Among the many small pins I have in my collection, the one I love the most reads: “I don’t just believe in miracles, I expect them.” Because I expect miracles at every turn, I readily see them––joyfully, gratefully, and all the time. Here’s a sweet story to illustrate.
Last Sunday, while lounging on a rattan beach chair on the grass at the local amphitheater in Bend, drinking in the warm, mid-afternoon sun above me, my cell phone rang. “Arggh!” I said, irritated I hadn’t turned the damned thing off. At the time, Paul Thorn, a divinely soulful singer/songwriter from Mississippi, was running through his sound checks. Just listening to his get-down-and-rock-out music whetted my dancebuds. But an inner voice told me to look at the caller ID screen. I didn’t recognize the number but knew it was from Mammoth Lakes, where I used to live.
“Hi, Kels. It’s Rick from Mammoth,” he said somberly. “I wanted to let you that know Jim died yesterday.” Ah, so that’s why I didn’t turn my phone off, I thought. Jim, a long time friend and mentor, was diagnosed with the motor neuron disease ALS (also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease), early last year. At his granddaughter’s wedding, at which I officiated last summer, he and I sat down and had one of those exit strategy talks. At the time, Jim was already in a wheel chair, but was still able to speak clearly. “I will not be a burden to my family,” he said confidently.
“I understand perfectly,” I replied, remembering this particularly difficult disease generally carries a life expectancy of two to five years from the time of diagnosis. “Then, you will have to expedite, my friend,” I added, looking deeply into Jim’s soft, kind eyes, still twinkling as brightly as I had witnessed for 27 years.
And, expedite is exactly what he did. Jim’s peaceful transition came a year and a half after he was diagnosed, surrounded by his adoring wife of 54 years, his children and grandchildren. It took me exactly two seconds to say I would leave that afternoon for the 650 mile journey to be with Jim’s family and officiate at the Celebration Memorial two days later.
It’s rare to know someone who purely walks the talk of being a good Christian. Jim was that rare kind of human being. It was an exceptional honor to speak on his and his families’ behalf.
Miracle #1.
Here’s where Miracle #2 comes in: On Tuesday morning I was aware of the need to leave Mammoth in time to drive the 45 miles to Bishop so I could arrive 15 minutes before the service was scheduled to begin at 1:00pm. Knowing I had an additional 225-mile drive following the service, I showered early and packed up my few things so I could leave soon after Jim’s Celebration of Life. About 20 minutes from Bishop, just as I crested the top of the grade I glanced down at my watch. It was 11:00am, almost an hour and a half earlier than I thought.
“Well, shoot,” I said out loud, realizing it made no sense to turn around. “What am I going to do now?” Immediately I heard a familiar voice in my right ear, as if the speaker was sitting alongside me in the passenger seat. As it turned out, I recognized the speaker as someone I knew very well. She sat in that very seat many times over the years. Her name was Bee Landis. She made her transition two and a half years earlier. You’ll remember her if you read my book, Exit Strategy…Leaving this Life with Grace and Gratitude. Bee’s precious soul hangs out with me frequently, providing loving tips and not-so-gentle nudges exactly when I need them the most. Like when I asked the question at the top of the grade.
“Go to the nursing home,” she instructed. “Great idea,” I responded, pressing my foot on the accelerator just a bit for emphasis. Watching the liquid heat rise above the highway, I knew it was going to be one of those triple digit scorchers in the Owens Valley. It had been nearly a year since I visited the Bishop Care Center where Bee resided for four years before making her transition late one night in Room 117B.
I could feel the excitement building as I walked through the nursing facility front door, eager to see a familiar nurse or young CNA who cared so lovingly for Bee. The first three people I saw in the lobby were total strangers. Just when I thought I’d made a mistake, a dark-haired woman in the office called out my name, her face breaking into a broad smile. She asked what brought me to Bishop.
“I’m here to visit with someone who doesn’t get any visitors,” I answered, adding that Bee had sent me. We both smiled at what could have been considered a bizarre statement to some. Thirty seconds later she was escorting me down the hall to the nurses’ station where I was met by three other people I didn’t know. One was a thirty-something male RN, who, when told why I was there said, “I’ve got the perfect woman. She’s just down the hall there. No one comes to visit and her name is Kathleen. She’s in Room 117B.”
I turned around mid-stride and just stared at the unknowing RN. Not only was it Bee’s room, but it was Bee’s bed.
Poised at the door, I stopped to gaze into the small space I had visited countless times over the years. Back in the corner, at the foot of the bed, next to the window, sat a small, elderly woman. Her white-haired head drooped down on her chest. She appeared to be sleeping, but when I walked closer she looked up, sharing wide-open, blue eyes, filled with clarity and awareness.
“Are you Kathleen?” I asked.
“Why yes,” she said, massaging her gums, toothlessly.
“I’m Kelsey and someone sent me to see you today. May I sit for a while?”
“Of course,” she answered. Both of us glanced around the small space, “Sorry there’s no other chair.”
“That’s okay,” I said as I crouched down on the floor at her feet. “I’m very comfortable down here.”
For the next forty minutes we talked about her long life, how long she had lived in Bishop (since 1955), her husband who passed away 25 years ago, her children (two boys, deceased, a daughter who lives in Ridgecrest, and a granddaughter who lives in Big Pine, a short 15 minute drive south of Bishop). I had heard this same story before from Bee whose only son rarely visited her either.
“They don’t come here,” she said, without reproach or any perceivable sadness in her voice.
When I knew it was time for me to leave, I mentioned that I used to call Bee regularly.
“Do you have a phone, Kathleen? I would love to call you from time to time.”
Pulling back the curtain, she revealed a phone within inches of her hand. “Right here,” she said. “I’d like it if you called.”
We agreed on the same time I used to call Bee: 9-9:30am. Before rising to go I thanked Kathleen as she gave me her phone number, speaking each number distinctly.
“What’s your last name, darlin’?” I asked, looking up into her clear, blue eyes. I couldn’t understand what she said, so I asked her to spell it for me.
S-O-S-E-B-E-E, she spelled. It wasn’t until I wrote down the last three letters that I got it, instantly remembering a quote from Einstein long ago, “There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.”
SOS = Help
BEE = Love
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