Today is my twenty-fourth birthday. Cricket and I left shortly after dawn and went to hike my mountain.
We spent almost eleven hours on the mountain and it was both the best and hardest day I’ve had in a long time.
The last time I was here, I was twelve. That was half my lifetime ago, and it was before all the bad things happened.
Last night I wrote out everything bad — everything — from the last twelve years. I wrote it out and then I burned the papers and collected the ashes in a bag. I carried all those ghosts of myself with me up the mountain.
I sprinkled the ashes on the wind at the tree line.
I felt as though I was standing with the child I was before. The child who climbed this mountain twelve years ago had no idea what her future held. She was full of life and she felt like she could conquer the world.
I lost that feeling somewhere along the way, but I realized I had it again as I stood there today.
Hiking my mountain this time was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I’m still dealing with chronic health issues that made the seven-mile hike tricky at times, but the mental and emotional elements wrapped up in the trip were the hardest things to deal with.
Coming back down my mountain, my heart was full of light. I felt present and connected and I was so full of joy I couldn’t stop smiling.
I’m a writer. A storyteller. But I’ve never known how to tell my own story.
I don’t want to be seen as a victim. Even to be seen as a survivor often makes me uncomfortable, because I rarely see myself that way. I mostly see myself as a human who had hard battles to fight. There is more to my existence than the trauma and I’m at a point where much of my existence is outside of those experiences.
Some time ago I wrote a poem with this line; I don’t remember the rest of the poem but this line is engraved in my mind:
“Survival is not who I am; survival is what I did. When you speak of me, call me by my name.”
I am Annie.
I don’t know what lies ahead but I do know two things for certain: one, that I am loved beyond comprehension, and two, that at the end of this incredible journey called life, I’m going home.
A few months ago I went to the hardware store to find the fire chief to ask him a question, and ended up seeing two of the fire chiefs I work with regularly, so I got dual input on my particular problem.
(In rural Maine, if I need a firefighter for non-emergency reasons, odds are good I can find one by wandering into the nearest hardware store.)
My problem went like this: one afternoon I realized the smoke alarm in the kitchen did not work. This was mildly problematic so I climbed up on the step stool and did some troubleshooting.
The problem was that the smoke alarm was unplugged. I, being a tech genius, plugged it back in.
It began squawking like nobody’s business.
I, being an annoyed tech genius, unplugged it and went to the hardware store and got a package of batteries. I replaced the battery and thought all was well.
It was all good, for a little while. Until I began heating the tea kettle.
The kettle hadn’t even begun to hum before the smoke alarm had a meltdown and began screaming in earnest.
I, being a short and annoyed tech genius with a high ceiling, grabbed the nearest cooking implement and jabbed at the smoke alarm reset button to get it to be quiet while I made tea.
The nearest implement was a chef’s knife.
I did NOT damage the smoke alarm and I DID get it to be quiet for a few minutes, but before the tea kettle was properly whistling it went off again.
THAT was the point at which I went back to the hardware store to find Fred.
“I have a hyperactive smoke alarm–” I said and before I offered further explanation, both fire chiefs informed me that I needed to replace the unit.
So, I did. Two different units, one return, and twenty-five dollars later, I had a new smoke alarm.
For the most part, it behaves. Every so often however it takes great offense to whatever I’m cooking, and sets off screaming like I’m trying to kill it. I keep a spoon handy to jab the smoke alarm when it does go off, but it’s been pretty good for a few weeks.
This week, while attempting to make avocado toast and baked fish, the smoke alarm decided that the scattering of crumbs browning in the pan while I made toast presented a life-threatening hazard to everyone and everything in the neighborhood.
After I recovered from jumping out of my skin, I grabbed the spoon, stabbed the ceiling, and went back to making my toast.
This sequence was repeated three more times while I made my supper.
When I made avocado toast again the next day, I was speaking with Missie on the phone and really didn’t want to set off the smoke alarm; it has really awful sound effects through speaker phone and I didn’t want to blow out her eardrums.
Avocado toast, round two, was made without harming any smoke alarms.
No smoke alarms were harmed in the making of tonight’s supper.
There is a good chance that the reason for tonight’s success was because I microwaved a bowl of pasta and made a much larger bowl of green salad, but that’s beside the point.
(Note: I am a good cook and rarely ACTUALLY burn things, I just have bad luck with smoke alarms.)
Two years ago, sitting on a slightly lumpy bed in a medical hostel in Portland, I sent in a query for a job writing at my local paper. I had no experience in journalism and I was scared stiff of the prospect, but I also knew that I needed a job that would allow me to be a part of my community, and I figured it was worth a shot.
Before I began working as the sole journalist at the paper, regularly covering a dozen municipalities and nearly all of the unorganized territories in Maine’s north western mountains, I’d heard vague chatter about “the media” and how awful it is. There was plenty of chatter but no details; no specific examples or instances of what was so terrible. I’m still hearing a lot of that chatter, and still without specific examples.
I want to take a minute and share some of my own specific examples of what my life is like as a journalist. I don’t expect to change anyone’s opinion but if I’ve learned one thing in the last two years, it’s that information can lead to a greater understanding; there is value in understanding another perspective, even if you don’t agree with it.
I do understand that there are differences between myself and many other reporters and journalists, and I cannot speak for their experiences, but I can speak for mine.
I’m always “on duty”. When I want to take a vacation? I have to shut off my phone and leave the county. I wish I was exaggerating. I’ve tried to be deliberate in making connections and relationships, and I’ve tried to make myself accessible and available. Most of the time that works in my favor, even if it’s not related to work; when I take vacation time, it is often challenging to truly take time off if I’m still in my territory.
All the bad things you read in the news? I put them there. Sometimes I rewrite a press release from the sheriff’s office, but sometimes I’m building the story from the ground up with gathered information and conversations. Regardless of how I received the information, I have to be sure I’m understanding it thoroughly so that I can correctly communicate it to others. I have to do my research and know my topics before I can begin writing the story. Imagine that your homework assignment is to thoroughly evaluate, process, and understand all the available information about the death of a child you knew, and then figure out how to explain it. Imagine the toll that takes on you.
Sometimes people aren’t nice. I have been harassed, yelled at, threatened, mocked, and abused by people in my communities. I have had people come into my office and yell at me about how to do my job. I try to interact with everyone in a friendly, open manner, but that doesn’t always get reciprocated. Sometimes I can set it aside and not worry about it; sometimes I end up sitting in my truck in the driveway after work, crying because it’s all too much.
I get to see and hear and know about the worst of humanity, without the ability to do anything to help. This is a hard one for me sometimes because every fiber of my being wants to help, and most of the time there is absolutely nothing that I can do except stay out of the way.
I have to make it make sense. I have to write about the inexplicable and find a way to explain it. I have to turn chaos into a line of orderly words on the page. And I’m pretty damn good at it, but sometimes this is what it feels like for me:
As the only reporter at the office, I covered everything from festivals and celebrations to municipal meetings to school events to accidents and fatalities.
As a reporter I wear hundreds of hats and they’re all being juggled at once to make sure that everything gets covered. I’ve had to flip a switch from writing about a horrific snowmobile accident to writing about the kindergarten class having a play day at the sledding hill with no space to breathe in between.
I wanted to be accessible and available, and it worked. Sometimes I wonder if it worked a little too well. Folks have told me stories that can’t be told to anyone else. They feel better afterwards and I am glad that they feel safe enough to trust me with their stories, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have those images in my head.
I don’t even want to talk about COVID-19, because that would take up two or four more pages, but that is a massive piece of the puzzle too.
I love my job, and as a general rule I wouldn’t change a thing, but it is not an easy job. I care about my people far too much for this to ever be easy.
It’s not easy, but it is worthwhile.
I get to go to the best places and meet the most interesting people and I have a whole book’s worth of my own stories that happened alongside my news articles. I get to be connected and engaged and part of these communities in a way that I haven’t been before, and it is so satisfying for me.
People have this fundamental desire to be connected with each other and to know what is going on, and meeting that need is one of the things I get to do.
I can understand, to a degree, the skepticism and mistrust of “the media”. I, too, struggle with vague and faceless entities that seem to have no connection with my world.
My advice, which may not be worth much, is twofold.
For those who are not in journalism, consider supporting your local media and avoiding national news for a few days. Local or even state media is more likely to provide you with connections, instead of just information. I think that a lot of the time we’re experiencing an information overload and that is hard to cope with.
Secondly, for my fellow journalists, I don’t know much about how you do this job, but I know that we are a part of this world and that we need to be connected and integrated. How can we expect to be successful, trusted, or respected if we treat ourselves like outsiders and like we don’t belong? These are our communities too.
Reader Notes: a book review + quite a lot of rambling
When You Find My Body by D. Dauphinee, 5 out of 5 stars
This afternoon, huddled under the blankets as the temperature in my house slowly crept upwards following a power outage, I finished reading Dauphinee’s book.
When You Find My Body is the story of Gerry Largay and her disappearance on the Appalachian Trail in Maine, right in the heart of my communities. Published in 2019, this book weaves a story that I have heard about since the beginning, but with more information and details. It helps me complete the picture.
About the book itself: the storytelling and the narrative voice is engaging and compelling. Dauphinee understands something about humanity that can be hard to capture sometimes, and he shows it on the pages of this book: the community need for survival.
He paints a beautiful but unapologetic picture of the place I call home. While the story he tells is full of grief and sorrow, frustration and even anger, hope, courage, and compassion shine through. I definitely recommend this book and will be picking up a copy for my own shelves.
That’s my thoughts on the book itself. My reaction to the story, on the other hand, is kind of complicated. I think that’s one of the reasons it has taken me so long to read it. I picked it up before Christmas and am only now putting it down.
I grew up in a little village tucked at the foot of Mt. Abram – Mt. Abraham, I suppose, to people who aren’t locals. I live near most of Maine’s tallest mountains. My hometown is also 23 minutes to Sugarloaf Ski Mountain and one hour, 8 minutes to Saddleback Mountain. (This is assuming favorable weather conditions and no delays and I tend to give myself 30 minutes and one hour and 30 minutes, respectively, because I often have poor conditions and/or delays.)
I did not grow up skiing. Or snowboarding. In the winter we amused ourselves by hurtling down an icy dirt road, bouncing off the frozen plow bank as we turned a ninety-degree corner, and continuing on down the road until it leveled out and the plastic torpedo sleds scraped to a halt, often a few hundred feet past the bottom of the hill. (It is worth noting that in 20+ years and 14+ kids, there were only two broken bones associated with these winter activities.)
In the summer, we played outside. The woods were ours, and nothing could get in our way. We built forts and shelters, made campfires, foraged for nuts and berries and greens, swam in the pond and the river, caught sunfish and frogs, wandered through the small woods in the pasture, and scrambled up and down hills, cliffs, and shallow ravines.
My uncle took my older brother and I on a number of hiking trips when I was a pre-teen. With him, we learned to follow a trail, to pack basic survival items and a little more food and water than we needed, and to pace ourselves and not overexert. On one hike we ended up unavoidably delayed due to injury and ended up hiking in the dark down to the logging road, where my dad and our friends met us and drove us out. That time we learned the importance of flashlights, extra batteries, and a good communication system.
The most important lesson, however, was one I learned from reading, well before we began hiking. I don’t remember when I first met Donn in the pages of Lost On A Mountain In Maine, but I do remember the most important time I met him in person.
It was September 17, 2011, outside the Cole Transportation Museum in Bangor. I say it was the most important time because I actually met him multiple times in my life, but this one was different. I was fourteen, my life was complicated and messy, and I was scared stiff about meeting him. We had eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the suburban on the way to Bangor and I was regretting that as my nerves twisted up my insides. It was, as I would later realize, an anxiety attack.
Donn was incredibly sweet. He graciously signed the entire stack of books my mother handed him and talked with me the whole time. I don’t remember if my mother or I told him that I was a writer, but it came up, and we chatted about that. He mentioned something along the lines of, maybe someday he would see my name in print.
I think, all told, we talked for ten minutes. I remember feeling embarrassed that we were holding up the line, but I also remember that he made me feel calmer. Less scared.
The most important lesson I learned from his book was twofold: if you’re lost, stay where you are; if you have to move, follow the water. It will always take you home.
As a pre-teen, hiking Maine’s high peaks with my uncle and brother, those words stuck with me. Donn was my age, and my best friend’s age, when he got lost. For a while I heard that rule in a kid’s voice.
After I met Donn that day when I was 14, however, I always heard it in his voice: comfortable and warm and soothing. And I wish I could have told him that.
Reading through When You Find My Body over the last few months, I found myself comparing notes with everything I have learned. And the thing that hit me was, would it have helped if Gerry had Donn’s voice in the back of her mind, reminding her to stay put when she first realized she was lost? Or later, when she finally settled down and made her final camp near a small stream, if she’d known to follow the water?
I don’t know. I’ve never really been lost before, so I can’t fully imagine what it must feel like. I know that the human mind doesn’t always behave rationally and that panic can make it impossible to do something unfamiliar.
One of our first trips up Mt. Abram last fall when neither my dog or I were familiar with the trail, we had a moment when I thought we’d gone off the marked trail onto a deer path. I couldn’t find the next blaze and the trail was faint, narrow, and covered in leaves. Something deep in the pit of my stomach started to bubble up into panic for a second, making me want to run and find safety, and then I remembered the rule: if you’re lost, stay put. I took a breath, looked behind me and found the trail and blazes leading back the way we’d come, and realized we weren’t lost. A few more steps led us within sight of the next blaze ahead of us. The whole thing lasted for maybe fifteen seconds.
My biggest takeaway from When You Find My Body wasn’t the tragedy of the story or the pain of losing someone and not knowing what happened or the courage and dedication of those search teams. I got all of that, certainly. But the biggest thing I was left with was much more simple and maybe a bit silly:
Maybe it’s a good thing that I hear Donn in my head when I’m hiking.
Beyind that, reading Gerry’s story has highlighted areas I may be lacking in and encouraged me to learn more. But she also has encouraged me to be brave and to reach for the stars and to fight for my dreams. “Inchworm” has inspired me to keep trying, even if I’m slow and it feels impossible. And she has encouraged me to keep faith close to my heart.
One final note:
I was able to spend a day with the Maine Search and Rescue Dogs group and the Maine Mounted Search and Rescue group last fall. I volunteered to be a subject for their training searches, and it was an incredible experience. I learned so much in those few hours and I would love to do it again.
But the thing that stuck with me the most from that day was one of the gentlemen who, when he learned where I was from, got a sad, sort of distant look in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been there,” he said. “We were looking for Gerry.”
I am far away. Far from the rage and the turmoil, far from the shrieks and screams and smoke. No one here is threatening. No one here is fighting. Not tonight.
The little bubble of my world is calm. Still. Peaceful.
The stars are silent. Orion is gone. Every night I look back over my shoulder and there he glitters in the night sky like a watchful, wakeful guardian. He is veiled tonight.
I feel as though I am holding my breath.
“Perhaps the Christ Child had walked between the lines and while he walked, peace had stayed the guns.” (Kate Seredy, The Singing Tree.)
The words circle in my mind and I hold them lightly, feeling the pulse of the words against my fingers.
Peace seems forever far away.
I am far from the city, but the fight is here in my chest. Fear is a heavy master and one I know far too well but tonight, I am more weary than afraid.
I am tired of living in this fight for my whole life. Half the time I don’t even know what is being fought for, but my whole life is marked with battle after battle while I am told there is no war.
There is more than this present chaos.
I believe that someday, at the far distant end, there is a garden, filled with great good things. There is peace and gentleness and love in abundance. There is the embrace of those I love that eases the ache of losing them. There is grace, and compassion, and beauty. There is everything great and good and more than I have ever dreamed. There is life and wholeness and healing. Healing, and no war and no battles and no destruction to try to undo me. There is rest.
This is not that end. I have a work to do first. I must sow the seeds. Water them. Nurture them. I may not see them come to fruition but I must plant them and care for them as long as I am able.
When it seems like everything is falling apart, I remember that it is okay to grieve. It is okay to mourn. It is okay to be lost and hurt and afraid. But I am here to do great and good things. I am here to make a change. Maybe that change begins here, tonight, in the quiet. Maybe that change begins in me.
I am here to live the best way I can and trust that in the end, I will be somewhere safe with someone good.
I am not a bible scholar, an epidemiologist, or a scientist. I’m simply a writer who has been immersed in biblical history and literature for most of my life, and who has done a lot of reading and writing about COVID for work.
For me, a fascinating study during the COVID-19 pandemic has been the Old Testament laws for cleanliness and hygiene, which I studied at least four different times when I was younger. Some of them seem a bit extreme but many of them are common sense measures we see in use today. Things like washing yourself, isolation and cleansing after exposure to dead bodies and certain kinds of illnesses, and washing or discarding contaminated garments and items are all found in the Old Testament.
Moving through history to the Black Plague, we learn that one of the reasons the Jews were blamed for the plague was because they were less affected by it than others, due to the rules for health and hygiene that they followed. If you’re not affected by it, you’re obviously the cause of it, right? There were other issues going on as well, I’m sure, such as people being prejudiced walnuts, but that was one contributing factor for why they were blamed.
This is something I’ve been musing on during the pandemic.
There’s a popular question I hear in church communities. “What would Jesus do?”
I’ve always struggled with this question because it is often asked in situations where we don’t have the information to be able to say, and we can run the risk of shaping Jesus into our own image and expectations. But it is a good question to make oneself think.
So, I asked it in this situation.
I imagine Jesus would wash his hands and stay home if he was sick, and would probably wear a mask if he had one. Jesus would love people regardless of their beliefs, their social standing, and their health issues. Jesus would feed those in need and comfort the hurting and take care of the people around him.
I imagine that during COVID, you would see Jesus volunteering at homeless shelters and soup kitchens. You would see him picking up groceries for shut-ins and talking with them from a safe distance. You would see him organizing online book clubs and movie nights and helping remote students with their classes. You would see him calling his neighbors and family, just to check in. You would see him out taking long walks, and it would seem like the day got a little bit better just for seeing him. You would see him writing letters to folks in nursing homes and others in isolation.
I imagine that you would see his eyes, bright and alive and holy, smiling over a mask or face covering, as he thanks the grocery store clerk and tells her that he hopes she has a good day. You would meet him on the road, helping a stranger change a flat tire. You would see him spending his weekend building a wheelchair ramp for someone in the community who’s disabled.
I imagine you would see him as a member on the volunteer fire department, first on the scene for an elderly woman who fell down the stairs. You would hear the tenderness in his voice as he helped her, and she might say that the pain eased when he came. You would see him working in a blizzard, helping lost and stranded people find their way home again.
I imagine that you would see him raging against companies who place profits over human lives. You would see him fight against a system that causes harm when it should bring help and relief. You would see him challenge the oppressors and stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves. You would see him do whatever it took to make sure that the elderly, the infirm, and the weak are not excluded or forgotten.
I imagine you would see him bring light, and hope, and healing into the sick rooms and hospitals. You would see him hold the hands of the lost and hurt and grieving. You would hear his footsteps between the beeping of monitors and the noise of ventilators. You would see him rejoice with each recovery and mourn with each death.
I imagine that you would see the kindness and compassion in his face, in his hands, in the way he lives his life. You would witness a joy so strong that sometimes it hurts. You would see a man who loves fearlessly and relentlessly. Though he would not risk the health of others, you would see him risk his own health for those in need.
I asked myself, what would Jesus do?
And I asked, what must I do?
A special thanks to my family members who encouraged me to share this. This writing is as much for myself as for anyone else. I understand that everyone has different beliefs and am not suggesting that I have all the answers or that I am an expert in biblical history and literature, Jewish culture, epidemiology, or other subjects; I am, at the end of the day, just a writer.
I don’t understand what the plan is, God. I don’t understand how this brokenness is supposed to help.
I don’t understand.
I look around and I see, played out on a global stage, the divides and shattered pieces and hurt that I’ve battled in my own heart and mind and soul.
There is so much hurt.
I was – finally – beginning to heal from my own. I was beginning to reach out again, to connect, to touch people after being afraid of them for so long.
And now I’m asked to draw back again. To contain myself within the walls of my own existence. I may speak, but my voice is not very strong yet. My body is the strongest part of me and I am asked to be still. To fold my hands in my lap. To step away from outstretched arms, to keep from stretching out my own.
I’m so tired, God.
I’m not afraid.
I’m tired of the fighting. The screaming. The fear and hurt and anger and pride. As hard as I try, the voices still creep into my brain and for a time break the quiet.
It’s finally quiet now, inside my mind, more often than not. Even now.
I’ve learned that in order to heal the hurts inside myself I first had to admit they were there. I cannot mend a broken plate if I insist that it is not broken.
Is that part of the plan, God?
Is that part of the hurt?
I’ve learned that I cannot exist without connection, yet for so long now we have made connection a lower priority – work has become the highest priority.
When work ceases, what will the hands do then? Will the hands learn new languages, or maybe rediscover old languages they know but have forgotten to speak? Will they remember how to connect with another?
Recipe adapted from Better Homes and Gardens Scottish Shortbread recipe
1 cup cold butter, cut into pieces 1 and 1/4 cup whole wheat pastry flour 1 and 1/4 cup unbleached white flour 6 tablespoons granulated sugar 3 Earl Grey tea bags
Empty tea bags; if tea is coarse, lightly grind. Combine dry ingredients; cut butter into mixture until it resembles fine crumbs, then knead until smooth. Roll out to 1/4 inch and cut out, bake at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for about 30 minutes until golden brown on the bottom.
Hint: use a coarse cheese grater to cut the butter into small pieces to make it easier to cut into the dough.
I wanted the cookies to look like tea bags, so I cut them into rectangles with a knife and cut the corners off, then used a straw to punch the holes in the top. I thought I would put strings through the holes and add tags.
I also dipped a couple in melted chocolate, but I think it would be better with a lemon glaze. A chai shortbread would be better with the chocolate. Looked cute though!
I packed a handful into the empty tea box and it was super cute! I shared with the neighbors and they loved them. I’ll definitely be making these again!
A couple weeks ago I had a really hard day that resulted in me getting home too mentally exhausted to get out of my truck. I texted my bestie and she prescribed a chocolate bar, some yogurt, and a movie, to give me a place to start as I worked through what was going on in my head, and from there we came up with the idea for this mental health first aid kit.
One thing that my therapist and I have been working on is practical tools to get me through the rough spots. This kit is another tool for my toolbox.
When I have a really hard day, it’s often hard for me to do basic self care things. While the frequency of my bad days is reduced, they still happen. I talked it over with my bestie and we isolated the areas in which I struggle most on those days, and designed this kit to offer me the support I need, ready when I need it.
My kit has a bottle of water, a box of mac and cheese, a chocolate bar, a packet of electrolyte drink mix, a packet of tissues, one of my favorite movies, and a checklist to evaluate what I need to do for myself.
For me, communication is both the best way to get through an episode, but also the hardest thing to do. Texting someone to say “hey, I’m having a hard day, can you send me cute cat pictures?” can be hard, but often that casual connection is the best thing to help me work through what’s going on in my head. Another thing that helps is just chatting with someone face to face; due to the pandemic, that can be hard, but it’s so important.
Other things to check are if I’ve had enough to eat, enough to drink, if I’ve spent any time outside, and if I’ve taken any time for just myself. Evaluating these things gives me an idea what I can do to help myself.
I do well with a step-by-step list of what to do, so I included a step by step guideline in my kit. Having a detailed plan makes it possible for me to get up off the couch and do step one.
The last card in my kit is a list of things in my environment to look at. The goal is to pick just one and do that to improve my immediate environment. Just one isn’t too overwhelming and I can usually do it in five or ten while my meal cooks.
This is not professional or medical advice; this is just something I’ve set up to make it easier to get through the bad days, and I thought others might benefit from it and be inspired to create their own kits. I fully expect to create a kit for each of my kids if/when I acquire younglings, because this is something that I would have LOVED to have as a kid. Other ideas could be just some snack food, a good book, a puzzle or game, a coloring book, outdoor toys… there’s tons of possibilities.
My main goal was to assemble this kit in one place so it’s ready when I need it. The days that I need something like this, I’m usually not capable of collecting things from all over the house. Think of it as a mental health first aid kit and make sure it’s stocked and ready to grab when you need it.
This has been on my mind for a week or so now and my bestie said I needed to share it, so, here goes. This is for you, Missie. ❤
We’re caught in the middle of a global pandemic and nothing is clear and nothing is certain and I have no answers and no idea what tomorrow has in store.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I am filled with this calm assurance.
It feels odd to me, because my anxiety is still there, fluttering around, but then there’s this deep bass note of knowing.
Sometimes you feel things in your head, and sometimes in your heart, and sometimes in your gut. I feel this assurance in all three: no matter what happens, no matter what comes next, this is not the end.
This is not the end.
Even if I should catch this virus and die, even if the knuckleheads speeding on my street should actually kill me, even if there’s some kind of violence and I get caught up in it and die, this is not the end.
There will still be a garden to tend, there will still be a cat to pet, there will still be a hand to hold — maybe Jesus’s hand, I don’t know.
But no matter what happens today, tomorrow, or in a year, I know, and kind of for the first time in my life, that this is not the end.
I don’t have answers. I don’t even really have questions, if I’m honest. I’m scared and nervous about what might happen.
But I know that whatever does happen, it’ll work out okay somehow
Death isn’t the end of the story. Death is turning a page.
So for now I’m going to keep washing my hands and keep waving at people and keep smiling even if I’m wearing a mask because my eyes will show it. I’m going to keep writing my articles for work and keep writing my stories for me and keep mucking about in my garden.