“Hi Liz, may I come in?” It was Carolyn, the doctor from hospice, gowned, gloved, and masked in yellow, standing in the open doorway. “I wanted to give you a hug before you left.” Her voice was soft, caring, and sweet like the honeycomb of the Psalms. My heart stirred, remembering her responses to my questions, yesterday, coached in words I could understand, words that I set to memory last night atop my bed.

“Yes, by all means do.” I pushed myself from the edge of the bed and stood, albeit a bit wobbly, and fell into her expansive arms. Instantly, her energy tripped my psyche into gladness, more tingly than freshets ambling down limestone rocks. Indeed, hospice was the new direction and I would take it.

“And you do understand about the little blue pill you’re going home with—Dexamethasone—how it will help your breathing? That you take with breakfast starting tomorrow? she asked.

I nodded. Yes, everything was clear. Only the supportive services of hospice were yet to be experienced.

Again seated on the side of my bed, dressed, my bag packed at my feet, I looked out the window, the sun glinting upon the iced roof shingles of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church.

A new way was opening before me. I only had to follow, alone, with my God.