Reading · Rachel's Treehouse

If human beings live to see a certain age, they inevitably experience a great deal of loss. My parents, who are in their mid-eighties, were preparing for the passing of a third beloved family member in a few short months. In times of grief, I feel it’s important to close the 500-mile gap between us and be together.

I arrived at the retirement home on a recent Monday; the very same time the copy of Julia Fehrenbacher’s new poetry book arrived. After hearing the introduction read aloud during an online launch gathering, I immediately ordered a signed copy for my mom as a gift.

I sat next to her as she opened the Etsy package.

The small card inside read:

Mom read it without regard to the comma, so it didn’t quite make sense.

I read it again, taking a healthy pause after the word Return and the meaning became instantly clear.

Mom smiled.

“Now I know how to read all the poems,” she said. “Because I know how to treat the commas.”

I’ve been thinking about that little comma ever since.

Lately, life has felt like a lot. There’s been grief, goodbyes, health concerns, transitions, worry, waiting.

And yet, in the midst of it all, life keeps whispering, Return.

Not through dramatic breakthroughs or grand adventures, but through small pauses created by love, compassion, memory, and human connection.

Those gifts haven’t taken away what’s hard, but they have returned me to this moment, right here, where life is still unfolding.

I’ve come to believe we survive many seasons this way, not because one extraordinary thing changes everything, but because a handful of life-giving moments keep returning us to ourselves and reminding us what matters most.

My Uncle Steve had begun hospice care at home. My husband, Scott, who witnessed the impact of his own father hearing from loved ones during his final days, encouraged me to call.

“Don’t worry about bothering anyone,” Scott said, as if reading my mind. “It will mean so much to your uncle. Even if he can’t talk, he can hear your voice.”

Turns out, my uncle could talk and miraculously sounded a lot like his gentle, soft-spoken, kind, upbeat self.

We reminisced about family camping trips, the unwanted mice in the cabin, going to the 1982 World’s Fair, my writing, which he has always been one of the biggest fans of, and how much he loved the ice cream I recently had shipped.

But mostly, we talked about how much we loved each other.

Knowing we said what mattered while we still could is saving me.

The bloodwork results I’d been waiting on finally came back. After a thorough evaluation, the hematologist recommended iron infusions. When I got the call that my insurance had approved two treatments, I began to cry. It was such a relief to know I finally had an answer and a path forward. I cried once again when a friend said, “I don’t know much about these treatments, but if you need a driver, I am here.”

Knowing relief can come, even after a long season of waiting, is saving me.

This time last year, Avery was preparing to leave for college. I was terrified we would lose our closeness because she wasn’t much for texting or calling. After letting fear get in the driver’s seat for a bit, I learned to trust our relationship in a different way. I discovered a point of connection not in my phone, but in a bright red cardinal that became a faithful visitor at my backyard feeder.

As the dining room fills with college things once again, that little red bird reminds me that love can remain steady, even as life changes.

Trusting love across the distance is saving me.

During July’s Treehouse Teaching on forgiving what we didn’t yet know, I realized there was something long overdue I needed to say to my firstborn daughter, Natalie.

Over the years, she’d occasionally hinted that something from her childhood has been difficult to carry. I knew my younger self hadn’t intended to cause that hurt, but intention doesn’t erase impact. It was time to acknowledge it.

During an overnight visit to her apartment last week, I looked into her eyes and told her I was sorry. Natalie gently reminded me that life is rarely shaped by one person or one circumstance. Her grace was healing for both of us.

Believing it’s never too late to repair is saving me.

On a recent visit to my 93-year-old friend’s home, we spent quite a bit of time looking at the photo of my family Miss S keeps next to her chair. That day, she pointed to each person in the photo and asked how they were doing. When I got finished giving her a detailed update, she said the most beautiful thing.

“When your daughters get married, you can bring me to the wedding. I will dance.”

Then Miss S balled her little hands into fists and swayed her shoulders to show me. We both laughed. It felt so good to look forward.

A few days later, an envelope arrived in my mailbox. Inside was a photograph of Miss S and the love of her life from their younger days. It was as if we had exchanged pieces of our hearts.

Knowing a friendship can begin at a checkout counter is saving me.

When my cat Banjo was diagnosed with cancer this summer, I kept wondering if I should have recognized the signs sooner. During the guided reflection exercise in July’s Treehouse gathering, something shifted. For the first time since his diagnosis, I truly believed I had done the best I could with what I knew at the time.

Imagine my surprise when we returned for his first checkup last week. After looking at his ultrasound, the specialist came into the exam room with a huge smile on her face. “He is responding to treatment as well as he possibly could,” she said. “His ultrasound shows tremendous improvement. Let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”

Living in today instead of rewriting yesterday is saving me.

The visit to see my parents happened to fall around Scott’s and my 29th wedding anniversary. Although it’s difficult for my dad, a post-polio survivor who is legally blind, to leave the retirement community, he was game for celebrating with us at a favorite restaurant downtown.

To our surprise, there was a parking spot waiting right outside the door. The staff seated us at a quiet table outdoors where Dad could hear every word of the conversation.

They were offering a summer special, and although he rarely has much of an appetite these days, Dad finished every bite of his fried flounder and red pepper risotto. Mom smiled as she watched him enjoy his meal. Scott and I looked at each other more than once that evening, joyfully taking it all in.

It felt like one of those nights you know you’ll remember while you’re still living it.

Knowing an ordinary evening can become a lifelong memory is saving me.

As I look back over these past few weeks, I realize none of these moments erased the hard parts.

My Uncle Steve passed away.
Banjo still has cancer.
I’m still waiting for my first iron infusion.
My parents are growing older.
And life is still asking me to let go, to trust, and to keep becoming.

But scattered among the worry and the grief have been these loving reminders to return.

A phone call.
A shared meal.
A photograph.
A kind word.
A doctor’s report.
A vibrant red bird.
A smile I thought I’d lost.

Perhaps that’s what poet Julia Fehrenbacher meant when she wrote:

I’m beginning to think we don’t always find our way back to ourselves through one life-changing event. Sometimes we find our way back one grace-filled moment at a time.

I’d love to know, my beloved friends...

What is saving you right now?

When we share what is saving us, we help each other keep going.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

Seven Things Saving Me Right Now

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