A Stranger’s Funeral

 I opened my grandma‘s happiness file and read the words she’d written on an index card not long before she died. “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

…

 

A man I initially met online came to our yard sale, and I felt somewhat self-conscious. I was still recovering from a recent hospital stay and feeling quite under the weather from various medications and steroids. Plus, I know I look different in person than I do on the computer—especially how I walk. But I told myself to stop worrying about such trivial, superficial things. And as soon as I let my insecurities go, Mike, the man, and I had the most powerful conversation. He even shared that one of his best friends recently died from a heart attack. “It was so sudden,” he admitted, beyond devastated.

I’m not sure why, but I felt it on my heart to offer to play the violin for the funeral service. “This would just give me something positive to do with my time. And something good to look forward to.”

“Really?” he asked. “You really want to do this?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I’ll talk to the family and get back to you.”

I found out later that the guitarist they’d wanted to hire couldn’t come. So, they had me come to the cemetery to play as people visited before and after the graveside service.

It’s always strange, attending funerals when you’ve never met the person. I’ve done this quite often because I’ve played at so many funerals. But you really do get a glimpse of who the deceased was and how much they were loved. It’s quite humbling actually. 

But this service was different from any other one I’ve attended. They melded both Catholic and LDS beliefs, having a bishop and a priest, tag-team the service and add various elements from both religions. 

At one point, the priest got up and asked for people to yell out one word that described the man. 

“Friend,” someone said.

“Caring,” a couple of people said at the same time.

“Selfless.”

And for about a minute, people continued, saying the most wonderful words about this man I’ve never met. 

I held my violin at my side and nestled down into the chair under a blue canopy. I could hardly wait to play my violin again because I could feel the power of emotion building in my soul. Sometimes it seems like the only way to get my feelings out is on the fingerboard of a fiddle.

“He was an incredible man,” the priest said. “Did you notice how many similar words were used?” He paused, studying the crowd. “I really want you to think about this today: Which words would describe YOU? You are still alive. You’re still living. Who do you want to be to the people in your life?”

After he finished speaking, I played a couple of songs as people reminisced about the good times with their brother, son, father, cousin, and friend….

I finally went and found the man who’d come to my yard sale. I wished him well, and thanked him for setting the entire thing up. 

“I needed to hear that message today,” I said. “That was powerful.”

As I drove home, I mulled over all the words I want to emulate. That’s when I thought again about my grandma and the card from her happiness file: “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

It sounds so simple, but that's part of its beautiful dichotomy. Being kind can take immense strength. It can stop wars, change lives, alter everything in its path… Being truly kind is far more impactful than one might understand,  but it has a ripple effect that brings growth and joy.

So, I played at a stranger’s funeral, learned about a man days after his death, and had an epiphany about kindness. All in all, I think it was a pretty beautiful day.

A Positive What-If

This week wasn’t my finest… I yelled at someone I love. Not a small blip where I explained in a heated—yet somewhat level—tone. Nope. I yelled. Emotionally charged. Probably sounding ridiculous as I cried about fate and cancer, about death and friendship. And then I talked about people staying in my life because of pity and how I hate not knowing why they're still around. "Is it pity? Or love?" I'd raised my voice then, and I'm sure the vein in my forehead bulged as I shared one of my most embarrassing fears. "I have been reduced to a freakin’ charity case. Wouldn't that embarrass YOU?"

"Well, yes… But no." And the placating look on my friend's face—as she told me her real feelings about this entire situation—THAT broke my heart. 

Everything felt like too much. I'd been too tired to hang out with her, and she'd shown up with a bowl of soup and wanted to talk for over an hour. I didn't need her soup or her pity. In fact, I'd stayed up to talk with her because that was polite. After hearing that she does ‘feel bad’ for me, my pride prickled. “I don't need this." I handed the soup back to her. "Can you please head out?”

"I'm not leaving. Not like this."

I could've fallen, beyond exhausted from fighting cancer and dealing with side effects from treatments. I wanted to escape this claustrophobic situation that felt like it suddenly couldn't get worse. "Please just go." I said. "If you're here out of obligation or because you need to feel better about yourself…" I immediately wished I'd never said it that way.

We remained quiet, staring at one another. Stunned.

"Oh, my gosh. I'm sorry." I said, sitting down and placing shaky hands up to my face. She'd tried doing something nice, and I'd flipped out for virtually no reason. Yes, she's been coming over a lot and stayed a long time, but it’s been in an effort to help. “I” was the person who hadn't set boundaries and told her I didn't need food and that these visits were getting a bit taxing.

She took a small step back. “You’re going through a lot. And I can see where you're coming from on this. I really can. But what you said…”

“I'm so sorry.” I mouthed.

“I can't imagine what this journey is like for you. But, Elisa,” she whispered, "you don't know what it’s like for the people who care about you.” Tears formed in her eyes, and my jaw slackened with shock because this woman doesn't cry. She never even seems sad. I had no idea she'd even been struggling with any of this. “It's scary seeing someone who's sick. It reminds me that I will die..."

Without anything being resolved, she finally left. And as I turned on my heated blanket and wished I could block out the world, I couldn't quiet my mind. I hated myself for this sudden anger and the way I projected fears onto an altruistic friend.

Analyzing my initial accusations and reactions, I grew frustrated that my thoughts always turn to death: What if I died and this was the last conversation she'd remember having with me? What if she's had too much of this situation—and of me—and she stops being my friend? What if...

I told her about this the next time we spoke. “I basically accused you of being my friend out of pity. Because you wanted to help someone. I am so sorry. It was a horrific thing to say—especially to someone who's been so thoughtful.”

“You're allowed to be human, Elisa. And so am I." She sighed. "I'm not here out of pity. Believe it or not, I like hanging out with you."

After a moment, I took a deep breath. "If I would've died, and that was our last conversation... I hate how my thoughts always circle back to death. But what a horrendous way to leave things."

“I think about stuff like that too." She paused. "On the way home yesterday, I worried about getting in a car accident. I didn't want that to be our last conversation either.” She sniffled, and I realized that our friendship had grown leaps and bounds in a very short period of time.

"We both think about the ‘what ifs’ a lot, but they seem to be more on the negative side. Can you make a pact with me?” she asked, her voice becoming a bit lighter.

“Sure."

“Maybe it’s time we entertain the positive ‘what-ifs’ too. What if our friendship keeps getting even better because of this? What if we have decades of meaningful conversations? And, Elisa, what if every time we think about something we're scared about, we both counter it with a ‘what-if’ that involves hope?!”

I smiled, more grateful for her than she'll ever know. “What if... this positively changes our outlook on… everything?!” 

So we agreed. 

And even after I got into bed that night, I couldn't help smiling about of the things I'd found to be hopeful about over the course of that day. Each time I worried—and it happened a lot—I countered fears with positive "what-ifs.” And it really had changed my perspective in the most meaningful way. 

So, an argument escalated, lost steam, turned into an apology, and brought growth. It was a crazy week, but one that altered how I look at the future and really appreciate the present.

Looking Back to Appreciate

"I shied away from saying too much," Ralph explained. "It would've been foolish to give advice when I lacked understanding about your situation." He peered at the crows perching poetically on a fallen tree. "We could talk about our deaths from here until the time comes, but that won't change anything. It'll happen regardless—with whatever might be after this."

I nodded. Ralph is 90 years old, and I appreciate how he delivers honesty with a hint of empathy that makes any truth more palatable.

"And even though we're not in the same situation..." He paused as if shepherding his thoughts. "I can't fathom fighting cancer at the age of 42. But I do know what fighting cancer is like now, at least for myself."

When Ralph's son called me in November, I shook as I answered the phone. I knew something was wrong. "They found a brain tumor," Todd had said. "My dad wanted you to know."

Ralph stayed in the hospital for weeks upon weeks. Surgeons removed the brain tumor, and despite numerous setbacks, Ralph carried on, brave... humor intact. We brought a Thanksgiving dinner to him and his son—and despite their struggles and hardships, they continually asked how we were doing.

"Us?" I said. "We're just worried about you." The day before, oncologists had told Ralph that although they could lengthen his life with treatments, he would eventually die from brain cancer. And yet, he still wanted to ask about everyone else, eagerly listening to Indy share stories about her boyfriend before Trey answered questions about his apprenticeship.

I watched Ralph's eyes light with wonder while he selflessly listened to the kids, and tears filled my eyes. Ralph is pretty incredible.

One of the crows hopped onto the ground by Ralph's feet and brought me back to the moment: May of 2025. "Elisa," Ralph said, "doctors have told both of us that we will eventually die from cancer. I couldn't tell you this before because I couldn't possibly understand... But the best thing we can do is exercise acceptance."

I sighed. The two toughest words—for me—in the English language are patience and acceptance. But as I really mulled his words, I knew Ralph was right.

"It's terminal, Elisa. Still, we shouldn't let that rob us of today. We need to use the truth as a tool, a weapon to help us appreciate even the hard times. Even if things have changed for both of us." 

"Do you have any regrets?" I finally asked. 

"I think everyone does. If they're honest with themselves."

"Does that ever change how you're living in the present?" I wondered what he might say since he's so forthcoming.

"When I look back, sure, it could get easy to laser in on what I could've done differently, but then I look at the big picture. I've lived a good life. I have. So, I focus on those things and try to make my time now the best possible by doing things like this."

"Talking with a friend and watching crows?" I asked.

"Exactly."

After I got home, I decided to think about the incredible life I've led and am still living. I numbered a notebook from 1–84 and wrote two things for each year of my life, representing time well lived. The list includes moments like "remember hearing the violin for the first time," "got to meet all of my babies," "married my dream man," and "moved to Idaho." Then, I tried to find little items around the house that would remind me of the very best memories from my life.

"Mama?" Indy bounded into my room. "You seem so happy today. What are you up to?" 

I'd been placing items in a glass box. "You know Grandma Stilson's happiness file?" I asked, and she nodded. My grandma filled a recipe box with little sayings to cheer her up when she felt sad. "I guess I'm making a happiness box. These things remind me of how fortunate I am."

Indy sat by me and beamed. "There's a picture of me!" she said.

"Of course there is." And we giggled together.

"Oh! These are gorgeous. What are these?" She held two ceramic earrings to the light, and little rainbows shot onto the wall behind her.

"Before I saw Mike at the altar on our wedding day, my maid of honor gave me the most beautiful box from him." Indy passed me one of the earrings, and I cradled it. "Inside were these handcrafted earrings and a matching necklace. Mike had no idea what my dress looked like or that the necklace was the perfect length with the bodice. But that moment, combined with a million other tiny things, made me so grateful I'd even met such an exceptional man." I returned the earring to Indy and watched her place it back in the box. "I could hardly believe he was marrying me. I figured if you kids could grow up to be like anyone, I'd want you to be like Mike. And all of you are. You're kind and good. You're... exceptional."

"That was the neatest day," Indy said. She was only 5 when I married Mike, but even then, she'd been so excited to have him as a permanent part of our lives. When she met him, she couldn't say "Mike Magagna," so she started calling him "My 'agagna" and the name has stuck ever since.

Indy and I poured over the items in the box; she asked questions, and I answered.

"These stories are so awesome, Mama. What made you want to do this today anyway?"

"Ralph," I said. "He told me something about acceptance. It was tough to hear at first, but I see now how right he was. Life can be filled with hard moments, but the good outweighs the bad. I want to focus on that when I think about the past and when I'm busy trying to appreciate the present.

"Me too," she said. And later that evening, after I hugged Indy goodnight, I noticed a little box she'd placed on her dresser. Inside were trinkets I'd given her over the years.

So, as I drifted to sleep that night, I didn't worry about death or regret, terminal illness, or losing friends too soon. Instead, I focused on the good things: the fact that I'm alive and still able to appreciate so many incredible moments, like watching crows with Ralph, reminiscing with Indy, or continuing to fill my very own happiness box with reminders of joy.

 The earrings Mike gave to me on our wedding day :)

Seeing Beauty Around Me

The other day around 5 a.m., I drew the blinds and sat in my favorite lazy boy. Borah, Trey's 26-pound Maine coon, practically apparated onto the arm of the chair and stared out the window. And so, as I drank my homemade peppermint mocha, Borah and I stayed there for the longest time, just watching and waiting.

The wind picked up; leaves scurried over rocks; and a fallen branch twirled, somersaulting across the driveway. That's when Borah's ears slid back with concentration. He looked from me to the edge of the yard, and as I followed his gaze, my heart stopped. The most beautiful buck I've ever seen stood clothed in moonlight, fur gently combed by the wind, and massive antlers stretching toward heaven. 

He turned toward us, studying both me and Borah as if judging our souls. Although I couldn't pull my gaze from his, I lost hold of the moment and suddenly remembered something from the past.

 

We bought our house in 2015, and on the first night, Sky and I were so excited that we popped popcorn, turned out the lights, and watched nature out the front window. We whispered with excitement and could hardly believe it when we counted 28 deer that came into our yard that night!

 

"This is the best moment of my life," Sky squealed at one point. "I'm so happy we moved to Idaho."

 

I hugged her. "Me too." So much had changed. I'd been a single mom with four young kids, and going it alone had been tough yet gratifying. Then, I ended up meeting the most wonderful man, and after dating a couple of years, we got married and moved the kids from Utah to Idaho. Looking back, sometimes I think my life really started when I moved here.

 

Anyway, as I watched the buck, I thought about my years in this house, how I'd been so grounded at first, focusing on all the right things. Then, I got my dream job, managing an entire newspaper. But somehow... between balancing spreadsheets, hiring and firing, writing, editing, and paginating, I somehow lost myself and became the Scrooge of the modern world. Life was about work and earning money, college degrees, and breaking news. I no longer had time to eat popcorn and stare out the front window, watching nature with my children... Then COVID came. The newspaper went under, and we all had to find new jobs. It was only a few months later that doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer.

 

Everything crashed down: my expectations, self-imposed goals, and even how I saw myself. But from those ashes, something wonderful reawakened. One morning, I stayed huddled in a blanket, trying to warm my skinny body after cancer treatments. I'd been throwing up, worried I'd wake Mike or the kids. So, I stayed in the front room, trying to gather my thoughts. I opened the blinds, gazed out the window, and saw 5 deer that night. It hit me how close they walked to my bedroom. How ironic that such magic was so near every night, but I'd had no idea, too focused on menial things.

 

After that, if I hurt too badly at night or struggled emotionally, I started looking for animals. 

As months passed, I didn't just find beauty in my front yard, I saw it everywhere. And through it all, I became a better mother, wife, friend, sister, and daughter. How strange it took hardship for me to slow down and see the beauty around me. I'd been chasing so many things, trying to prove my worth to my parents and even my creator. I wanted to earn their love by writing books and getting promotions, but I'd missed the point. Life should be about relationships, building each other up, and ensuring people feel valued and loved.

 

Some days, I can get fixated on this diagnosis. It's easy to feel trapped and even scared if I think about the "what-ifs" too much. But other times—the vast majority—I've begun living: seeing the good. Even when I feel worse than normal, the kids enchant me; Mike seems like a miracle, and the deer in our yard… they're waiting at night, if I'm just willing to look for the magic around me.

 

My thoughts turned back to the present. The buck dipped his head down as if nodding with approval, then turned and bounded from our yard. I'm not sure if I've ever locked eyes with an animal that long—not ever—but it felt truly surreal. After the buck was far from sight, Borah curled up and fell asleep, probably dreaming about a huge deer hunt. As I snuggled into my perfect blue chair, I thought about how lucky I am to still be alive.

The Power of Peace

Do you ever have days when you sit and wonder, "What's the point?" It's not always like this for me; usually, I'm just so grateful to be alive that all other thoughts are shelved for another day. The inconsequential worries of yesterday no longer fill my mind, and it takes a lot to make me flustered or upset. But there are days when no one else is home, and I don't have to pretend to be "well" for anyone... When I'm all by myself, sometimes I feel like I'm in a hopeless situation with no happy ending. During those moments, I forget that my happy ending is now, making the best out of the present.

I get cancer treatments once a month—and then Zometa, an infusion for my bones, once every 3 months—and those infusions make me feel so ill for weeks upon weeks. Yet, they're the only thing keeping the cancer from growing. And without those, I wouldn't be here, typing this right now.

Anyway, I'd been having one of those down days when I got a text from Colleen Hancock. "Scott would love to see you."

So, without a second thought, I went to see my dear friend, who's become like family. The next few hours were a blur of laughter and storytelling. I even got to visit with Scott's amazing nephew (Kent) and his beautiful wife (Karrie), Gordon (the renowned artist), Colleen (the best baker in ALL of Idaho), and, of course, the legendary man of the hour, Scott Hancock!

Listening to and sharing stories about hilarious things that have happened, I somehow forgot about all of my troubles. I laughed so hard about possible sasquatch encounters and a chance meeting with a gigantic otter. I smiled big when Scott told me about his adventures as a young man. "We drove to California at the drop of a hat. Then we met a woman who really pursued me," he sighed, "but I turned her down."

"First time he didn't go for it," Gordon said, chuckling when Scott gave him a "side eye." 

"But spurning that woman might've been my first mistake."

"Why?" I asked, hanging onto this story like honey butter on cornbread.

"Well, I got in trouble. My dad was furious."

"Not just Grandpa," Kent said. "Grandma. Grandma was the one who got all worked up."

"Moral of the story," I said. "Never turn down a good woman?" 

"Maybe so!" Gordon agreed and broke out laughing.

It's funny how one different choice can change so much.

I gave everyone the biggest hugs goodbye and told Scott and Colleen how much I love them. "Thank you for letting me come visit today," I told them, more grateful than they would ever know.

A sudden nostalgia overtook me as I drove home, so I pulled off by a shaded tree, parked my car, and closed my eyes. The first thing I registered was happiness—normalcy—not feeling sick or flawed—just feeling valued and not judged for my limitations. But as I closed my eyes, I suddenly remembered sitting on a rock in Southeastern Utah. I grew up in the desert and, at times, camped so much that sandstone felt like a second skin.

Anyway, that particular day—near the San Rafael Swell—was in the high 90s. We'd been camping as a family, and everyone else wanted to hang out in the shade. Instead, I'd gone to sit on a sandstone boulder where I could see all around me for miles. A hawk circled above as I played my somber violin. Lizards scurried around far beneath me, and rocks gleamed in the sun. 

And as the wind brushed through my hair, I couldn't help but grin. I was made for the desert; I could've stayed there forever because, in those rustic hills, that's where I really felt G-d...

I opened my eyes, returning to the present moment... where I'd parked my car in the shade of a beautiful Idaho tree. I chuckled softly, watching snowflakes dance with one another before changing form and coating my windshield. How strange to think of the desert while being surrounded by snow! That's when I realized what had felt so nostalgic as I drove back from visiting Scott and his friends and family. 

They'd reminded me of that day in the desert because I'd finally felt peace... pure and simple.

Sometimes, the only things we really need are love and community. No matter how hard life gets or how insurmountable challenges may seem, the companionship of good people can give us the reprieve and courage we need to keep going.

So, I wanted to thank Scott, Colleen, Kent, Karrie, and Gordon. You lifted my spirits and reminded me how powerful peace can be. As I prepare to go to my monthly treatments again, I hope I'll find someone who needs kindness; maybe I can change their day as much as you brightened mine. I appreciate you so much more than you probably realize.

Love you,
Elisa

What's in Your Garden?

"Forgiveness is something I don't align with," a friend told me.

"What does that mean?" I asked. "You've never forgiven anyone?"

"No," she said. "I don't mean that; it's just that forgiveness doesn't make sense to me."

I'd called her asking for advice about someone I can't seem to forgive, and her response shocked me.

"I've always heard that saying," I said, "'forgive doesn't mean forget.' Is that kind of what you mean?"

"No. It's more of... Who am I to forgive?" she said. "Isn't that up to the Creator? If someone wrongs me," she paused, "I just get away from them. That's it. Fool me once doesn't apply to me. If someone tries to fool me, I throw all my walls up and leave."

"I knew you were a tough person, but… I don't know what to say." And after I hung up the phone, I thought about how much I want to forgive. Instead, I keep thinking about this person from my past, and with each thought, it's as if I'm tying myself to them with invisible strings. The strings of… bitterness. 

Although my rigid friend had views that differed from mine, at least she wasn't bitter, overthinking the past, and ruining the present. 

I called another friend the next day. It'd be interesting to hear what she had to say.

 
"Elisa! How are you?" Her voice lit with such excitement that it brightened my whole morning.

"I need your advice," I said. "It's about forgiveness."

She asked for more information and listened while I told her the entire story. (I even cried at one point.) "Getting cancer treatments makes me feel so gross, and I'm honestly exhausted. I need to let this go. It's like another kind of cancer," I finally said.

"You should surround yourself with positivity and people who love you. Especially with what you're going through right now."

"I think so, too," I said. I should surround myself with people like her. "Otherwise I won't be strong enough to keep going for Mike and our children." I sighed, then told her what I'd recently learned about the word "forgive." I'd looked up the etymology, and its meaning completely surprised me. "The root of 'forgive' actually means 'to no longer punish' or 'to not enforce a penalty.'" Oddly enough, I felt like I'd been punishing myself and not the person who wronged me. They were out there skipping around, enjoying that they'd left so many people behind. Yet, instead of letting the past go, I clung tighter, like a flippin' squirrel gathering nuts for winter! Except in this analogy, the food would be rotting and useless. How ridiculous? I need to hold onto goodness and hope. I need to hold onto the people who love me, like my husband and our kids, instead of the friends who stopped talking to me right after my diagnosis.

"I should let this go," I said after picturing myself as a frantic woodland creature desperately holding onto rotting things. "Do you…" I whispered then, so fatigued. "Do you have any advice for me?"

My friend said the most wonderful thing after that. "What do you want growing in your garden?" 

"Excuse me?"

"Metaphorically." Her words held such empathy. "What do you want growing in your garden, Elisa?"

"Good things," I said. "Definitely not weeds."

"So, let me explain what works for me: Every time I think about someone who I'm having a tough time forgiving, I've promised myself to immediately wish them well. I'll even sit and pray for them if I have to. And before long, I've always felt better because it changes my thoughts."

After we hung up the phone, I already felt better. It was so intriguing to get two different views on this topic. I don't think either person is wrong; they simply do what's best for them. And it hit me that I could take a page from each of their books.

It's good to protect myself from people who might hurt me. Before, I'd stay through thick and thin and often become a doormat for people, but now I can remove myself from bad situations earlier. Fool me twice… 

But I also found such wisdom in my second friend's words.

The next time I felt sad about this person who treated me differently than I'd hoped, instead of planting seeds of rejection and maybe even bitterness in my heart, I planted something much better: goodwill. 

Sometimes, I don't know if anyone hears prayers, much less answers them. I've often thought about creation being like a gigantic clock. It was formed, and no one meddles with it. That way, sickness, and hardships aren't personal. Instead, no one steps in, so everything will be fair. It's all chance? Maybe? 

Despite that, I did decide to pray. I prayed for this friend who abandoned me. I asked for her to be healthy and happy. I begged for her to never experience what I've gone through with poor health. I asked for her to have a wonderful marriage and grateful children. And by the end of this massive prayer, peace flooded through every bit of my being, and I knew I'd weeded my garden.

That evening, as I rested in bed, I thought how ironic it is that the root of "forgive" means "to no longer punish" because the only person I'd been punishing was… myself. And as a newness bloomed in my heart, I was ready to keep fighting, so I could spend more time with the people I love.

 

S'mores in the Sky

 Not long before my grandma passed away, she started her "happiness file." It's a simple recipe box filled with index cards. There are dividers for A–Z, months, and a section for photographs. Who knew a conglomeration of plastic and paper could offer courage and hope? Who knew it could help someone have the strength to keep living? Well, apparently, my grandma had an inkling... 

She'd write down every good and happy thing she could think of: advice and words of wisdom. And whenever she felt depressed, like a burden, or even sorry for herself, she'd open the file and feel at peace once more.

She could make it through life... for her family. And her own positivity somehow showed the way.

My grandma has been gone for quite a while, but the happiness file helps me feel like she's still with me. I love seeing her handwriting and reading her words. Anything from "Let people live their own lives!" to "Who are you becoming and how does that relate to the person you want to be?"

Just last week, I read something she'd written not long before her death: "Take a second look."

I thought about her words all day, and even when I went to a potluck at our local synagogue that night, I wondered what my grandma had meant. It's just that normally, the index cards' meanings are obvious, but this one seemed different. 

At the potluck, a woman I'd never met sat next to me, and after a moment of chatting, I decided to tell her about the words my grandma had written. "What do you think she meant by 'take a second look'?" I asked. "Something about perspective?"

"I think so," she replied. "That reminds me of something I've recently started doing." The woman explained how she leaves for work around 2 a.m. "I hated it," she said. "Hated the dark. The drive. The cold. Everything. Then, one morning, I decided to look up at the stars, take a few deep breaths, and just appreciate the morning. Now, it's one of my favorite parts of the day just because I took a second look."

It was incredible how she let go of fear and accepted the moment. "Your story about living in the present," I finally said, "is so inspiring. You know, just the other day, a friend of mine said that when the sun is out, we can't appreciate the beauty of the stars. I guess a lot of his loved ones have died, but he believes that stars are their campfires in Heaven. So at night, he sees those campfires and remembers all the people looking out for him even on the other side."

She smiled so thoughtfully. "When I go to work tomorrow, I'll remember the campfires in the sky. That's beautiful."

After I drove home, I gazed at the stars and thought about my grandma, her happiness file, and the campfires in Heaven. Maybe she's up there, roasting marshmallows and thinking about the irony that her happiness file helped her so much, and now it's helping me. I'm so grateful for her wisdom and the friendships I've made because of her words. Who knew I'd go to a potluck, meet a stranger, and leave inspired by a new-found friend?

Light in the Darkness

 I had a Godwink happen recently and wanted to tell you about it.

So, recently I’d been telling some family and friends about something I’m struggling with. Many of you know I’m converting to Judaism. But as part of this journey, I’m actually supposed to change my name to something that is Hebrew. 

Several weeks ago, my Rabbi went over about a dozen names with me. She found things that seemed as if they might fit me. But this is much harder than it sounds, and I want to pick the perfect name. After a lot of thought, I kept thinking about the name “Liora”—which means light. (I also thought about “Eliora”—light of G-d). But there are honestly too many choices, and I’d just been thinking how I desperately wish I could have some type of confirmation about the name Liora.

Anyway, this thought wouldn’t leave me, and it probably didn’t help that cancer treatments have been especially tough this month.

Despite that, I finally dragged myself out of bed and decided to go grocery shopping.

I’m truly a creature of habit lately, and there’s a place I always park. It’s the handicap area, right up front. But after I parked this time, something incredible happened! 

Somebody had put a painted rock right in front of the parking spot! It was later in the day, and the golden-painted sun shone so brightly in my headlights. I got out of my car, so excited to read the words on the rock, and I gasped as I held the rock in my hands. 

“Be the light in someone’s darkness,” I read the words aloud and studied every detail about that rock. You could see where the weather had worn off parts of the paint and even chipped away at pieces of the rock itself. I realized then that the rock had probably been sitting there for quite a while! How many times had I parked in that spot and missed a miracle waiting right in front of me?! That alone is such a good lesson: There are all these beautiful things around us, but we have to be aware and open; otherwise, we might miss them. 

I decided to take the rock and put it on my desk. But I didn’t want to go without leaving something behind, so I bought a really uplifting card and taped it where the rock had been. I hoped everyone who saw it would feel inspired, but I also wanted the rock artist to see it.

It’s interesting because the next day, I returned to the grocery store and happened to tell the cashier about this. “It’s confirmation about the name Liora,” I said. “I’d just been wondering if I should pick that name—which means light. I can hardly believe I immediately FOUND a rock that talked about being the light in the darkness! It was such a godwink.”

“You just gave me chills,” the cashier said, beaming so much. HER name should be Eliora! “I can hardly wait to tell the artist,” she whispered.

“Wait?! You know her?”

The woman nodded. “She’ll love this story. You know,” she paused, looking at me with wonder, “she leaves those rocks, hoping to bring people joy. It’s all she really wants.”

I wondered then if she was the artist, but I didn’t say anything. She would’ve told me if she wanted to.

So I left the store, knowing what my new name would be and feeling as if life couldn’t possibly get any better. 

Uplifting Despite Circumstances

An incredible group of women were traveling on a bus when they got into a huge car accident and ended up passing away. Unfortunately, there was a long wait to get into Heaven, so an angel came over and told them they belonged in Heaven, but a bunch of paperwork needed to be done. They’d need to wait in Hell for a while, but it wouldn’t be… forever. “Don’t worry,” he said. “A representative will come and get you soon.”

The afterlife must be a LITTLE bit like Earth because things didn’t go as expected, and after a while, the women had been in Hell for a very long time. 

Finally, Heaven got a call from someone down below. “You’ve gotta come and get these ladies; they’re making a mess of it down here! They’re ruining everything!” He sighed with exasperation. “They’ve already started all these fundraisers. They opened a hospital and have started helping the needy and making things easier for people who are being tortured. But the worst thing—the thing we can’t abide…” He took a deep breath. “They raised enough money for us to get air conditioning, and it’s being installed tomorrow!”

Ironically, we heard that joke on the way to the cancer center because that’s exactly what Indy did after she brought me to treatments. She smiled and waved at patients. She complimented a somber woman on her beautiful blouse and gave an older man a bumblebee pin. She lifted everyone up, and it seemed like she had left a trail of happiness in her wake.

“Did you notice there aren’t a lot of kids here?” I asked her.

“Yeah, why is that?” she said, looking around.

“If kids have cancer, they go to the children's hospital, and not many parents bring their kids here. People under 18 weren’t even allowed to the Huntsman during COVID.”

Indy went on to say that the cancer center is happier than she expected. “The staff is nice, and most patients are in such a positive mood.” 

I suppressed my surprise and nodded. “I think, for the most part, people here are positive because they’re fighting hard to hang onto life. They’re grateful for what they have…” I’ve visited the cancer center many times, and although Indy went with me when she was younger, I didn’t realize she’d even been thinking about the Huntsman when I went there. It surprised me she thought it would be sadder. 

“Fighting cancer IS tough,” I finally said, “but it does put things in perspective.”

Before we left the center, I watched as Indy continued making the day better for everyone around, and then it hit me: Most people were positive there, but Indy lightened everyone's moods. She saw the good and inspired others to be brave enough to see it, too.

After we drove home, I gave Indy the biggest hug. “People there wouldn’t even know what you’re experiencing,” I said. “I overheard you talking to your boyfriend the other day. I know this must be so hard on you. I just wanted you to know I’m proud of you.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For wanting to make other people’s days better even though I know you’re going through tough things too.” 

Indy smiled through her tears and looked at me with so much love.

“I know you’re going to beat this, Mama. I just know it.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Indy, you are amazing.” She made my day brighter, just like she did for so many other cancer patients. I just hope she can feel the happiness she brings into my life each and every day.