurried morning. So he’d asked them to leave the bedroom. He couldn’t handle the volume nor the activity. So she closed the door, took the kids downstairs, and left her husband to sleep, rest and recover. She fed three kids, made cold lunches, and packed their bags tight. Off she went. Off he went. And off she went with babe to the gym in pursuit of two lifelines, exercise and music, that keep her on the straight and narrow when all else fails.

She made her way around the track, two times maybe three, then plopped on an elliptical. She needed this. Bad. She’d weighed herself this morning for the first time in a week or two. A new non-pregnancy high. When she stopped working seven and a half weeks ago, she was already at a non-pregnancy high because of all the stress and chaos of the transition. And now after an eye cancer diagnosis, trip of a lifetime with Compassion International, back to days of eye cancer appointments and a week-long hospitalization for her husband? A new high. She was officially 10 pounds higher than her (low) pre-pregnancy weight with baby #3 four years ago. Ugh. She’d worked hard with a personal trainer to get to that pre-pregnancy weight four years ago. But still. 10 pounds up from that. Ugh. Grace. Grace was in store. Today’s workout wasn’t for her weight. It was for her mental health. For the overall wellness of her being, not the perfection of her physique.

The workout was slow to start. She felt the weight of her body, her soul, her mind as she moved her feet back and forth on the elliptical. She started slow, eager to go faster as her body led. She pressed forward, next, on her iPod, letting the Spirit move to music that soothed her soul and felt in line with who she is now, right now. Let it Go. A little Adele. A Christmas song for good measure. Whatever. 

In-between clicks, she noticed the woman to her right, the one she’s been watching for a year or two now, the one she waves to and says hi to, the one she’d be friends with in one fell swoop given any proper invitation. Yes, there was the woman who inspired her most in this place, the one who throws punches and kicks fierce, the one whose pain shows through, the one whose dreads fall long and fly where they may as she dances to her own beat on the treadmill and off to the side. She danced, kicked, punched, and exhaled CH, CH, CH, CH, CH, as long as her soul needed to heal, to breathe, to bring forth life and energy.

Time had passed, more than she knew. So she got off the familiarity of the elliptical and back on the track. She passed the woman throwing punches and prayed they’d become friends someday, somehow. And as she slowed to cool, she approached a man she’s been sharing workout space with for a year or two, a man who walks slowly and initiates awkwardly, but who’s always ready to chat about this and that, even for a bit. He was slower than normal, so much so that she could barely keep pace. She knew right away something was wrong. She was right. He’s been diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. They think it might have something to do with his exposure to agent orange in Vietnam War. So he’s headed back to the VA hospital later this week for more testing. He’s not sure what they’re going to do, but his daily exercise around the track has apparently improved his health and extended his life in invaluable ways. They’ve taken away his driver’s license, and for that, he’s notably disturbed and saddened. She walked slowly. And let him talk through the pain. He wants to sell everything and move south so he can walk and bike in air that’s comfortable. She heard him out. And wished him well more than once before they parted ways. Young ones passed, running as if life’s a sprint. She’s not sprinting anymore. This unpredictable snail’s pace is fine. Just fine.

She returned home with babe. The house was silent. Her husband was still sleeping.

Babe climbed up on the big bed and begged daddy for McDonald’s. He said no. “I just want to sleep today.” But before long, he was up, ready to go – for babe, she supposed.

His eyes hurt from the bright sun. He felt nauseous. He just wanted to go back home and back to bed. But he pressed on anyway. He ate the “just okay” grilled chicken sandwich she ordered him for a healthy dose of protein, and hugged his babe tight when she tucked into his side.

And when they returned home? He slept. He continued healing slowly, but surely. Babe slept. And she wrote those words that had been turning into sentences, those sentences that had been turning into paragraphs. She waited for the after school rush of loud, vibrant no normal.

 

 

 

 

8:55 a.m.

We arrived at the hospital 45 minutes ago. Seth’s parents went to the cafeteria to get some breakfast, and I washed Seth’s hair before he took a shower. When Seth got back in bed, he noted that he’s gotten “in a routine that has been healing and helpful” during his stay at the hospital. Leaving “the routine of Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday” is making him a little anxious. I have to admit, I’m a tad anxious as well. Before we know it, we’ll be heading back home where our three kids will be waiting for our love and care. Seth will be out of commission for a while, so I’ll be responsible for helping him as needed while caring for the house and three kids full-time. But people have already been generous with their offers of help, so we will be just fine. Seth’s surgery for removal of the gold bottle cap plaque is scheduled for 10:30 a.m., but there haven’t been any signs of movement yet.

10:47 a.m.

Seth was wheeled away to surgery at 9:17 a.m. By 10:40 a.m., we received word that surgery had just been completed. He’ll be in recovery for a while, so we’ll wait patiently in his room until he returns.

11:45 a.m.

Four nurses brought Seth back into his hospital room 10 minutes ago. They helped him into bed and got him readjusted. Seth reported a 5 on the pain scale. (He hadn’t reported anything higher than 4 since Monday after the first surgery.) His eye was stinging and throbbing, so nurses gave him his usual cocktail of pain meds. Napping seemed the next best course of action. He was definitely still coming out of anesthesia.

11:55 a.m.

Seth had been completely quiet and still for 10 minutes. Out of the blue, he shared one sentence, “I’m going to want a Blizzard later when I wake up.” Seth’s mom assured him we could make that happen. Then back to silence.

1:17 p.m. 

I just got back from lunch with Seth’s mom. Seth is upright in bed, and lunch is on its way. We’re hoping he’ll be able to tolerate the food since it’s one of the requirements for discharge later this afternoon. Seth was administered his usual pain management “cocktail” at 11:45 a.m., but now he’s reporting worsened “stabbing” eye pain. The nurse gave him a new pain medication via IV, which thankfully kicked in within a few minutes.

2:59 p.m.

I decided to watch a live stream of IF:Gathering, an organization that exists to “gather, equip and unleash the next generation of women to live out their purpose.” Had we not been at the hospital all week, I would’ve been attending a special ladies event today and tomorrow to watch the live stream. Most of the women speaking at the event are in the heart of my blogging niche, so I was excited to catch even a few minutes of it live.

Angie Smith interviewed a woman who lost her husband and two boys (9 & 7) in a tornado. The woman spoke, “I’m here today. I have a choice to live in sorrow and let their lives be completely wasted, or I can talk about what God did. I chose Him in my darkest hour.” Then Jennie Allen, founder of IF:Gathering, spoke. “We’re in the wilderness bumping up against each other wondering what we’re supposed to do. We are at war and the prize is faith. I believe that women are going to move from journals of sight to lives of faith.” I love my sister writers. They’re so wise. Yes, let’s share what God’s done in our lives. Yes, let’s live by faith and not by sight. The themes seem to fit this journey through eye cancer and everything else that’s transpiring in my life these days.

4:20 p.m.

I went downstairs to the pharmacy to pick up three prescriptions Seth will need once he’s home. When I got back up to the room, Seth said he might be discharged soon. He inquired about getting an additional prescription for pain medication, so the nurse is inquiring with the doctor. I just washed Seth’s hair for the second time today; we’ll be heading to a hotel for the night and it’ll be hard to protect his eyes from water with the set up of the bathroom there. Exhaustion is setting in. Big time.

6:24 p.m.

Seth was officially discharged and walked out the doors of his hospital room at 5:03 p.m. We took a shuttle back to the hotel, then his mom and I went to Mayo Clinic to pick up the fourth prescription. While we were there, we verified with one of Dr. G’s colleagues that Seth can resume reading as he feels comfortable. We’d forgotten to ask at discharge.

9:56 p.m.

We enjoyed a casual dinner with Seth’s parents before saying thank you and good-bye. So here we are. In the hotel room. I’m writing and Seth’s sleeping. We stayed here together on Sunday night before Seth’s surgery, I’ve been alone in the room all week, and now tonight, we’re right back where we started. Radiation was delivered to Seth’s eye for five days straight via the gold bottle cap plaque while he was in the hospital. Now the only physical evidence he’s been through eye cancer treatment is a big eye patch and shield, and a bunch of stitches nobody will ever see except the doctors.

One month from now (early-mid March), we’ll return to Mayo Clinic. Dr. G will take a look at the stitches to make sure they’re dissolving as expected. He’ll examine Seth’s eyes, and perhaps we’ll get a glimpse of the impact radiation’s had on Seth’s sight in his right eye. He’ll check for double vision and if there’s any drooping of the eyelid, both common with this surgery. Three months after that (early-mid June), we’ll return for another appointment. At that appointment, Dr. G will examine Seth’s vision again, but will also begin looking at the tumor to see if it’s reducing in size. That is the earliest they would expect to see any shrinkage of the tumor. If, at that time, the tumor is reducing in size, they will see him in 6-8 months. If, at that time, the tumor is the same size or bigger, they will see him every 3 months until it’s smaller.

When we wake up in the morning, we’ll be heading home. Seth will be home and out of work all next week. If all goes as planned, he’ll be working from home the last two weeks of February. Once we’ve acclimated to home a day or two, I’ll touch base with another post.

Thank you all for your faithful prayers, love and support this week while we’ve been in the hospital. You’re the best, and we’re so grateful.

I’m exhausted, friends. Good night.

 

 

 

Seth’s fourth day in the hospital consisted of status quo with more fatigue than normal and a couple more mentions of “throbbing” pain than the past two days. But all in all, things are well here. We did receive at least one notable update from the doctor this afternoon, but I’ll wait to share that until tomorrow as we progress through Seth’s second surgery and removal of the gold radioactive plaque that’s been in his eye for five days.

Between now and tomorrow’s surgery, I thought I’d offer a few light-hearted random thoughts from the hospital. Because after the deep post from yesterday and a long week at the hospital, a lighter tone goes a long way.

Here goes nothing…

Random Thought #1

“When bad things happen, there’s always someone who asks “why me?” It’s easy for people to compare their lives to mine and feel really sad. But this is it. I accept it. It is what it is.” – Seth as he was eating breakfast in the hospital bed

Random Thought #2

FaceTime is awesome. We’ve used it every day this week to communicate with my mom and the kids. Surprisingly, it’s been a great way to expose the kids to Seth’s eye, the patch and shield before we come home. It’s helped maintain a bit of “normalcy” for our family during the hospitalization.

Random Thought #3

Hospital cafeteria food is actually quite good. Seth’s parents and I have eaten most of our meals here at the hospital. Today’s lunch was the best so far. Turkey. Yukon gold mashed potatoes. Gravy. Cooked carrots and snap peas. Yum.

Random Thought #4

When you’re in the hospital for a whole week, visitors are a great change of pace. Our flower girl came to visit again today, as did Seth’s dad’s cousin and wife who live locally. All three individuals were sweet and added joy to the end of our day. Fresh perspective is welcomed and necessary.

Random Thought #5 (yes, I know this is contrary to random thought #3)

Jimmy John’s is awesome. I told Seth I was going to order Jimmy John’s for dinner tonight for a change of pace. Let me tell you that the Jimmy John’s dude arrived at the hospital entrance on his BIKE. The temperatures out there today are SUB-zero! I was beyond impressed. And of course, the service was speedy and the food was delicious. HUGE fan of Jimmy John’s.

Random Thought #6

Facebook, Facebook messages, Twitter, emails, texts, blogs and blog comments are an awesome way to communicate with a caregiver (like me) who’s highly visual and prefers written communication. Thank you to everyone for your great support.

Random Thought #7

Facebook, Facebook messages, texts, blogs and blog comments are an awesome way to encourage a patient whose love language is words of affirmation. Seth has really enjoyed hearing us read the messages everyone has been leaving on Facebook and the blog. Thank you!

Random Thought #8

When you’re at the hospital long enough, you become somewhat accustomed to the scene. Wheelchairs, IVs, bandages, beeping machines, scrubs, head scarves, leg braces and the like become the norm. Sure, the sights catch you off guard once in a while, but all in all, you acclimate. I wonder what it would be like if ALL of our burdens and bruises were exposed so visibly to the world. Wouldn’t we be a lot more sensitive to fellow humans beings?

Random Thought #9

Being at the hospital for great lengths of time can occasionally make you delirious. After returning from the hospital tonight, we all got a little delirious on the elevator. We got in and all three of us forgot to press the number to go up. My father-in-law made sure to let the lady in the elevator know we weren’t intoxicated, we were just delirious, overly tired from a week at the hospital. And let me add, thank goodness for comedically inclined people like my father-in-law. Because some of us are so NOT comedically inclined.

Random Thought #10

If you want to do good for someone in the hospital, keep it sweet, but simple. Relatives took Seth’s parents out for dinner tonight. And they came back with some awesome coconut cake to-go for me. Oh my goodness. SCORE.

 

 

 

Let me just start off by saying thank you for checking in. Maybe you’re a friend or family member, maybe you’re a fellow writer or regular blog follower of mine, maybe you just happened to land on this post via Google search. Whoever you are, thank you for taking time to join our journey through eye cancer.

Today was day three in the hospital. It was a good day, as “status quo” as a day in the hospital could be. Seth was in good spirits. The gold bottle cap plaque is still stitched in his eye. The radiation is still working to kill the cancer. The cocktail of pain medications they created for him two nights ago is still working well. Seth’s still eating two apples a day. And Dr. G is fabulously kind and intelligent. Seth lapped the unit three times holding hands with me this afternoon. And he enjoyed an awesome piece of wedding-worthy cake I brought him from Mayo Clinic. Perhaps the worst part of his day was when he admitted he’d be “lonely” when we left the hospital at 7:00 p.m.

But you see, Seth and I have this informal agreement we’ve come to realize over the past 19 3/4 years. When I’m down, he’s usually up. And when he’s down, I’m usually up. With that in mind, let me just say that Seth’s day was good. My day turned from shaky to profoundly holy between 7:30 a.m. and 3:00 p.m.

So for all of you who are curious about the big-picture journey beyond the four walls of Seth’s hospital room, stay with me. I’m about to share more about my day. Although you must know, I’m certain my words won’t do it justice.

Let’s begin, shall we?

I got out of bed a little later than I’d wanted, but still managed to run over to Starbucks for a cup of coffee and scone for Seth before the shuttle came to pick us up. Let me just say, I was fine at this point. But I wasn’t awesome. We’ve been arriving at the hospital by 8:15 a.m. and leaving at 7:00 p.m. I’ve been writing each night after we get back (my choice), which has left me staying up extra late to get in a little quiet time alone before doing it all over again. I haven’t exercised for five days, which is too long without a workout for me. I’ve been sleeping and feeling fine from all indications, but perhaps things have continued to accumulate under the surface without my awareness.

While I was waiting for coffee at Starbucks, I received an email. It humbled me, hurt my heart a bit, and required an immediate response on my part. (Please don’t wonder too long. It’s a private matter and was completely resolved within a few hours in the most heartfelt of ways. I’m only sharing because I believe it was critical to the start and storyline of my day.)

We arrived at the hospital and took the elevator up to Seth’s room. I went right in, and Seth’s parents headed straight for coffee and the waiting room. Seth was still sleeping, so I broke out my laptop and began drafting a heartfelt response to the email I’d received earlier. I had the email completely drafted by the time Seth woke up, but didn’t send it quite yet. I got Seth his coffee and scone. I ordered his breakfast and set up his bed tray so it would be ready when the food was delivered. But Seth noticed right away that something wasn’t right. He questioned without hesitation, “Is something wrong? I can’t see well, but my other senses are making up for my lack of sight. I can tell something’s not right with you today.” I told him vaguely what had happened, and then shared “I think I’m just more tired than I know. Or it’s all piling up on me or something.”

We decided to get Seth a shower before breakfast arrived, so I broke out the hand-held shower head and Seth sat down on a chair in the bathroom, clothes and all, for his first post-surgery hair washing. I had to take off my shoes and socks so my feet didn’t get wet and I know this sounds weird, but it all felt a little Jesus-y. I wasn’t really in the mood to get wet and take my shoes and socks off. And truth be told, I’m the farthest from a hair stylist there is. But this felt like something Jesus would do. I love my husband and it was time for a washing. So I washed his hair and helped him get in the shower before I let him be.

I finished composing my email and pressed send. Seth got out of the shower, breakfast arrived shortly after and he asked me to read the last two days’ blog posts I’d written. He usually reads my blog posts quietly to himself at his leisure. Sometimes he comments, sometimes he doesn’t at all. With him not being able to read this week, he hasn’t been able to read the posts. I was feeling blah and raw, and for some reason, I wasn’t sure if I could make it through a reading aloud of my own writing. So when Seth suggested maybe his mom could read the posts to him later, it was a definite yes.

Seth’s parents came back to the room. Within a couple minutes, we got a call from Dr. G’s secretary. There was paperwork over at Mayo Clinic that had been signed and needed to be returned to Seth’s employer. We needed to pick it up in person. But a form I’d signed yesterday caused a whole lot of commotion, which meant that before I’d be able to pick up the paperwork from Mayo Clinic, I’d need to go sign more paperwork downstairs.

The day wasn’t going smoothly so far.

So I took the folder of paperwork and went downstairs to begin resolving the paperwork problem. I completed a new form and went back up to the room to have Seth sign it. At that point, Seth’s mom was ready to begin reading the last two blog posts, so it was a good time for me to bring the paperwork back downstairs and head off for a little quiet time.

Off I went. I returned the paperwork to the powers that be and let myself wander through the hospital.

I passed the row of nun portraits we viewed two days prior. I read the plaque that described Mayo’s history, how one nun dreamed of opening a hospital after a tornado back in the 1800s. And look at this place now.

I meandered through the gift shop with my eyes set on beautiful things. Flower bouquets. Handmade dolls. Delicate earrings. And plaques with words that would someday mean the world to somebody in this place.

I followed the sign to chapel. All the way up, down and around long hallways.

As I turned the corner into the chapel, a husband photographed his wife signing the cross across her chest.

A woman sat near the front, completely still, completely silent.

I was one of three in the enormous Mayo chapel.

I sat in a long pew. The chapel was incredible, beautiful, amazing and breathtaking. I let my eyes scan wherever they may. I didn’t pray so much as I experienced God’s presence for a half hour, maybe more. Light shined through yellow and blue stained-glass windows. I stared at the vanilla cream columns, the thoughtfully painted blue and white floral designs on the window arches way up high. I noted the repetitive rectangular design on the ceiling, the fans and golden chandeliers. When a young woman wheeled an elderly woman through the chapel, I noticed the stations of the cross, the beautiful paintings lining the walls.

But what I noticed most was the light coming in through the stained-glass windows, the shifting of light and shadows, first on the floor, then throughout the whole chapel. The light wasn’t predictable. But it was beautiful and soft. Unlike the world’s sometimes rude and unforgiving ways, the light was incredibly gentle and forgiving. It entered subtly and slowly. I had to wait for it, and I never knew where it would land next. A shifting of light here meant a shadow there. Freshly lit spaces were stunning and radiant in modest, unassuming ways. I likened the light to God’s ways, to the Spirit’s movement in my life. I need to learn these rhythms of grace.

When my soul felt rest, I got up, walked around the stations of the cross and examined the paintings.

In the back of the chapel, I found a large bible on a pedestal. Before walking away, I read excerpts from the page that was open. Matthew. The treasure and the pearl. Jesus Feeds Five Thousand. Jesus Walks on the Water. Other Miracles. Hmmm…of all the pages. I’ve been hearing these messages of feeding five thousand and walking on water repeatedly the past year and a half. And now here, at Mayo. God has been speaking messages of faith and obedience, provision and trust.

I made my way back to the room. Things felt much better. The chaplain came for a visit and we chatted some more. But before long, we realized I’d need to make my way over to Mayo Clinic for that paperwork. So I hopped on the shuttle.

The shuttle ride was humbling. At the Ronald McDonald House, a mama loaded her significantly disabled son onto the shuttle. At the Gift of Life transplant house, a woman wearing a scarf with a few stray hairs underneath sat down in front of me. And along the way, an unusually friendly man engaged me and eventually revealed he’s transitioning from man to woman, how it’s been hard on his wife. Dear God, what would you have me see? What would you have me learn? What would you have me experience? How would you have me respond?

At that point, I was in another world as far as I was concerned. I likened the experience to my time in Haiti. For some reason, I’d been dropped in another foreign, but holy place.

An elderly man played piano effortlessly and beautifully on Mayo Clinic’s main level. I’d approached from the upper street level, so it was impossible to ignore the crowd of patients and caregivers surrounding him. From the second I arrived, I sensed this was an incredibly holy space, even holier than two weeks prior when I’d noted the healing power of that piano. The man played and played. One song after another. How Great Thou Art. His Eye is on the Sparrow. On and on. A man limped with double leg braces. Women and men sat nearby in wheelchairs. A woman wearing bright pink nodded her head continually in agreement with the music. People threw out requests one after another. And sick people passed with caregivers one after another. The elderly man played with eloquence, all by heart. It was incredibly, incredibly holy. From my perspective up above on street level, it was so holy that it nearly took my breath away. Tears streamed and I literally had to walk away at one point and gather myself because the presence of God was so tangible.

I took pictures. I stood still and listened. I was approached by a man in his 50s who asked my story, brought me to tears, and told me I was beautiful. I moved around from side to side as my body led. I didn’t rush, but stayed still, quiet in this place of holiness. In an odd way, I wished for everyone to be here, to realize how sick we all really are, how we’re living amongst the dying and dying amidst the living, how we’re all desperate for the tender loving care of a Savior. It was another glimpse of heaven, only on earth. Ridiculously holy, indeed.

After a while, I moved on. I picked up the paperwork. I meandered down the hallway to get lunch. I picked up that tiny, amazing, $6 wedding-worthy cake from a delightful bakery, and I walked into a ladies boutique filled with beautiful clothing and jewelry. On the way out, I thanked the store owner for bringing such beauty to a place filled with such pain. “Thank you,” she said, “that means a lot to me.”

On the way to the hospital four days ago, I told Seth that if I was a screenplay writer or movie producer, I’d make a quiet, beautiful, emotionally complex and visually rich movie with a deeply spiritual and meaningful storyline. Yes, I’d make a movie that looks and feels like today. It’s title? When Beauty Falls.