2-20-18 SMOKE

1. of the Marlboro variety

Dad was a Marlboro man. Or maybe it was Camels. I would probably have to be led back to my childhood under some sort of hypnosis to remember most of the details of my childhood. (I am reminded that a bad memory is not always bad.)

Dad had that Dean Martin look - slender bodied, with a bit of a swagger, beautiful dark hair that was combed to the side with a perfect Elvis-like wave near the forehead. He had the aura of  James Dean, with his baggy khaki pants and a cigarette balanced between two fingers, its smoke snaking mysteriously up into the air. above his head. He had a green bean-bag ashtray beside his chair in the basement. It was filled with cigarette butts and ashes. That part was not nearly so romantic. 

That was a time when we all smoked: Everyone in the house, at the restaurant, on the airplane. Even if you never put a cigarette in your mouth, you smelled like smoke, tasted smoke, and inhaled enough to cause lung cancer just by existing in the same space. Nowadays my grandkids get nauseated at the smell of cigarette smoke. They are blessed to not know what it is like to have your eyes burn and throat sting all the way from Pittsburgh to San Francisco aboard a seven hour flight. I am reminded when we visit Europe that things in America are much better these days. 

2. of the matchstick variety

I picture my mother, when she was young and dying her hair and working 16 hours a day. I  see her standing at her bathroom sink. He long slender fingers flick the head of a matchstick across the rough bottom of her pewter matchstick holder. The stick ignites, a sharp flash of light followed by a thin blue dancing flame. Smoke rises from the matchstick in a swirl as she moves her wrist in circles. She places the red and white sulphur head of another matchstick against the flame, igniting it as well. Then she takes turns blowing out and relighting the sticks, alternating, allowing smoke to rise from each one before she re-igniting. The room acquires the scent of matchstick smoke, refreshing and earthy, overpowering other smells. She takes turns lighting and blowing until the matches burn down to her fingertips. I see her lips purse up as she raises the stub of a stick toward her mouth and blows gently, bending the flame until it can resist no more and flickers out. The burnt stubs make a screeching noise as they hit the water in the toilet. 

I recently asked my chemist-brother George why people burn matches as deodorizers. He explained as best he could to a non-chemist, something about carbon in the smoke adhering to other particles in the air, overpowering them into submission. I still use matches in my bathroom.

3. of the smoke signal variety

My friend Bernice Smith lives down on Main Street here in Farmington. She called after our mom died, to offer her condolences. We got to talking about the Farmington Cemetery in our conversation, and she told me about how the cemetery came to be located where it is, south of State Street along the main road between Centerville and downtown Farmington. She told me that her grandmother used to tell her stories about who was buried where, and how her favorite tombstone was that piece of white marble carved in the shape of a little child's chair marking the grave of a little girl. That headstone always tugs at my heart.

First, a disclaimer: I am remembering this story from the mind of a person with ADD who was grieving at the time, so I cannot vouch for any of the details,  and for all I know this is complete folklore, but here goes:

The hill that holds the graves of many of Farmington's finest was once just a lonesome foothill covered with sagebrush. It was situated about halfway between Ogden and Salt Lake City. At the time, before Farmington was deep rooted and sprawled along the foothills like it is now, the leadership in Salt Lake City was trying to deal with some problems that involved restless Native Americans who had territorial issues with settlers and travelers between the two cities. The leadership of the city or the LDS Church, or both, hired a young man to keep watch on the travels of the Indians. This fellow had married and recently welcomed a new baby to the small cabin he had built at the foot of what was known as Sagebrush Hill. He was to keep an eye out for the natives, and if he saw them moving toward Salt Lake City, he was to light a fire on the hill and send smoke signals warning officials to the south. 

To earn extra income, the settler and his wife put up fresh peach jam every fall, and he took a wagon load to Salt Lake City in October to sell at market. 

That year, after he had left with his supply of preserves, a fierce east wind came howling down through Shepard Canyon. An early snow had met with the icy blast coming from the east, causing the windows and door of the small isolated cabin to quake. The roof seemed to rise off the cabin, and the wind shrieked and howled through the cracks in their tiny home. We have lived in modern Farmington for over 30 years now and we know the fierceness of those east winds. That storm brought so much snow and wind that it was not possible for the young man to return to his home so he waited out the storm. His young wife, driven mad by the noise of the wind coming through the cracks and the snow drifting under the doorway and window trim, took her baby and braved the icy chill outside. Apparently someone passing by found the bodies of the mother and child frozen against the door. It's likely she could not open the door into the strong wind once she was outside. 

The story goes,  the husband finally started making his way back through the snow days later. He stopped in Centerville at the home of a friend who was a woodworker. He found his friend building a small coffin. When he inquired as to who might occupy the box, his friend told him about his wife and child.

Bernice says the young man buried his wife and child there on sagebrush hill, which eventually became Farmington Cemetery. 

Before my mom died we bought plots there on sagebrush hill. This was back when you could buy 4 plots per household, and since we had four households in our family, we bought a good chunk of plots. We used to go visit there before we had any eternal interest in that real estate. We chose where we would go. Libby laid down on various pieces until she found one that felt right. Our mother rests right next to that spot today. Our friend Cindy Gardner, who bought her plots at the same time so we could be eternal neighbors, is also resting in her spot just east of our mom. Before we know it we will fill up that space. It is strangely comforting knowing where we will be resting, and knowing who will rest beside us. I can imagine my loved ones stopping by now and then, or blowing kisses as they pass by. We specifically chose plots near the easterly road to accommodate drive-by grieving.  

Our mother's headstone, bronze sculpted by Stan Watts

I like to pretend it is the future, how long from now I do not know, but I do know that it is an awesome moment in time, anticipated by many. Over the hills, from the east, the light exceeds the usual sunrise. It is magnified and glorious as the Son of God makes his way back to us. The graves of all of us buried there on Sagebrush Hill open up and out we come, neighbor greeting neighbor, families embracing, songs rising through the branches of those old sycamore trees. I make my way over to that little child's chair headstone to find out who rested there, and to see if Bernice and Syd happened to be around as well. And I imagine searching the landscape of this place I know so well for an old man with his arm around a young wife and a tiny child, pioneers of Old Farmington, who first walked this hillside when the smoke signals from the northern foothills carried the scent of sage.

2-19-18 WHITE

Late last night, after the fire had been silenced in our fireplace, and the kitchen counter had been wiped down, I took the nightly path of dimming house lights: through the family room, kitchen and hallways, locking the garage door, and ending at the front door. When we were building this house I bought that heavy wooden door in Michigan from an antiques dealer, who told me it once graced the home of a Methodist minister well over 100 years ago. As I reached for the switch to dim the main porch light, I noticed through the beveled glass that Winter had decided to visit. I opened the door and inhaled the sharp, clean smell of snow falling, listening through the silence of the late night as the flakes softly found their individual places out there in this cozy spot of earth.

It's about time! Just yesterday morning, before the winter storm rolled in from the south, I noticed in the flower bed at the top of our driveway a cluster of daffodils had pushed their way up through the brown earth. There were no golden flower heads yet, but sure enough, there was irrefutable evidence of daffodils in mid February Utah. Absurd! It has been a very confusing winter for this poor dot on the map; unseasonably warm, with almost no snow in the valley. I've enjoyed going without coats and wearing sandals since Christmas.  It was really nice at first, not to have to shovel snow or worry about slipping. But it became distressing as the days turned to weeks and we began to think about the potential for drought this year. Plus, to be honest, brown isn't all that pretty. And the poor trees! They are super confused; blossoms are starting to bud, and sleepy flora is awakening in the middle of their night. Yesterday you'd have to go way up high, through the canyons and into the mountains, to get a good dose of white.

Then, finally, last night, this was the sweet view at the front door:

Our yard is transformed, even in the dark of night, by the beauty of white. And in the morning, it glistens in the sunlight.

I used to think that white was the absence of color, probably because my first human understanding  of color was waxy layers of crayon on a white page. But I've come to learn that white is actually the presence of all colors.

white:  achromatic (having no color). It fully reflects and scatters the visible wavelengths of light. the color of fresh snow, chalk and milk, and is the opposite of black 

and here's how black is defined:

black: the very darkest color owing to the absence of or complete absorption of light; the opposite of white.

Even on a gray day like today,the white that enfolds the trees and walkways in our town evokes serenity. I can see the distinct fullness of the scrub oaks in the hollow, and the layers on our evergreens. Dave and I drove through the tunnel of Sycamore trees lining Main street, feeling like we were shimmying through a snow tunnel. 

My brain thinks it's colorless, this landscape covered in snow, but it is actually a reflection of a whole array of color. Those colors must fit on some divine spectrum, sort of like the sounds that only a dog can hear. They enter our senses without us realizing it.

It seems fitting that we are blessed, baptized and married in white; that the Pope's skull cap and mitre are white; that we use a white flag to surrender, and that the Savior left white robes folded neatly at the sepulcher. 

Black, on the other hand, absorbs all colors. He keeps them to himself. 

After England's Prince Albert died, his widow, Queen Victoria, wore black in mourning for 40 years. And yet, she left explicit instructions that after her death  she wanted white to play a prominent role in her funeral. Not only did she wear her white wedding veil over her face, she also requested white horses and a white pall over her coffin. 

In most Asian countries white is the color of mourning. It represents purity and rebirth.

When our mom died, all of us in her family wore red in her honor. She was fond of saying "Red is Best!"

Then, when I was researching just now about colors of mourning throughout the world, I found this:

We also served Wingers Buffalo chicken wings and Chick-fil-A chicken fingers at Mom's funeral luncheon, because those were some of her favorites.

So, family, I guess we are supposed to all be sick or dead by now.

Bury me in white.

2-18-18 BEETHOVEN'S KISS

For anyone following this Lenten Writing exercise, here's a bit of information about the practice of Lenten sacrifice. The 40 days of Lent do not include Sundays, because the Sabbath is already a holy day. I do not, therefore, do my dedicated creative writing on Sundays. But I am happy to share some of my favorite pieces written by other people. Today it is a sweet little piece I read years ago. It still moves me.

Beethoven's Kiss

This special gesture helped a young pianist open the door to achievement

  By Andor Foldes

I was seven years old when my father asked me to help him in the garden. I worked as hard as I could and was richly rewarded when father kissed me, saying: "Thanks, son, you did very well." It was the first praise I consciously received in my life. It made me happy and proud. After many decades, my father's words still ring in my ears.   

When in 1953 I made my first orchestral recording for the Deutsche Gramophone Company, I played Liszt's two piano concertos, accompanied by the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the finest orchestras in the world. The first concerto, a childhood acquaintance, was finished in a jiffy. On the next day, the second work did not go as smoothly. I had learned Liszt's No. 2 piano concerto only shortly before the recording session and was jittery. We had to go over a particularly difficult passage again and again. 

After a while one member of the orchestra rose and turned to me, saying: "Mr. Foldes, don't worry. You have done extremely well in the first work; there is no need for you to be nervous. We admire you." I started to play the same passage again and carried it off without a hitch.   

At 16, in the midst of a personal crisis arising from differences with my music teacher, I met Emil von Sauer, Liszt's last living pupil, who paid yearly visits to Budapest. His adoring public feted the grand old pianist with his leonine white mane like a semi-god. One of the city's prominent music patrons asked me for tea to meet this idol, and my elation was boundless.   

Sauer divined the real purpose of my presence and asked me to play something for him. I sat down at the piano and launched into Bach's Toccata in C major. He listened intently and asked for more. I suggested a Beethoven sonata.  He nodded his approval and I put all my heart into playing the Pathétique. When I had finished this word, he ordered me to play on. I continued with Schumann's Papillons.  Finally, he rose and kissed me on my forehead. 

"My son," he said, "when I was your age I became a student of Liszt. He kissed me on my forehead after my first lesson, saying, 'Take good care of this kiss - it comes form Beethoven, who gave it to me after hearing me play when I  was your age.' I waited for years to pass on this sacred heritage, but now I feel you deserve it."   

Nothing in my life has meant as much to me as Sauer's praise. His kiss lifted me miraculously out of my crisis, I might not have become the pianist I am today without Sauer's encouragement.   

Just recently, when giving a master class for young pianists, I felt that one of the youthful artists could do even better if given a small pat on the back. I singled out the one thing he did best and praised him for it before the whole class. His eyes began to glow, and almost immediately he outdid himself-to his own amazement and that of the class. A few words brought out the best in him.

Praise is a potent, driving force. It lights a small candle in a dark room and its glow begins to fill the space around us. This is magic, and I marvel that it always works.

Beethoven

Beethoven's student, Franz Liszt

Liszt's student, Emil von Sauer

Andor Foldes, who received Beethoven's Kiss

2-17-18 TOMATO

Ah, February in Utah, you have arrived in all your frozen splendor, all wintry and... wintry. It's great up in the mountains if you like snow sports, but down here in the valley it has been a brownish kind of winter, and its feeling sort of blah. So I cook.

February is just so far, far away from August. Fortunately for us in the era of modern transportation, it is harvest time in the southern hemisphere, which means the produce we get in our grocery stores here in the northern hemisphere is starting to get some flavor again. Today I found Roma tomatoes on sale for 59 cents a pound at the 5 Hour Store in Salt Lake. The store isn't really called the 5 Hour Store, but that's a story for another time. This is about tomatoes.

To me, the summer is at it's holiest peak when I can go out to the grow boxes at the end of our driveway and pick a nice ripe tomato fresh from the vine, hold it up to my nose and inhale the freshness, then walk straight into the kitchen, slice it up in inch thick circles, all wet and rosy, then lay one and a half slices between two pieces of Grandma Sycamore white bread which has been slathered with Miracle Whip. Two twists of the pepper and salt mills before the top piece is added. Its not right for me if it isn't sliced in half with a serrated knife, so that I can see the heavenly layering, like Mother Nature's wedding cake. 

I love tomatoes.

I have a big pot of water coming to a boil on the stove right now, and soon I will blanch, peel and crush those Roma's I bought this afternoon. In my biggest 5 gallon pot I will heat some olive oil, add some grated carrots, crushed fresh garlic, and a teaspoon of sugar, saute for a bit, then add tomato paste and all those crushed tomatoes, with a big old fistful of sweet basil and some sea salt. It will simmer all day tomorrow, so that by tomorrow night I can make us up a nice big pan of manicotti for Sunday dinner.

I love tomatoes.

But my life-long best friend hates them. I've known and loved Libby since the day she was born. We share just about everything. Heck, when we were kids we even shared bubble gum, and I'm not talking about fresh wrapped pieces. I'm talkin' about ABC gum (already been chewed). Yeah, we are that close. (We don't do that any more.)We have an old home movie of me feeding her mushed up baby food carrots when we were little. I am 15 months older than Libby, who is also my sister. One bite for her, then two bites for me, then one for her and two for me. You can guess which of us is more selfless. We like mostly the same stuff, except that Libby hates tomatoes.

I remember with a pang of compassion the evening on Old Clairton Road when we were kids. Dinner that night was stewed tomatoes, and Libby had to sit there at the kitchen table until she had eaten hers. Ann Marie, George and I had to do the dishes, and George accused her of faking it to get out of drying. But Ann Marie and I knew better, Ann Marie was my other best friend. She is 18 months older than me. I remember feeling so sad, standing there at the kitchen sink, my dishtowel soggy as I dried the last dish, looking over at Libby, her head drooped sorrowfully over the bowl in front of her, her hand gripping a spoon, and big crocodile tears dropping onto that big, soft yucky orb floating in watery tomato juice, seeds floating around it. She just could not do it. She wanted to, but she just could not do it. I wished I could run over and just slurp it up for her, even though I myself didn't really care for tomatoes of the stewed variety. I can't even remember how the evening ended. For all I know I woke up the next morning and she was still sitting there, a cold, withered glob of agony still there in front of her.

Libby is grown up now. She grows tomatoes in her garden. Not for her, mind you. She still does not care for them. No one can make her eat them now. But she grows them for the people she loves. If fate ever finds us in a situation where life or death hangs on Libby's ability to consume a tomato of any sort, besides one squeezed into tomato sauce, I will stand beside my little sister and defend her right to not eat them! I will raise my serrated knife and sound my barbaric yop and consume any tomato placed before her. All for love. I'm selfless that way.

2-16-18 REMOTE

Circa 1972, or thereabouts 

An attempt to recall my past in random flashes of memory.

Right about the same time as I outgrew my passion for tree-climbing, we moved away from our house with a yard full of trees, down the hill to the Pleasant Hills Apartments on East Bruceton Road in Pleasant Hills, PA. As apartments went, it was a nice one, with three bedrooms and a good sized living room, with a small but adequate kitchen. I think, besides the trees, I most missed the windows, not just for the light they brought to us, but for the flow of air. Not so much on high smog days, which were no rare thing for us there in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, in the shadow of the Clairton Steel Works slag dump we called Mount Ugly. But the scent of earth awakening in early spring Pennsylvania, when the steel mill was down-wind, was simply divine. For the first time in our lives, there in the Pleasant Hills Apartments, we had air conditioning. Thinking back on it, it was a double-whammy, because at the same time we  got a beautiful, huge used-but-still-in-great-shape colored television. This was serious evidence of living the American dream, though my memories include curling up in the old white rocker in that air conditioned apartment with my glassy eyes fixed on the TV, trying not to think about the fact that our father had abandoned us.

Those were the days when the TV guide in the Sunday paper was precious property, more important even than the comics section. We were at the mercy of the schedule inked onto thin newsprint. If we wanted to watch the newest episode of The Brady Bunch, or even an old re-run of The Big Valley, we had to make sure we were planted directly in front of that thick convex screen at exactly that hour. There was no pause button, or rewind, so commercial breaks were necessary, for obvious reasons. We learned to do what needed to be done in exactly 2 minutes. That's about how long it took for a piece of Wonder Bread to take on a golden skin in the toaster. 

Television was a piece of furniture in those days. It held its place of honor there on the west wall of the living room. All other furniture faced it, like a royal court faced its king. That big 13 inch screen on our massive colored TV was amazing, for sure. But the most awesome  piece of technological  wizardry was the warm transistor-radio shaped remote control, with it's umbilical-like cord connected to the console. We could plant ourselves on the couch and never have to move. Ever. Until nature called. We could switch from Charlie's Angels straight over to The Love Boat without touching our feet to the ground. It was awesome! (Groovy would have been the word we used.) We called that early version of remote the Clicker. When we eventually got a wireless one we called it the Zapper. 

Nowadays I sit comfortably in my leather recliner and Dave sinks down into the couch in front of our rock fireplace. Next to the fireplace is a dandy piece of cherry-wood furniture that the average person would not realize hides a 55 inch flat screen TV. When we want to watch something, we push a button inside that piece of furniture and our thin LED television rises up and covers the oil painting on the family room wall. Dave turns a knob by the cement logs in the fireplace and gets an instant fire going. I toss him two wireless zappers, one for the TV and cable, and the other to control the various wireless subscriptions that offer us unlimited options of shows to watch, including, interestingly enough, Charlie's Angels and The Love Boat.  We never... seriously NEVER, have to watch a show as it unfolds through the airwaves. We can instantly record, and rewind, and watch something else while we record, or just choose from an eternal list on Netflix. 

No doubt, day after tomorrow, we will only have to think that it would be nice to watch something or other, and it will magically appear before our eyes.

I kind of miss the days when, in early December, the list of Christmas specials came out, and we would circle the dates on our paper calendars. Then we would make sure our homework was done and the dishes were dried and tucked into their shelves before 7 pm on Tuesday night when Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was being broadcast. You knew that the same scenario was unfolding in all your classmates' homes. There is some sort of solidarity in that. 

Progress has it drawbacks.

2-15-18 SORROWS & SAFETY

Tessa Jane Merrill, daughter of our Annie.

My newest little human treasure is Tessa Jane, our youngest’s youngest, who floated down to us last Spring. I am old enough now, and far enough removed from the panic phase of parenthood, to be able to hold my new Littles in my arms and gaze into their eyes for very long chunks of time: relatively long periods at least, until their charcoal-colored eyes flutter closed in slumber or squint in distress. I have always cherished those sacred private moments of holding my children’s children, fresh from the womb, and wondering as I held them what their lives had in store: What joy awaits them, and what talents would sprout from the tiny seedlings planted in there. Last spring, when I walked the floor of the hospital in Spokane, bouncing like a Shoshone Rain Dancer in my attempts to calm Tess, I caught myself stunned when this question popped into my brain:

What will be your sorrows, Little One?

Seriously, what kind of grandmother asks such a question? Nonetheless, there it was. The more I pondered it, the more apparent it became that this was a divine truth unveiled for me when I was ready to receive it.

At first I worried that there was something tragic in the future, and this was a forewarning, but, after specific questioning I came to see this as simply a distillation of deeper understanding dripping onto my graying head, and nothing more.

The truth is, for Tessa and for all of us, there will be plenty of small sorrows, and more than a comfortable portion of great ones as well. The shape and size of them are relatively inconsequential. I do not say this flippantly, as if our sorrows and our joys are simply happenstance, because I personally don’t believe anything is happenstance. I really don’t know if God is a micro-manager, a helicopter parent, or if He chooses to parent in a more hands-off style, knowing that regardless of what happens to us we are going to learn something. I think all of our spirits are a little distressed being in the dark about this. But I keep telling myself He is the parent, and I am the child; the same way I had to keep telling myself that I was the parent and my kids were the children when they were small (it sometimes felt backwards to me until I repeated this to myself. You know how kids can mess with your brain sometimes). I trust that God knows what He is doing. That trust is a gift to me. It’s a spiritual gift, under the category of faith, and I am grateful for it.

Today I began my personal prayer with this sentence: “Maker of me and all that I love; I am grateful that I believe in you, and that I trust you.” What parent wouldn’t want to hear that honest statement from their child: I believe in you and I trust you.

I love this quote from Victor Hugo:

“Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.”  

Victor Hugo
author of Les Miserables

Courage - Patience - These are nourished by sorrow. Most of the big noble character traits are not fed by joy and ease. What I love most about Hugo's words are the phrases that follow: when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.

When baby Tessa became old enough to realize she did not want to be alone in the dark, all it took was picking her up to make her tense little body relax and her weary head plant itself on the shoulder of someone bigger than her, whom she trusted. There is peace in safety.

But I also believe there is safety in peace.

Yesterday, in Florida, a teenage boy who is not yet old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to purchase an assault rifle, walked into his former high school and shot dozens of people, killing seventeen of them. We Americans are shocked and angry and anxious about this problem that involves guns, and intolerance, and mental illness, and all sorts of other major issues too big for the average attention span to cover in one sitting. There are a bunch of people in Florida and elsewhere who are having to muster courage for their great sorrows today.

Almost every day, when I hear us pray for ourselves and each other, I hear us ask for safety. Perhaps it’s the prevalence of easily available information, and our propensity to pay attention to sensational things. We are an anxious people. The kids in Sunday primary sharing time fold their arms and bow their heads and ask God to help them have a safe walk or ride home. We pause in the car before a trip and ask for safe travels. And for sure, I said mighty prayers each time my sixteen-year-old kids pulled out of our driveway behind the wheel of a car. But lately I have been feeling an emotional rub every time I hear myself or others pray for safety, more specifically for physical safety. Sure, I don't want the people I love to get hurt. But even more, I feel a need for spiritual safety. That's the safety I need most. I need His peace. With His peace I can have the courage I need when physical safety isn’t there. With His peace I can move about my day knowing I am in His hands, night and day, because He never sleeps. 
Because He is God, I can lay my head on His shoulder and let him carry the big worries for me. I need His peace every second of every minute of every day in order to counteract the anxiety that our social awareness invokes.

While I like to think Tessa, and all my Littles, are safe in my Mama-Bear arms, I cannot guarantee safety. But I can promise there is Safety in Him, the kind of safety that goes beyond the flesh. Truth is, this flesh of ours is temporary anyway.

I remember sitting in my pajamas all the day long on September 11th, 2001. Before I had been able to dress that day, my sister called and told me to turn on the television. It flickered on just as a jetliner crashed into the second of the Twin Towers in New York. It was a surreal, soul shaking day for everyone, and I could not leave the TV long enough to shower and dress. I just sat there on the side of my bed, pausing only to lower my head and send up heavenly supplication. As the day progressed news reporters began to interview people standing in line at hospitals who were desperate to see if their missing loved-ones had survived and were being treated. I vividly recall one tall, slender woman who was standing quietly alone in line. When the reporter asked her if she was looking for someone, she answered, "Yes, my husband. I just need to know if he's OK. If he's dead, then I know he's OK, but if he's not, then I need to be with him." The tone of her voice was so calm, and matter of fact, and she answered with a reassuring smile that seemed almost out of place in that panicked setting.

"If he's dead, I know he's OK." Those words still reverberate for me.

Alive or not, whole or not, comfortable or not, joyful or sorrowful; we, by divine birthright, are entitled to rest in His peace - the only real rest - because He is awake.
My prayers are shifting. I pray for safety, yes, but the safety is for my soul. There is a sort of emotional liberation in not being consumed about what will happen to my body. What will be will be; God is awake.