My sister and brother-in-law went to visit my niece and her new husband across the state today. They had several things they were taking to my niece, including her wedding photos and a whiteboard organizer that my brother-in-law had built for his daughter. While they were there, he was also asked to help the two of them with a few small projects around their apartment.

The idea that my niece wanted her dad to help hang pictures and build a whiteboard isn’t because she is incapable of doing these things herself. It might take her (or her husband) a bit longer since they don’t have as much experience with these projects, but I have no doubt either one of them could handle the tasks.

It got me thinking about my own dad coming to help me with things around whatever home I lived in at the time. Whether I was married or not, Dad always helped me with something. Many times it was hanging something he built for me – a quilt rack, a shelving unit – other times it was to help with whatever project I had created, which often meant hanging pictures. As I thought back to times my dad has lent a hand I realized there really was no point in my life in which he stopped doing so. Even after I began crafting some small woodworking projects myself, my dad continued to build things for me. Even after I moved so many times that I was forced to hang my own pictures, that didn’t stop Dad from helping when he was there to do so.

Even now, at 50 years old, I recently asked my dad to make me a writing table – a project I could probably figure out, although certainly not to the caliber of my dad’s craftsmanship – but still, I asked him. Just like my niece, it isn’t that I’m not capable, that I’m not smart enough or patient enough or strong enough. It’s just that I want Dad to do it.

Throughout my childhood, my dad was my provider and my protector. He helped me with so many things growing up I couldn’t begin to count them. In many ways, it was how he showed us he loved us – he helped. And still to this day, my dad is there to help – whether any of us need advice, a listening ear, a roll of quarters for the laundry machine, extra clamps to help hold our project in place, sharing financial or medical experience, or making something for us that we could buy or perhaps make ourselves. And every time he helps, he is telling us how much he loves us.

I haven’t asked my niece, but I suspect we both share the same hope. I hope I’m never too old to be my dad’s little girl, and never too old for him to help me see his love.

We aren’t hiking Bald River Falls. We aren’t driving through the Smoky Mountains. We aren’t even sure about eating out at one of our favorite restaurants, but we will play that by ear and go if James is up to it.

He is so very tired. He is the first to bed and the last to rise and is napping twice in between. He hadn’t been up for long today when I found him asleep in the living room. I joined him on the couch, resting his head against me and just sat.

I am acutely aware that every moment matters and so while my phone was nearby and Wordle had yet to be completed and I had news to catch up on and reservations to book, I chose, instead, to be as present in the moment as I could possibly be.

My hand rested across his chest, feeling his every breath. I could smell the memory-inducing scent of One Egg Cake that I had just put in the oven to have with strawberries later. George Winston’s all-too-familiar album was playing softly in the kitchen. Dad was shooting pool at the clubhouse and Judy was working on her crossword in the other room.

I looked around the living room, a home I didn’t grow up in, nor the one the older grandchildren associate with their grandparents, and yet one filled with familiar furniture and knick-knacks. The rocking chair in the corner has been reupholstered, but still reminds me of my grandparents’ house. The washstand makes me remember a childhood hiding place that still elicits a giddy joyfulness in my soul.

The sunshine pouring in through the windows leads my gaze to the feeders hanging from the trees outside and the constant motion of feathered wings as the birds gather for a bite.

As I look back at my beloved, lying in my lap, and I watch his peaceful sleep, I realize this might not be the typical itinerary for our time in Tennessee, but being here, in any capacity, has the same effect as always- it does our souls good. And I am mindful, especially, of how precious such moments are.

We were talking about what we should take along with us tomorrow, on our very spontaneous trip to visit my parents. Our list already included fresh strawberries and rhubarb picked from the garden (the first my dad will love, the second he will complain about), some snacks and goodies we have already in the fridge and freezer that we could take to share, and even a few wildflowers from the farm. But when James suggested we bring along the bananas on the counter, I had to laugh. “We’ve definitely crossed over into the habits of retired people when we take along the two bananas on the counter so they won’t go bad,” I quipped.

We decided just this morning to go visit my dad and second mom for a few days and within hours my nephew had agreed to house-sit, his girlfriend had agreed to clean our house while we are away and my sister and her husband are ready to jump in if there’s anything else we need. We are surrounded by such an amazing group of family and friends that are ready to help with whatever we might need. It is a blessing that goes far beyond any words of gratitude I could express.

Last night we met my sister and brother in law for dinner at a favorite pizza place on Lake Michigan. It was a beautiful night and a great kick-off to summer as we sat and talked, laughed and ate delicious, indulgent food.

On our way home, James and I stopped at my staff end-of-the-year party where we enjoyed talking with colleagues who have been so supportive, encouraging and helpful this year. James even got up and sang karaoke with my principal, to the delight of all. It was a beautiful evening with family and friends.

While we are in Tennessee, we hope to plan the rest of our summer – at least as much as we can right now – including a trip to the Upper Peninsula to the Soo Locks; visiting friends and family on the east side of the state and into Canada and perhaps even a trip to see the beautiful redwoods in California.

It isn’t hard to see how blessed we are by friends and family. From parents who are willing, able and excited for us to come on a day’s notice to a nephew who readily agreed to take care of the dog, cat, hens, cows, yard and watering needs of our home, and even to his sweet girlfriend who will help me reestablish my sanity through a cleaner house. My sister and her husband were such great company last night and the people I work with have been a blessing beyond words this past year. We are surrounded by support, every way we look.

So tomorrow, we will set out with two bananas in tow. I expect James will sleep much of the drive and I will listen to podcasts and try to keep my mind off things that are painful and heartbreaking and just live for the moment. But the summer awaits and there’s no time like right now to seek joy, laughter and love. Fortunately for us, none of those things are hard to find with friends and family like ours.

I met with a therapist today. We made counseling a priority right from the start for James, so he has been seeing someone for a while now, but I’ve been on a wait list for about as long as he’s had this diagnosis. Today was finally my day to meet with her.

I wasn’t even sure how to begin the conversation. “Hi, my name is Amy and my husband is dying,” sounds like I’m either at an AA meeting or the opening line to “Love Story”. Either way, it seems far too simple of a statement for a situation that is so complex.

During our conversation, she asked me how I felt I was dealing with all of this, especially the news we received on Tuesday. Without needing a beat, I said, “Not well. Not well at all.” When she asked me why I thought so I shared the details of my day from just hours earlier that made me feel like I had lost control completely, like I was having a breakdown.

I told her how we have a tradition on the last day of school, where all the teachers and staff stand outside and wave goodbye as the buses leave with the students. There are squirt guns and smiles all around and when the last bus pulls out, the teachers all let out the loudest cheer yet, signaling our own relief at having survived another tumultuous school year.

I had made it through the morning without difficulty. I had been able to separate all that I was coping with at home from my classroom for one last day and I was standing on the sidewalk alongside my colleagues, happily waving goodbye to the buses when a tsunami of emotion overtook me. I’m not sure I have ever felt any rush of emotion as powerful as I did just then and I all but ran back into the building and back to my classroom, ignoring the last of the buses, ignoring the parent in the hallway, wanting nothing more but the solitude of my classroom. I entered the darkened room and went straight to the windows where I collapsed on my knees sobbing. I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t stop the tears, I couldn’t even stand. I was so overcome with emotion, overcome by the uncertainty of what that same scene would feel like for me next year that I didn’t know how to bear the weight of the thought.

I was still on my knees many minutes later, still sobbing, still unable to breathe, when I felt a hand rub my back and stroke my hair and I heard the familiar voice of a friend saying, “It’s okay, let it out. This is how it’s going to go. You’re going to break down and lose it, and then you’re going to get yourself back up again and you’ll be fine for a while. And then you’re going to break down again. This is how it goes. It’s okay.”

The voice came from one who knows all too well what I am feeling. She lost her husband suddenly, unexpectedly just three years ago, a loss that hit me harder than it had any right to. And here she was, rescuing me.

As it turns out, there’s a name for this, according to my new therapist. It’s called, “anticipatory grief.” And her take-away from this episode was that I was actually responding in very appropriate ways to all that we are going through. And through our short time together today, I realized just how well James and I have already begun to prepare ourselves for what’s to come, how lucky I am to have the family that I do and just extensive our support system is, including this angel today who saved me from drowning in my grief.

My next appointment isn’t for nearly another month, but we scheduled several appointments weekly thereafter so I should have steady and consistent counseling soon, but in the meantime, I know that I have people around me who will hold me up when I cannot stand, who will pray when my own faith is lacking and who will get on their knees beside me in my grief and help me find my feet again.

Thank you, Heather, for being right where I needed you to be today. For sharing wisdom that came from your own excruciating journey through and around your own grief. And for giving me the strength to get back on my feet again.

We were frustrated with our conversation with our oncologist yesterday. I expressed as much when I was sharing the latest update with my dad. My dad is the first person I call for advice, support, encouragement or to vent because he, unfortunately, has traveled this same road with my mom. I always feel bad because I know our conversations make him relive, remember, and as is the human condition – regret- things from the twelve years my mom battled a recurring brain tumor. But there is no one else I know and trust like Dad, and I know his advice is true, honest and spoken from experience.

As is always the case, he explained it well. And what he said didn’t just help me understand the oncologist’s position better, but it helped us process our feelings about seeking a second opinion. “It’s a 180 degree turn,” he explained. “You are in fight mode. You are thinking about symptoms and solutions and treatment and progress,” he went on to say. “But at some point that shifts. You make a complete U-turn to where you are now thinking about just living, about being in the moment and about making the most of the time you have.” Our oncologist had already made that turn in her mind for our situation; we were just lagging behind. We were still focused on getting as many years together as we could, while she had made the turn to preserving the quality of that time, instead of zeroing in on length of time.

Which is why, when James texted me to say he was thinking about stopping to hang out with his old boss for a little bit, but then hesitated because his boss had recently come out of COVID quarantine, I responded by saying, “Go. Have a wonderful time. You have to live for today.” And so he did.

And which is why I found myself in the garden, in the pouring rain, balancing an oversized umbrella and a quart container so I could pick the ripened berries before the chipmunk got to them. I found myself delighting in the thought of homemade jam with our own berries – a first in a number of years – and for a few brief moments, I didn’t think about cancer, I didn’t cry or worry or stress, I just focused one by one on those beautiful red berries.

We haven’t made that complete one-eighty yet, but with Dad’s explanation ruminating in our hearts and minds, I think we are feeling a pull in that direction. We know there is no cure. We know the options are limited. A second opinion might buy us some time, maybe, but the same amount of time might be lost sitting in doctor’s offices or waiting on scans, or traveling to God knows where.

James and I both have been struggling with the unfairness of it all. The injustice feels particularly harsh when we look at all the time, energy, money and effort we have put in to building our dream here on Someday Farm. We want more time. But, if I look at this through the advice Dad gave me, maybe that’s exactly the blessing. Our dream is all around us here, right now. There is so much to savor, so much to appreciate, so much to enjoy. Maybe we have spent all that time and effort so that right now, for this next while, we can find peace and comfort from all of it. This, right now, this is our Someday.

This is the new direction we face.

I have tried all day to find a way to share the news with words that make sense, or bear meaning. The truth is, there is no way to say it, no phrase or turn of words that makes any of it make sense.

The immunotherapy treatment isn’t working. We’ve seen the signs, symptoms and indicators, but we held on to hope and remained optimistic. But yesterday, the normally wait-until-we-have-cold-hard-data oncologist didn’t wait for the next scan; she started preparing for our next and last option. We will have another scan, to be sure, but we are also doing all the preliminary work to make the change to the BRAF inhibitor drugs, the only option we have left.

We have known, in our minds at least, that there is no cure for Stage 4 melanoma. Our hearts have been reluctant to follow that truth to where it leads. So as the doctor spoke, as she explained the process, procedures, side-effects and cautions, we found ourselves at a loss for words, at a loss to be honest, to even comprehend.

All of this is palliative care and yet we were fighting to add years to his life. We were fighting with the immunotherapy to put the cancer on notice and to have some feeling of longevity to this disease. But that effort only had a fifty percent chance of working and as we have been since the start, we are on the wrong side of the percentages. The BRAF inhibitor is no longer about buying years. It’s about buying months.

A year. A year is the best case scenario for us. One year. One fall, one winter, one spring and one summer. 12 months left together.

If we thought we were struggling to get our minds around the diagnosis before, we are at a complete loss now. 525,600 minutes. James feels at a loss as to how to help me adjust to that reality while I am similarly struggling to help him in any meaningful way.

Tomorrow I wrap up the school year with my fourth graders and we begin summer vacation. We are working on plans to travel to northern Michigan and we have visits with family already on the calendar. It is a daunting task to say the least to try to prioritize all that you want to do, but that’s the task we are faced with.

I can’t help but hear the song from Rent playing in my head.

Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand moments so dear 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How do you measure, measure a year? 

In daylights, in sunsets 
In midnights, in cups of coffee 
In inches, in miles 
In laughter, in strife 

In five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How do you measure a year in a life? 
How about love? How about love? How about love? 
Measuring love Seasons of love Seasons of love 

Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand journeys to plan 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How can you measure the life of a woman or a man? 

James’ life won’t be measured by what he chooses to do in the next 365 days. His life is already one well spent even though it is cut far too short. James’ life will forever be measured by how much he cared about the people, animals and land that he was blessed with. This next year won’t be about adding to his legacy, that is already cemented in gold. This next year will be about celebrating that legacy with him. “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee…” Whether we travel the world or sit on our front porch, those 525,600 minutes will be the best I’ve ever had, as long as I am with him. That is the reality I chose to live within.

I have said, more than once, that we were silly for even putting in a garden this year. But when we start pouring over catalogs in January and start sprouting our seeds in the basement in February and March, by May, we are already too invested emotionally with the vegetables and flowers to easily call it quits. But with all that we have going on, and for as difficult as it is for James to do things he easily did B.C. (before cancer), some days it feels more like an added burden than a blessing.

This weekend was perfect gardening weather, however. I’m not sure we even quite hit 70 degrees, which made weeding a much more pleasant experience than it is later in the season. While we felt like we just finished getting the garden in, the weeds had clearly not taken notice that other parts of the property needed our attention and had grown exponentially in that short amount of time. I didn’t have just one or two beds to weed, they ALL needed it. In addition, I still hadn’t finished putting down the mulch, so I knew that I could easily spend both weekend days out there and still not finish.

I set a goal to get all the long beds weeded on Saturday. There are 13 such beds, each probably 10-12 feet long, so it was a hefty goal. I started with the tomatoes, and inching myself down each row, I slowly made progress and could see the fruits of my labor. By the time I reached the last long row, however, I was long since out of steam and was ready to be done. To make matters worse, the last row was carrots, which is, in my opinion, the worst to weed. I mean, the WORST. Carrots have such delicate little sprouts that come up and the weeds like to root right against those sprouts and it requires such patience and delicacy to get the row weeded without pulling up the carrots as well. Just looking at the row made my head hurt, and by this point, my back was aching, my hands and fingers were sore and I was really tired of scooching through the mulch.

As I started weeding, however, I realized that for all the reasons maybe we should have abandoned the garden, I could list just as many for why I’m glad we didn’t. The garden, especially when school is out, is my refuge. I love being out there in the cool mornings when dew is still wet on the plants. I love seeing the growth of the plants each time I go, and I find myself talking to them and celebrating their milestones as if they were living beings (What? In a way they are!) So as I carefully and patiently weeded the carrots, I thought about what blessings the garden holds for us each year. I thought about how we planted the strawberries so that the row right next to the main walkway was the “everbearing” variety, which gives us snacks all summer long. Cherry tomatoes, likewise, are positioned at the end of the row so we can easily grab a handful any time we just happen to be passing by. The wisteria climbing up the arbor was a Mother’s Day gift from James last year and it is full of blooms already, eagerly climbing and growing. So far, the villainous creatures that somehow get in to the garden haven’t destroyed the peas or eaten the zucchini sprouts, definitely miraculous. Flowers that I chose during snowstorms last winter are starting to bloom already, with bees and butterflies enjoying the blossoms as much as I am.

Just like the row of carrots, I realized that there are always blessings around, sometimes they are just really difficult to see. Looking down the row, it’s hard to imagine there is anything worthwhile growing here, even from directly overhead, I have to train my eyes to spot the variations of a carrot leaf over the weeds around it, and then I have to be patient, carefully removing all the things that are not carrots – all the things that will not bear fruit – so the carrots can grow.

It’s the same with blessings. I’m having such a hard time seeing them or feeling them lately. Even when I am desperately trying to find them in our life, I struggle. Everything feels like weeds, choking the joy and the life out of us. But, if I very slowly, pick it apart, if I take the time to slowly remove all the things that are not bearing fruit – I start to see the things that are.

James might not be able to do all the things he once could, but he is still here and he is still wickedly funny and he still loves me deeply. We might cry – gut-wrenchingly sob – more days than not, but we also laugh and smile and enjoy all that is around us. We don’t have too many indicators that things are going well, but we realize we have amazing doctors and we have an amazing network of friends and family and strangers praying for us. We may not know how long this will last, but we have today. We have this moment. We have right now.

So, I will sit, with my rear on itchy mulch for as long as it takes, to slowly but surely pull every weed so that my humble row of carrots might grow. And I will dig deep within myself to find the patience and the vision to see the joys and blessings that surround us now – and always will be around us – and I will do whatever I can to help those blessings grow.

When I started this blog, and chose the name, I knew I wanted to focus on the good things. I was at a point in my life where I felt like I was surrounded by blessings, and where James and I were working to create our dream home and property. That isn’t to say every day was unicorns and rainbows, but just to say that I didn’t have to look much further than the garden, the flower beds, our animals, our time on the porch or our beautiful home to find abundant blessings.

I struggle to write lately because I’m struggling to find the blessings.

Yesterday, my beloved brought me lunch at school. He likes to do that, and has many times over the years, but he had been working longer hours than usual and now, since he “retired,” he hasn’t always felt up to the task, but yesterday he mentioned it as I left for work and sure enough, just about the time my students headed to lunch, there he stood in my classroom doorway.

We shared the Caesar salad that he brought as well as the handful of fresh strawberries – the first – from our garden that he had picked that morning. We sat at the table Dad had made me while we ate, juxtaposed kitty-corner to each other in a way we hadn’t been seated in a while. While he spoke, I noticed a spot just under his right ear, near the scars of his surgery from last year, and I reached my hand up to touch the spot. “I know,” he said quietly, acknowledging the lump, “I noticed it two days ago. I just didn’t want to say anything.”

A new one. Another one. A visible one. These fucking tumors.

I steeled myself against the tears. I was in my classroom, after all, and the kids would be returning in a few short minutes. But we both sat there, feeling every ounce of discouragement and frustration we had been fighting against. Optimism is our general rule of thumb, but it’s so hard when all signs keep pointing us in the opposite direction.

Today, seemed like a good day. A good day in the sense that he texted me a picture of the “extra protein” smoothie he made himself this morning. A good day in that he suggested I meet him “at the garden” when I got home from school – our new relaxing spot, with a different vantage point than the porch. A good day in that even as I drove home and texted him that I had cold things and I would have to stop at the house, he said he had a cooler at the garden, which meant he had snacks and probably a glass of wine ready for me. But, when I pulled up at the garden, just moments later, he wasn’t sitting in his Adirondack chair waiting. He was on his knees, under the grape vines, vomiting. It had come on that suddenly, that unexpectedly.

To say I feel helpless doesn’t even scratch the surface. To say I am angry or livid or frustrated or so incredibly sad can’t even begin to describe what it is I feel. There just aren’t words profound or deep or vivid enough to convey the gut-wrenching emotions I feel when I see him like that.

Today, I sat at a ball game with over a hundred fourth grade kids watching some of their faces and cheeks turn pink in the sun from lack of sunscreen (despite all our notes and suggestions). Today, I had colleagues shrug off the notion of sunscreen for the event because “they tan.” Today, I watched my husband kneeling in the goddamn weeds sick to his stomach from tumors that came from the very same sun that warmed my face today (heavily protected by 70 spf and a hat). Today I cried the entire drive to and from and during a grocery run to find him popsicles because that’s the only thing that even sounds good to him and the only thing he was brave enough to try after being sick again.

If there are blessings here, I don’t know where they are. If there is some lesson I am supposed to be learning or some amount of gratitude I didn’t express enough of before, or if there is some “greater meaning” I’ll be damned if I know it or can find it.

I can lay my hand on my husband’s body and feel the tumors beneath my fingers. And it feels nothing short of evil.

I woke this morning long before the sun. I laid in the dark, trying to slow my thoughts, slow my worries.

The cardinal was the first to sing. One solo bird. “Hello, Mom,” I thought.

“She is here,” I felt my heart say.

I eased out of bed, careful not to disturb James. Trudy continued to sleep at the foot as I left the room and silently stepped down the hall.

Charlotte was waiting outside the front door as usual but seemed surprised when I stepped out instead of inviting her in. She followed me to the porch chair and jumped right up, her feline motor already running.

The cardinal was now joined by a robin and the two sang an off-rhythm duet over and over again. As the sky loosened its grip on night and charcoal became grey, I heard other birds join the choir. I recognized the oriole song and smiled; we have worked so hard to entice them to our yard and now they are steady visitors. The grosbeak followed shortly thereafter and my ears filled with all the chirps and notes, whistles and melodies.

I read somewhere not long ago that researchers believe birds sing at daybreak to announce to their mates and the world that they survived the night. They sing to say, “I’m still here. I made it!” This morning, with the cat on my lap and bats diving and circling in and around the trees, I felt myself reminding myself of the same thing.

“I am here. I am still here,” I thought.

With tears rolling down my face, I prayed. If God can make such amazing melodies with the birds, if He can dress them in all the colors and with all the variations, if He can begin our days with an unseen choir of notes, then surely He can help the families in Texas. He can provide comfort and healing even when there cannot be understanding.

“He is here,” I heard the universe remind me. “He is still here.”

Charlotte and I went back inside and I began getting ready for my day. After my shower, I gently crawled back in bed with James and took his hand in mind. I felt his pulse against my arm and I heard his breath- steady, slow, content. As the tears rolled again, I felt my heart relax. I felt my thoughts slow and my worries subside.

“He is here,” I comforted myself. “James is still here.”

I am a hot mess. I was crying so hard at school the other day that even as I tried to pull myself together to go get my students from Music, all it took was a colleague asking if I was okay in the hall and I lost it completely.

I cry in the car. I cry in the parking lot. I cry on the porch. I cry in bed. I just can’t seem to get a grip on all that is happening.

James is in pain. We thought the horrendous cough, extreme fatigue and the nausea that kept leading to vomiting were unbearable, but the pain has convinced us we didn’t know what we were talking about. The meds work for a day or maybe three, but then they aren’t enough and every movement, every moment is uncomfortable or worse. We’ve finished our fourth treatment, but not without incident. We spent an absolutely miserable night in the ER a couple weeks ago – because of this same pain – only to come away knowing that it’s the cancer causing the pain – the tumors in his abdomen are growing -and we have to just wait and hope that it’s just “tumor flare” that’s the cause. His oncologist and all the nurses, even the ER doctors assure us that “tumor flare” is very common during the beginning of treatment, that the tumors often enlarge or swell before shrinking from the therapy, and while we will hold on fiercely to that very hope, it’s hard to take that as the best news when it means he is still miserable.

So we try, with all our might, to stay positive and to boost each other up, but he is frustrated with how little he can do. Between the pain and the fatigue, he feels controlled by this disease in ways he wasn’t prepared for so early on. He made the very hard decision to stop working at the end of last week. We positively refer to it as his “retirement,” even going so far as to celebrate with cake – but the reality isn’t lost on either of us.

And then yesterday, driving home from his latest treatment, when the hospital visit had been “blissfully uneventful,” stopped in construction traffic, I happened to glance at my phone. “Don’t read it,” James said. “Just put your phone down.” Another school shooting. Even looking at those three words lined up together just blows my mind. Another. School. Shooting.

I cannot even begin to explain how this feels to me right now. I teach fourth grade. Sandy Hook was nearly more than I could bear, truly. But now, this? It’s too close to home, it’s too similar, it’s too goddamn possible. And so, for the past 24 hours, I have cried more than is perhaps reasonable, out of a fear I don’t know how to contain any longer. Sandy Hook was too similar, it was too unthinkable, it was too tangible for me to ever really get past. Robb Elementary feels even more so.

This world that we live in is full of such evils. A place where children die at the hands of other children; where cancer strikes in the most absurd and devastating ways; and where there just isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me make sense of any of it. I am trying, so desperately hard today, to feel blessed. I am trying. I am struggling to have faith that there is more to this, that there is hope, that there is light, that there is meaning behind any of this at all. I am trying. But today, today, I am at a loss. I am at such a loss.

God be with those families in Texas. Each and every one of those precious souls. My heart is in agony trying to comprehend any of it. There is no blessing in any of it.