“You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith, and hope.” – Thomas Merton.

An Evangelical minister, a long-time reader of my blog and a minister strong enough to tolerate his disagreements with me, wrote me yesterday and urged me to pray before my surgery tomorrow and “settle up with God just in case.”

He didn’t say just in case of what, but I knew what he means, and he was well-meaning and following his faith, and I appreciated his concern for my soul. Lots of people have been concerned about my soul over the years.

He did get me to thinking this morning, I got up very early hoping to get on Betty, my bike before the sun got too strong and the traffic too much – Sundays in the summer are sometimes hectic around here.

While waiting for the fog to life, I felt the call to write about what I was feeling.

I do believe my surgery is minor in the scheme of themes and safe in the context of hospital surgeries. I’m not sure catheterization even counts as surgery, my doctor says it does.

Of course, it has occurred to me that things can go wrong, and I thought about the meaning of my not coming home. It has happened to more than one person that I know.

Another friend cautioned me that there is no such thing as routine surgery when it comes to heart disease, and I know that to be true if a little gloomy.

My very conscientious and compassionate nurse practitioner – Amy – called to check up on some medications I am trying to figure out.

I am scheduled to see her on Wednesday. She was not too interested in my catheterization.

It was calming to talk to her. I appreciated the call.

I will take a day or two off from the election madness, that will be healthy and offer some fresh perspective perhaps. My readers on the blog will also get a welcome if a brief break from me.

The nurse says I won’t be writing on Monday.  We’ll see.

When I think about something going wrong, I think of personal things—Maria, and how this might impact on her life.

I think of the dogs, which would puzzle at not seeing me again, and then move on, as dogs do. Zinnia especially loves the man who gives her these treats.

I know Maria can take care of herself, and then some, but it would be a painful and challenging time for her, and I would hate to do anything to subject her to that.

She’d get rid of that bike fast enough and make some money at it.

Our relationship has astonished me; I never thought such a thing was possible for me, especially living in a remote upstate New York town. I had given up on that kind of love and on much of life.

But the love of life never quite goes away,  I think it can always be restored and replenished if you don’t quit on it.

But there it was. Another blog reader who is much older than I am, she said she isn’t bothered by the troubles in the country because she won’t be around too much longer to be affected by them.

For some reason, if keeping the farm might be too much for her in different ways. Her love of life, nature, and art is strong, it would sustain and heal her.

But I have to let go of that, that would be up to her, not me, and she is very strong and clear-headed and resilient. Life is always about learning to let go, we start dying the minute we’re born.

Maria has been through a lot worse than me.

I don’t feel the way my friend does.  I am just as old as I think I am and no older. And I don’t see myself as being old.

I love my life, my wife, my work, the dogs and animals, the photos. I love my country, and honestly, when I write or move around, I don’t feel much worry at all about tomorrow.

I also love my heart, which has been good to me, and I happy to take good and better care of it.

I worship my own God in my way, and to be grateful is to recognize the Love of God in everything my God has given me. Every breath, every blog post, every minute with Maria, every dog, everything photo, every flower in the garden, and donkey and chicken, every Mansion resident, every Bishop Maginn student.

Every moment of existence is grace.

Often, Maria will look up and see a strange look on my face and ask me what I am thinking.

Nothing, I say.

But usually, what I am thinking is that I can’t believe this kind of love has come to me, and how grateful I am for her.

I acknowledge the miracle of it almost every time I see her radiant and loving self. Love, says Merton, is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone  – we find it with another.

My gratitudes take nothing for granted, are never absent or unresponsive.

I am continually awakening to new wonder. The grateful person knows that life is good, not by the teachings of others, but by experience. That is what makes all of the difference.

I am grateful that these doctors can keep me healthy and even better. I am eager to get on my new bike in a day or two and feel the flow of blood to my brave heart.

I cherish my identity. No one can label me or take that away. If you want to identify me, don’t ask about my politics,  asking what is keeping me from living fully for the things I want to live for.

When I close my eyes, I don’t think of the surgery, I imagine myself holding Maria’s hand. We are walking in the woods and having dinner, or riding somewhere in the car. She is explaining the jokes that I don’t always get.

I am sitting here in my office with Zinnia sleeping with her big head on my foot, and I am typing away, comfortable in the clutter of my study, a reflection of my mind.

I think of the moment when my fingers start to fly across the keyboard, and my heart rises up with excitement and satisfaction.

I expect to be around a good while, but if I am not, I would be nothing but grateful for my full life, and for what I have been given, and full of hope for everyone else.