When it comes to my own death, I have no fear. I’m unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you view it) very familiar with death. I have experienced what it’s like to die. I have had more than my fair share of near-death experiences. I am okay with my own death, whether it means I have a soul that will continue to live on long after my body dies, or death is just eternal, dreamless sleep. 

However, when it comes to the death of others, I can’t even begin to explain how awful it feels to even think about the fact that many of my close friends and family will one day pass on before I will. Because of my medical history, I never really thought I had to consider the fact that loved ones would pass away before me. But, now, I am being forced to face that, and have faced that not too far in the past, and it is hitting me full-force. I’m not quite sure how to even begin to cope. 

When I was ten or eleven years old, my paternal great-grandpa came to live with my grandparents for the remainder of his life. He was around ninety-one when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and by then it was already quite profound. He used to play all sorts of musical instruments from the piano, to the guitar, the harmonica, the accordion, and more. He also sang very well. I remember listening to recordings of him singing his favorite hymns and polkas in German. When Alzheimer’s took hold of him (along with arthritis), he lost the ability to play any of the instruments. He could still hum and sing quietly, but within a few months of his diagnosis, he stopped playing music altogether. 

The next thing to go was his ability to play cards. It wasn’t just the arthritis that made cards hard for him. As his memory faded, so did his grasp on the rules and tricks of the games he’d been playing his entire life. I remember playing cards with him over the course of several months, and he went from having no trouble remembering the rules of the games and the cards he had, to barely even knowing what he was doing with a deck of cards laid out in front of him in the first place. The last time he tried to play cards with us, he held up his hand with the cards, looked up at us with a blank stare, looked back down at the cards, then carefully laid them face-down on the table and walked away, his shoulders slouched over in defeat. 

Around that same time, he stopped talking or even interacting with the world around him. He’d just stare blankly into space, never interacting with anyone at the nursing home, too arthritic to really walk anywhere, unwilling to sit in a wheelchair. The only time he ever showed any lucidity was when my grandpa was with him. My great-grandpa would hold my grandpa’s hands and tell him with a raspy, whisper, “I love you.”, before his lucidity vanished and he was back to staring blankly into space again, not acknowledging the world around him at all.

It was hard for everyone to witness. Though, I was too young and too shy to really understand the full-extent of what was happening before our very eyes. I never got to know my great-grandpa all that well. And, I think I was kind of afraid of him when he came to live with my grandparents towards the very end of his life. 

I was there when he passed away. During the final week of his life, my grandparents moved my great-grandpa to a hospice care home nearby their house, where he could pass away peacefully and comfortably in a home setting. I remember being in the living room of that hospice home, watching some animal documentary on TV, while my mom and a couple of nurses were in his room talking to him. 

At some point that evening, the feeling in the house changed in an inexplicable way, as though a sudden warm draft had come through the windows and enveloped the whole house (even though it was late November). Curious, I turned the TV volume down and strained my ears to hear what was going on in my great-grandpa’s room (I was too scared to leave the living room to go see what was up). I remember hearing a nurse reading my great-grandpa’s favorite bible passage, Sermon on the Mount. Another nurse had a recording of a choir singing “Amazing Grace” playing on a laptop near his bed. And, my mom was sniffling, obviously in tears. 

Within five minutes, the heart monitor hooked up to my great-grandpa flatlined, and the women in the room joined hands to say a goodbye prayer. I don’t remember anything else from that night, other than the fear I felt of it all. For the first time in my life, the finality of death hit me hard. Sure, I’d always known intellectually about death (especially considering the fact I grew up knowing I’d probably die very young). But, emotionally, it never hit me till that fateful night when my great-grandpa died at the age of ninety-three; two weeks after his birthday. It terrified me, to say the least. 

Less than a week later was the funeral. I remember standing by my great-grandpa’s casket, looking down at his lifeless body. It was scary to me just how still and silent he was. Not two weeks before, I’d seen him as a living, breathing, eating man, still remembering to pray before every meal, ending his prayer with a deep, raspy, “Ah-men”. I remember joining hands with him for that prayer, and feeling the warmth and strength those hands still possessed. But, lying still and silent in that casket, those hands were no longer warm or strong. 

Years passed, during which I went through my angry atheist phase and struggled hard with the concepts of life, death, suffering, and hardship. Especially as my own physical health began to take a turn for the worse. But, despite the loss of my great-grandpa, I hadn’t really put much thought into the fact that I’d lose more loved ones, as I was pretty damn convinced the Grim Reaper was coming for me next. 

Then, 2018 came at me like a raging bull. During the first part of that year, I was the one who was dying, proving my prediction right that I’d be the next one in my family join hands with the Grim Reaper. Yet, for a plethora of miraculous reasons, I survived pretty much unscathed. That spring, I was allowed to recover, while Eric promised to get me through the last two years of high school. Looking back, my recovery was actually amazingly fast. I’m sure my walks to and from the library, as well as a diet of wild game, chicken soup, bone broth, and other healthy things, and the reduced stress thanks to Homebound, all contributed to my rapid recovery. 

Then, at around five AM (Colorado time) on Memorial Monday morning, I suddenly sat up awake, as though I’d been startled. Yet, there was nothing that had startled me awake. No noise. No movement. Nothing. I assumed I’d just had a bad dream, and fell back asleep. Several hours later, my dad called sobbing, and delivered the news that my grandpa Bob had passed away suddenly at exactly six AM his time (Minnesota time), from cardiac arrest. He had died with dignity, at home on the farm surrounded by loved ones and paramedics. Everyone, including my dad (who my aunt video-called while the EMTs were working on reviving my grandpa), got to say their final goodbyes. 

Later, I learned that my grandpa was pretty sick during the last week of his life, though he refused to be hospitalized. From what I heard, my grandpa was simply ready to go. He intended to die at home, in the same house he’d lived in since he was a toddler, surrounded by his family, and in no pain. When the EMTs realized my grandpa couldn’t be brought back (his heart was just beating at fifteen beats-per-minute), they gave him morphine to help him go in peace. He took his final breath at exactly six AM; the exact time I woke up from a dead sleep panicked and not quite sure what had startled me awake. 

I cannot even begin to explain how that happened. Talking about it still gives me the most intense chills, and rattles my skepticism of the afterlife and God to the very core. Logically, I should have never even gotten the slightest bad feeling that tragedy just struck. Yet, somehow, my heart just knew what happened the exact moment it did, waking me up from a dead sleep!

From then on, I began to have the most vivid dreams I’d ever had, all of them surrounding my grandpa. All of them beautiful, loving, peaceful, and comforting. Those dreams, whether they were just creations born of my grief-ridden mind, or truly divine, spiritual phenomena, are what got me through the grieving process. Seeing my grandpa in each dream, transition from the sickly, old man I remembered him as, to a younger, healthier version of himself, gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, he really was living on and really had been fully healed of all of his health issues. And, one day, I would be reunited with him, along with the rest of my loved ones, in the spiritual realm. 

Maybe death isn’t the end. Maybe life does continue on after our bodies die. Though, due to the shaky foundations of what little faith I have, and the fact that I have an incredibly hard time believing in things I cannot scientifically interact with, I am not yet sure if I believe in an afterlife. 

Since college began, I have kind of put “faith building” and “belief searching” on the back burner. Especially as I take on a heavy Astronomy course, which is strictly numbers and telescopes at this point. But, over this last weekend, while on a hike through a field of golden grass in the Ken Caryl Valley, my dad finally delivered some horrific news; my grandma Shirley was diagnosed with end-stage cancer a couple days before. It started in her pelvis, but has since spread significantly throughout her body, especially in her lungs. Considering her age (she will be eighty-one this year), and her other health issues, she won’t pursue chemotherapy or any other treatment. Like her husband, she intends to die with dignity, hopefully at home and surrounded by loved ones. 

On top of that, a cousin of mine (whose in his 30’s), is in the hospital with covid fighting for his life. He refused the vaccine thinking covid wasn’t that bad. And now, he is in the hospital, and the prognosis isn’t good. 

Now, I’m having yet another major crisis. I am terribly sad and scared for my loved ones’ lives, especially my grandma’s, as it’s quite clear she won’t get better. My cousin, while extremely sick, has avoided being put on a ventilator thus far. Hopefully, he only gets better from here (and yes, he has already expressed deep regret about not getting vaccinated). 

Still, my fears and grief are immense, as well as my anger and resentment towards the cruelness of death and dying. I may not fear my own death. But, just the mere thought of losing my loved ones, both close and distant, friend and blood, absolutely guts me. Now, I am faced with losing my grandma, and possibly my cousin. One death preventable, another inevitable. 

As time goes on, I'm struggling with what to do next. I was just barely standing under the weight of college, family obligations, health issues, and re-adjusting to life after last year's utter chaos. Now that I'm faced with the imminent death of my grandma, and the possible death of a cousin, I feel like I'm being crushed to death. As tenacious and stubborn as I am, I'm starting to learn when to stop, and right now that "drop class" button is looking really good. 

But, I don't think I can do that. I'd rather fail a course than admit defeat, especially admit to being a two-time college dropout to my dying grandma. She doesn't want me to suffer because of her. She doesn't want anyone in the family to be crushed under the weight of her diagnosis. As far as I can tell, just based on my past interactions with her since my grandpa passed away, and the fact that she's refused treatment for her cancer and other aliments, she's ready to go. Perhaps, eager to. 

But, go where? Will she really live on after her body dies? Is there truly life after death? Or, is it just a metaphor, describing what happens as the body is buried and becomes one with the soil? Or, is it both? Obviously, I don't think anyone can really answer that question. Sure, from a strictly scientific perspective, when a person dies, they lose consciousness and their body begins to rot, soon turning into dust. But, as tempting as it is for my skeptical, logical mind to strictly believe in science and nothing else beyond it, I don't think that's the right thing to do. Hell, I don't think science can answer most important questions such as, "Why are we here?", "Where do we come from?", "Is the spiritual realm real?", "Do paranormal events happen?", etc, etc. 

When it comes to those types of questions, we can only answer from personal experience. Doing my best to suspend all disbelief, when I'm faced with questions pertaining to the spiritual realm, my answers would lean heavily into the notion that there is, in fact, a spiritual realm. We do, in fact, have souls. The spiritual realm can, in fact, interact with our realm. Miracles can, and do, happen. God does hear and respond to our prayers. But, this has never been and probably never will be proven. If it was provable, some ultra-spiritual yogi would've walked out of a scientific research lab with a shitload of money by now. But, it's not disprovable either. And, that's what really gets to me; the fact that the spiritual realm can neither be verified or disproven scientifically. It all comes down to the personal beliefs of each individual. 

So, what do I personally believe? Frankly, I don't know. I still consider myself a Christian, though I'm pretty agnostic. I simply don't know, and I refuse to really say for certain God exists or doesn't. Same goes for all things spiritual and paranormal. I simply don't have a damn clue, though I do have personal experiences and the experiences of others to help me along this long, harsh journey of death, belief, and spirituality. After all, that's all I can really go by, as science is strictly the study of the natural world, not the super natural world. 

A couple hours I got the news from my dad, I called my grandma Debbie to ask for her guidance and support. While she isn't a Christian, she still believes in a Creator and an afterlife, mostly due to her personal experiences, and the fact that she witnessed her mom (my great-grandma) go through lung cancer. My great-grandma lost both of her sons early on. Her one son died of Cystic Fibrosis at the age of two. Her other son (a man called Jack) died in the early 2000's from brain bleed after being hit by a car and not seeking proper treatment till it was too late.

As my great-grandma laid in the hospital during the last two weeks of life, my grandma and the nurses witnessed my great-grandma having full-on conversations with people nobody but her could see. Those people she saw were her sons, ready and waiting to take her upstairs, according to my great-grandma. My great-grandma also witnessed many birds she called Yellow Canaries, though they were actually American Goldfinches (which my grandma realized when an actual Goldfinch landed in the tree outside of the hospital window, and my great-grandma proclaimed, "Oh look! A canary!").

When my great-grandma passed away, American Goldfinches followed our family everywhere, and were especially drawn to my grandma Debbie. The Goldfinches would literally chase my grandma Debbie's car in huge flocks all the way from her house to her work (she worked as a nurse), and back home again. Even today, well over a decade since my great-grandma passed, Goldfinches periodically crowd in my grandma Debbie's front lawn. Particularly around dates that were special to my great-grandma. 

On top of that, my grandma has had many spiritual experiences pertaining to her grandma (my great-great grandma, who I'll just call Nana, as that's what my grandma called her). Nana passed away almost a decade before I was born from natural causes. My grandma was also very close to Nana, and hoped Nana would visit her even after she was gone. 

While I am aware of the fact that my grandma has encountered Nana many times, the one that sticks out to me happened when I was four years old, undergoing a minor though scary procedure at the hospital. Obviously, my grandma was very concerned about me, and couldn't stop worry about how my visit would go. My grandma was out-and-about that day running errands. At a stoplight, my grandma voiced her worries about me aloud, looked up into the rear-view mirror, and noticed the driver behind her looked very similar to Nana, right down to the color of her eyes and shape of her nose. My grandma, bewildered, watched this woman through the rear-view mirror for a few seconds further. Just before the light changed, the woman in the rear-view mouthed, "The baby will be okay!", and then vanished revealing a man was the actual driver of the car. 

My grandma, not quite sure what to do with the experience, chalked it up to some sort of psychosomatic event. While comforting, there was no way it was actually real. Hours later, I was released from the doctors' appointment, and Mom brought me over to grandma Debbie's to spend the night (she was very tired and stressed out, and needed help taking care of me). In my hands, I had a little green Saint Patrick's hat that I'd been given at the hospital (apparently, a nurse was handing them out from a Saint Patrick's day themed wagon). Now, this was in November, around Thanksgiving. There was no reason for there to be a nurse in the main waiting room handing out Saint Patrick's day stuff to the kids, but for whatever reason, they were. Guess when Nana's birthday was? Saint Patrick's day!

Knowing these stories and many more, it's almost impossible for me to think that nothing awaits us when we die. It's impossible for me to accept that I'll never see my dead loved ones again, or meet people who passed decades, perhaps even centuries before I was born. Again, it's impossible to use science to study the supernatural. But, just based on the testimonies of others and personal experience, I am inclined to believe in a spiritual realm, where our essence (AKA soul or spirit) goes after our earthly vessels fail.

Sadly, most people (especially in western societies) don't talk about death, or dying, or what awaits us when we die. It's swept under the rug, treated as an enemy that must be defeated somehow, made to be a million times scarier than it really is. Sure, death is hard to talk about. It is terribly sad and uncertain. The pain of losing a loved one is impossible to put into words, it's so great. But, it happens every second of every day. Cells die. Insects die. Animals die. People die. It just is how this world works. And, we ought to talk about the reality of death, instead of treating it as a possibility that is very unlikely to happen. Believe it or not, everyone who has lived, is living, and will live, will eventually die. However, I don't believe the physical deaths of our earthly bodies is The End. Rather, I see death as a transition into the next realm. The realm of the supernatural. 

Of course, I don't know what the next realm has in store for us. Do I believe we will be conscious beyond death? Yes. Do I believe the afterlife is anything like how most people view it? No. Absolutely not. Our feeble, finite, Earthly minds will never be able to even begin to comprehend what lies beyond us. Anyone who says otherwise is full of shit!

With all that said, despite all of the hell and hardship I'm currently faced with, as well as the trouble I've dealt with in the past, my faith seems to be stronger than ever. I'm not quite sure how to explain that in words. What I can say is that I'm starting to realize that my prayers and conversations with God haven't been just a one-way street. Sure, I've never actually heard God speak to me, like someone in the room would answer my questions. Instead, God shows up in other ways, though He is not usually visible until well after the event of Divine Intervention. 

What the hell do I mean by that? Well, reflecting back on all the times I've prayed to God, whether angrily or neutrally or joyfully, I almost always got some sort of response to it. Sometimes, the responses are small, like the startling appearance of a specific bird or animal, or an out-of-the-blue Youtube video recommendation that seemed to be directly related to what I was praying about, or a brief, chance encounter with a stranger. Others have been much more profound, such as my Pulmonary heart valve suddenly growing back, or the unexpected FDA approval of Trikafta the same day I cried out to God begging for help, or the American Heart Association pamphlet catching my grandparents' attention while my grandpa suffered his widow-maker heart attack. 

That's how God interacts with me, as well as with many people I know. That's how I know, deep down inside, that there is a God out there Who loves and cares for us. And, if there is a God like that, then it's only logical to conclude that we'll go to be with Him in spirit after we die. No matter who we are, what we are, or how we died, I don't think God blocks anyone out. He doesn't banish people to hell (which, by the way, the Bible actually speaks very little about the afterlife, though it does say in Romans 8:38-39 in the Bible that not even God's highest angels can keep us away from God. It is up to us to accept to be in His presence). He doesn't only let the "good ones" into heaven. He accepts all, but also allows people to drift away from them if they want to. He doesn't force anyone to do anything. He lets them and them alone choose what to do. 

On a similar note, I'm having to suppress my selfish desire to go see my grandma Shirley as soon as possible and be glued to her side till God calls her home, because she just wants to be alone for now. I understand and accept that need to be alone, especially during these difficult times. When I was my sickest, I also just wanted to be left alone. Left alone to make peace with my imminent departure. Left alone to make peace with God. Left alone to do away with my selfish desires, and simply let go.

Thankfully, I survived, though I haven't really "reconnected" with the world, if that makes any sense. I am okay to just be. I am at peace with death and dying. I trust God to take care of me, even though I'm not at all certain He exists. My grandma Shirley seems to be doing the same things I did when I was very sick and not likely to get well again, and she wants to be alone while doing so. I admire that. I will respect that. In a way, I'm excited for her to be united with grandpa Bob again. When it's my time to go, I look forward to seeing them again face-to-face, along with everyone else who has passed before me.

At least, that's what I hope will happen when my time comes. I hope that's what happens when everyone's time comes. I hope, and believe, in a conscious afterlife of sorts. Do I know what that afterlife will be like? Absolutely not. But, I trust that it's there, even though I don't have a clue what that afterlife is. I just can't get myself to go against the evidence, no matter how unscientific and anecdotal it is, and believe that our consciousness just fades to blackness for eternity after we die. 

Under the light of a nearly full moon, I drove my Xterra into the valley, and parked in an isolated cul-de-sac on the northernmost side of the valley. After shifting into park and pulling the parking brake, I turned off the lights, took the keys out of the ignition, and stepped into the chilly darkness. 

It was bright enough for me to see without any artificial lights. The moon casted dark shadows of the trees and grass on the foothills to my east and west. It was a completely clear night. Not a cloud in the starry sky. 

For the longest time, I stood with my back leaned against the Xterra, looking up at the moon and the stars, listening to the wind gently whispering through the dried autumn grass. I don't remember having any thoughts going through my mind. I was just in a state of pure relaxation, gazing up into space, letting my eyes wander from the Moon to the constellations. Admiring creation. 

Soon, however, I felt the need to speak. So, I began, not holding anything back. Thus began a lengthy prayer, basically where I asked God not for clarity, or some sort of "proof" of His existence or the afterlife's existence, or for a miracle, or anything like that. Honestly, all I asked for was help in shedding my selfish desires to "make everything right", and instead just let things be as they were. Truth was, as badly as I wished my grandma Shirley's cancer would miraculously disappear, and as much as I believed in God's ability to do just that, I knew praying for that wasn't right. I'm not sure how I knew. I just did.

So, instead, I asked for peace, strength, and courage. I asked that my grandma passed away peacefully, painlessly, and with the utmost dignity. I asked that I'd be given the strength to do what was needed when it was my time to do it. I didn't (and still don't) know what would be needed from me, but on that bright, clear night, I committed to doing what I had to do when I needed to. And, I asked God to give me the strength and courage to do just that. Even if that meant I'd be spending a month or two in Minnesota alone in that creepy-ass farmhouse, feeding logs into the 120-year-old cast iron stove so nobody would freeze to death, and cooking all of grandma's meals for her if she needed such help. I was (and am) ready and willing to do it, if it meant making my grandma's last moments easier for all of us. 

I also asked God to help us feel our emotions, knowing that many of my paternal relatives (including my grandma) have always struggled to really let out and process their deeply felt emotions. It's okay to be stoic. But, it's also okay to cry, even if you're a tough-as-nails, six foot five farmer like my uncle Wade, who during my grandpa's funeral, dragged me into a hug (that almost crushed me to death) and cried into my shoulder. I also cried, and we spent a good ten minutes or so embracing each other in front of grandpa's casket. 

Even Christ cried, such as when his best friend Lazarus died, as well as in the garden of Gethsemane the day before His crucifixion would take place. If even God could cry and feel/express His deepest emotions, we ought to do the same. It's healthy after all! And, it's relieving. 

I actually finished that prayer under the moon in tears. But, they weren't negative tears. Rather, they were tears of relief, and tears of faith. Indeed, for a time, I'd ignored God due to college and other problems. But, like every single damn time I try to skitter away from Him, something happens almost immediately to drag me back to Him. Or, at the very least, make me consider coming back to God, or letting Him come close to me. 

Of course, almost as though he'd been cued, a huge mule deer buck approached me from behind, his antlers gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, watching me as I stared back at him in awe. For several minutes we just stood silent and still, staring at each other, though relaxed as well. I didn't feel even slightly threatened, and neither did he. Finally, the buck pawed the asphalt and sniffed, raised his head and shook like a dog drying off, then pranced away into the grassy eastern valley below. 

While that could've been easily written off as a mere coincidence, considering just how many deer there were (and are) in the valley, I'd like to think it was a small way God was showing He was listening to me, and was with me at that moment, knowing that's just what I really needed. 

The next afternoon, I sat leaned up against an Ash tree in the park by the Ken Caryl Ranch House, debating on whether or not I had the strength to call my aunt Stacy, and ask about how things were being dealt with back on the farm. Eventually, I decided that I had to call her and ask all of the hard questions I needed to ask. She picked up after the first ring, and was beyond elated to hear my voice. 

After some small-talk, I pretty much blurted out my first hard question, "How's grandma?"

"Well, she's doing well..." my aunt trailed off, "Her cancer is very widespread, but she is minimally symptomatic. It's hard to tell with her, though. Ya know how she is... But, for now, she's still pretty much her usual old self..."

With that question out of the way, I asked more tough questions; how the rest of the family was coping, if grandma's affairs were all in order, what would happen to the farmhouse when she passed, etc, etc. 

I felt the weight lift off my shoulders with each question I asked, knowing that my family had already considered everything I had. It felt so good to know that someone was coming by the farm everyday not just to feed the animals, but also to check in on grandma and bring her homemade meals. When the time came, hospice nurses would be able to come and stay with grandma 24/7. And, when grandma went to be with grandpa, wherever he was, my cousin Andrew and his daughter would move into the farmhouse and renovate it.

I offered to help whenever and however I could, both with taking care of grandma and cleaning/fixing up the farmhouse. My aunt agreed to keep me up-to-date with everything, and let me know if I was needed. For as far as I could tell, we were as ready as we could be for the inevitable. It was a harsh, emotional conversation, but a necessary one, and I hung up the phone feeling overall much lighter. Obviously, it was an incredibly painful conversation, but it was relieving to know that the whole family was ready to help when needed. And, I'm sure it was helpful for the family to know that I would also be ready and able to help if/when needed.

However, I honestly doubt I'm really up to the task of taking care of my grandma as her time draws nearest. I'm not even sure how or why I so willingly and confidently offered to help take care of my grandma and her house. That just isn't who I usually am. I'm much more selfish and skittish than that, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe I'm not nearly as selfish, skittish, or weak as I consider myself to be. Or, maybe I am, but God just gives me the strength I need to be a much stronger, selfless, fearless person than I usually am. But, I don't know.

Like I've said before (and I'll say many times again), I haven't a damn clue. I'm just doing what I feel is best and right to do. What I feel guided to do, for lack of a better term. However, perhaps I'll look back on that conversation, and to this piece, and find out that it really wasn't me saying those words to my aunt. It wasn't really me who has managed to garner up the courage to do what is right and needed. Perhaps (and I know this'll sound crazy to many), God had been speaking through me, prompting me what to say and how to say it, and giving me the strength and courage to offer up my help. 

Speaking of that, after a few days of chewing over my grandma's diagnosis, I somehow (and suddenly) managed to pull my professor aside before class, and tell her what was up. As hard as it is for me to open up and ask for help from people I barely know who have a position of authority over me, I was able to flawlessly tell my professor what was going on, and request some extra flexibility. My professor was more than willing to do for me whatever I needed, and expressed her deepest condolences. "Family comes first," my professor said, "If you need to fly out to Minnesota tomorrow, you go ahead and do that. I'll help you with lectures and labs as needed, and excuse you from them as well if you need that." 

"Thank you." I quietly nodded, unable to hold back a single, silent tear. 

In the early morning on the following Thursday, I woke up to a text from my grandma Connie announcing that my deathly-ill cousin had been discharged from the hospital. Despite the severity of his illness, his lungs and oxygen stats began a sudden and rapid recovery over Tuesday and Wednesday. Of course, as all miracle stories go, the doctors were stunned by his record recovery time. What should've been a weeks-long stay at the hospital, and many more months in recovery, turned into just six days, and nobody could explain it away. According to the doctors, Remdesivir and oxygen don't just do that to a patient as sick as my cousin was. 

Yet, someway, somehow, my cousin was able to walk out of the hospital without assistance six days after his wife found him passed out on the floor at home, severely hypoxic and unable to breathe beyond short, gasping breaths. At the time of writing this bit, we've yet to know the long-term consequences of his illness. He is still a little wheezy, but is able to take care of himself, play with his children, and feed his livestock.  

As relieving and baffling as the news of his recovery was, I was still hit by a wave of second-hand survivor's guilt. I couldn't help but think about all of the people like my cousin who, despite being young, fit, and lacking any sort of known pre-existing condition, ended up in the hospital on covid, but unlike my cousin, didn't get to go home. Why did God seemingly heal my cousin, but didn't heal thousands of others just like him? 

Honestly, I don't think anyone (including myself) can answer that question. At least, not while we're still living in the flesh. The closest answer I can be sort of comfortable with, is that it just wasn't my cousin's time yet, but everyone who passes away passes on God's terms. If a person dies, it was just their time. I understand that this perspective just raises even more questions, but again, at this point in my life, I'm starting to figure out that maybe just dropping the topic altogether might be the best idea. 

While I want to sucker-punch anyone who utters the words, "God works in mysterious ways...", they kind of have a point. That phrase is often used to shutdown things that people deem scary or uncomfortable, which is why I hate it so much. But, there is some truth to it. Indeed, unlike God, we don't know everything. Our human minds are actually extremely feeble and finite, especially when compared to our Creator. What right do we have to criticize God, and nitpick Him for doing things that we wouldn't have done? Perhaps, the Creator of the universe knows a thing or two that we don't; things that we'll find out when He deems us ready. 

Of course, I can't ignore the other side of this coin; my anger towards God over my grandma Shirley's cancer. I'm starting to realize that I'm not easily pleased. If a miracle happens, I'm riddled with survivor's guilt. If tragedy strikes, I'm enraged at God for allowing such injustice to occur. I'm not sure what to do with this revelation of mine. It's just how I've been my whole life; perpetually angry and guilty towards God. Angry that He lets people get sick and die in horrible ways. Guilty when Divine Intervention seemingly occurs. 

I guess this is a negative part of human nature many people experience and struggle with. Anger and guilt are natural and healthy emotions to have sometimes. But, if it's perpetual, then it's an issue. And, I'm starting to realize that I'm always either angry at God, or guilty because of a miracle. There's basically no in-between. Either way, I'm never really at peace. My hackles are always raised, I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop, I'm always primed to attack God instead of accept His love, grace, and mercy. It's a vicious cycle I can't seem to break. 

Perhaps, it's a matter of changing my own perspective on these things. I can easily justify my anger, anxiety, and survivor's guilt. I can easily consider myself a helpless victim of an exceptionally shitty set of genetic lotteries. I can easily look at myself in the mirror before a shower, trace my faded heart surgery scar down my chest, and forever see myself as irreparably broken and maimed, undeserving of God's love or even love from others. I can easily turn my back on God and those around me, and forever live in anger and resentment towards everything and everyone. I can easily drop out of college, get on disability, and never even try to become a productive, goal-oriented member of society. 

But, is that a life I want to live? Do I really want to be a miserable bastard who relies on edgy humor, video games, and nihilism to survive? Or, do I want to open my heart to others and to God, serving them and making the world around me a better place? Do I want to constantly live life in fear and as a victim, or do I want to do my best to overcome the hard stuff I'm faced with daily, find things I'm good at and interested in, and create meaning in life? 

Regardless of my faith, or the hardships I'm faced with, I don't want to live a meaningless life, where I just lock myself indoors all day and never speak to another soul. That's why, despite my grandma's cancer, the ongoing pandemic, my ASD diagnosis, my Cystic Fibrosis and Pulmonary Atresia, my cousin's covid, and all of the other horrible shit I've dealt with and continue to deal with, I'm still attending college, still going to family functions, still driving my brother and his friends to and from middle school, still trying new things to see what I enjoy and am good at, so on and so fourth. I can't let the hardships of life cripple me. Doing so would be a death sentence. 

Speaking of which...

The more I think about it, the more I realize that my grandma Shirley lost her purpose in life when my grandpa Bob passed away in 2018. For over fifty years, my grandma's whole purpose in life was to take care of my grandpa, especially after his debilitating aneurysm. She loved every second they spent together, and she was by my grandpa's side through hellfire and back, always serving him with a smile. In return, he served her in the best ways he knew how, up until the very. After surviving numerous (and I mean numerous) health scares and conditions, he passed away at home. Leaving my grandma a widow. 

Grandma Shirley loves all of us. She adores her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. She loved attending my older cousins' weddings in 2019 and earlier in 2021. She still looks forward to spending one last Thanksgiving and Christmas with all thirty or so of her children, grand-children, and great-grandchildren. She still goes outside everyday to watch my aunt, uncles, and cousins take care of the livestock and tend to the harvest. She still cooks homemade meals for herself and her loved ones. She still attends every Sunday church service excitedly. But, at eighty-one years old with cancer all over her body, and her husband of 55 years with the Lord, she is ready, and eager, to go be with my grandpa. 

My usual knee-jerk reaction would be to get angry at God and demand a miracle. But, I must be learning and growing somehow, because when I first learned about my grandma's cancer and in the days after that, I did not get all that angry at God, or demand a miracle. Instead, I've grieved, and have begun the arduous journey of accepting the fact that my grandma Shirley will soon pass away. She lost her purpose in life when her other half died in 2018. As a result, she too, will soon be gone. 

That is the ultimate reason why I'm starting to give up the questions pertaining to God, suffering, existence, and everything else, and am starting to move more towards questions like, "Now what?" instead of, "Why, God?"

I will never be able to figure out why God has allowed things like cancer and covid and Cystic Fibrosis ravage this world. I will never be able to prove or disprove the existence of God, or the afterlife, or anything else like that. Until I learn about it from God Himself (assuming I'll someday stand before God in the afterlife and have the gull to ask Him all of these "why" questions), it's becoming more and more apparent that asking questions like, "Why does God heal some but not others?" is kind of a waste of time. It's a question that leads to nowhere. It's a question without an answer. 

My grandma Shirley seems to be steps ahead of me in her faith. To my knowledge, she hasn't asked many "Why, God?" questions, and hasn't asked too many "Now what?" questions either, especially since the discovery of her widespread cancer. Instead, my grandma seems to just be at peace with God and the situation she's in. In her mind, nothing on earth really matters anymore. As far as the family can tell, she's not troubled by the pandemic, or the growing shortage of workers and supplies, or the gossip that happens in every small town, or even by her cancer, or any of that. She's just at peace and living in the moment, ready and waiting for that day to come. Oh, if only I had a fraction of that peace she now has. 

 

One month later...

It's been roughly a month since I last updated this piece, and to put it lightly, things have rapidly deteriorated since then. As hard as it is to get much information about the situation from my family, it's clear my grandma's cancer is only progressing exponentially faster. From what I've been able to gather, my grandma's body is rapidly deteriorating. Her hip's pretty much disintegrated. She's sleeping 16+ hours a day. Scariest of all, doctors have confirmed she has cancerous lesions in her brain. At least, for now, she's still her same old self, mentally speaking. But, who the hell knows what things will look like when I visit the farm in less than two weeks. 

I've slipped into a sort of depression since last I typed anything in this continuous blog. My grades in Astronomy, while still holding strong, have slipped. I went from holding an A, to holding a solid B. With three weeks left of the semester, I don't have the motivation or the care to lift that grade up so I can finish this semester with an A. All I care about is passing. It's cool to have an A to boast about (especially in a class as math and physics heavy as Astronomy), but in the end, that shit doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm still taking relatively good care of myself, and I go say my final goodbyes to my paternal grandma.

Unfortunately, I'm not exactly doing very great as far as taking care of myself. It's hard for me to sleep. I often spend my nights tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. When I finally do fall asleep, I don't sleep for long. I've been getting about four hours of sleep per night, plus an hour long afternoon nap. Eating has been hard, too. I'm simply not hungry, and if I force myself to eat, I get nauseous and/or suffer severe indigestion later on. Consequently, I have lost some weight. Not enough to scare me, but it's still quite noticeable. Chores are hard to get myself to do these days, though I still do them because moldy dishes and empty dog bowls are not acceptable. I have also been exceedingly restless and out-of-focus (which is why my grades have suffered). My mind is foggy and easy to distract. Oftentimes, my mind goes blank, but not out of anxiety. It's almost like I'm too exhausted to think, read, or write. I am mainly running on auto-pilot. 

On the brighter side, my restlessness has motivated me to spend as much time outside as possible. That, and it's the height of rutting season. I've spent the last week relentlessly chasing the bucks as they chase the does (and each other). Of course, I don't let myself get too close to them. But, I still find immense joy hiking the valley trails and landscape, trailing bucks and does through the dry, broom grass fields, along hogback ridges, and into gullies and ditches. I've also caught glimpses of foxes, raccoons, coyotes, and other larger wildlife. My adventurous spirit has also convinced me to check out some nearby state and federal lands, the vast majority of which are tax-paid public lands that anyone can access. 

There's some of that public land basically in my backyard, where a Ken Caryl trail called Lyon's Ridge runs from a public trail head called Coyote Song on the very south end of Ken Caryl Valley, all the way to the Willow Springs neighborhood on the far north side (so, roughly three miles of steep, rocky trail that zig-zags through the valley and alongside the hogbacks). There's also a lot of public land just west of Chatfield State Park, some of which I have explored, though not enough to know nearly as well as I know Ken Caryl. 

Over this same weekend, Dad and I took the jeep through some of the state land in the mountains straight west from my house. We raced over miles upon miles of washboarded dirt roads through Ponderosa wilderness, up and over mountains and foothills, past campsites and trailheads, till we reached the banks of the South Platte River, miles away from the nearest house. There, we sat along its banks, skipping rocks across the choppy river waters. 

As I bent down to find another flat, rounded rock to skip across the water, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a still section of the river. For that brief moment, I saw my grandma Shirley staring back at me. It was an experience I can't quite put into words. It almost brought me to tears. When I wandered back to my dad with a skipping stone in my hand, I was finally able to ask the question I'd been dreading to ask, "How's grandma?"

Dad turned towards me, sadness filling his face as he sighed, "Uhm, not good. It's... It's bad."

"How bad?" I asked in almost a whisper. 

"Nurses have started coming to the farm, and your uncle Wade's probably gonna move in with her very soon." my dad croaked, "Her cancer's only progressing faster and faster."

"Fucking hell..." 

"Yeah..."

Hot tears welled up in my eyes, and I turned to face the river in an attempt to hide my sadness. My heart literally ached with every beat, and my breathing felt constricted. I began to clench my jaw, closing my fists around the rock. I was seething. The cruelty of cancer was overwhelming. Instead of skipping that rock across the river like I had been, I threw that thing as hard as I could at one of the granite boulders that stuck out of the blue-green water. It made a satisfying crack that echoed through the wilderness, as it shattered into several pieces. 

"Jesus Christ, Maya!" my dad snapped, "We're skipping stones here, not throwing fastballs."

"Yeah... I know..." I mumbled, "I'm just pissed at that damn cancer."

"So am I." my dad said as he stood up, "So am I..."

Dad and I stood side-by-side, staring out at the water, lost in our own thoughts. Worry filled my heart like never before, along with a healthy dose of fear regarding my trip to Minnesota. I would spend the rest of the morning with my dad prying him for details, so I could better steel myself for what was to come, but to no avail. Not unusual for my dad or anyone else on that side of the family. They don't like to talk about their feelings, let alone show them. They also don't like to talk about the bad things, or accept the fact things won't get better. 

To get to the point, I don't think I will know much more till I see the situation for myself. Understandably, I am pretty afraid of what might be in store for me. Maybe my grandma Shirley's just a little tired, but will be her same old, rambunctious, lively, chatty self when I visit her. However, that's probably not gonna be the case. Chances are, she'll be pretty sick when I go to visit her, though I don't want to speculate much more about what that might look like. 

I guess I ought to hope for the best, but prepare myself for the worst. I'm just trying to remain glad that I do have a chance to see my grandma alive one last time, but it's basically impossible to count blessings when faced with something as horrific and cruel as end-stage cancer. 

Fear has made itself at home in my heart as of late. Even with medication, therapy, being a participant in a study on anxiety management in CF, support from friends and family, I have lived in a state of perpetual, worsening anxiety over the last couple weeks or so. It seems to only be getting worse as time goes on, and I’m not sure what more to do to manage it. 

The source of my anxiety is no mystery, as my life has once again been plunged into chaos. My first semester of college is coming to an end, which means semester project due dates and finals are on the near horizon (I’m fully caught up and ready to be graded on my work, but I’m still stressing out about it all). I will be flying out to Minnesota in a little over a week to say goodbye to my grandma Shirley. My fear of flying has only grown worse over the years, and flying in the middle of an ongoing pandemic (that I’m fully vaccinated against) has me nearly in a panic just thinking about it. I’ve also never knowingly said my final goodbyes to a living loved one before. I’m not sure what the emotions I’m feeling even are. I’ve never felt so simultaneously apprehensive and eager before, among many other mostly negative emotions. The newness of it all is almost too much for me to bear. 

I’m intensely frustrated by the lack of communication I’ve received from my paternal relatives, even though I know it’s nothing unusual. When I’m trying to prepare myself for something as frightening and tragic as saying goodbye to a loved one who is riddled with cancer and declining faster than expected, I want as much information as possible. I want to be able to prepare myself for the absolute worst. I want to know, as best as possible, what to expect. But, my paternal side of the family is rarely very informative, and they tend to do things on a whim rather than come up with a plan of action. Also, they tend to downplay problems, and beat around the bush. In certain situations, none of these traits are bad. In fact, they can be helpful in some ways. But, none of it is helpful for me now. It’s quite the opposite, actually. 

I’ve gone back to my old anxious ways, repeating patterns of emotion and behavior I had before I finally accepted medication for my anxiety. Mainly, I pace around my house like a pent up tiger, my mind reeling with endless “what ifs” and worst-case scenarios. Sometimes, I get out and go for a drive. But, Denver drivers are stressful to deal with as-is. Add in my anxiety and general aloofness, and it’s much harder to deal with the reckless, raging idiots on the road. So, besides a few laps around the quiet roads of Ken Caryl Valley, I rarely embark on joy rides anymore. That’s a pretty glaring sign of depression settling in, if you ask me. 

Finding my creativity and my ability to learn are harder than ever, and they’re taking a toll on my college grades. Sleep is nearly impossible, along with eating and even drinking (food tastes like cardboard, water tastes bitter). Whatever I do manage to eat, almost always fails to be properly digested. In general, I’ve just felt like hell, almost like I’m fighting a lung infection, minus the coughing and snorting. 

I’ve done everything I could think of, so far, to escape the stress and the despair. But hardly anything has really helped to get me out of my head and back to feeling refreshed. There are things I still do find joy in, such as venturing out into the valley and watching the bucks and does in rut, listening to music, visiting with close friends and family, and playing video games. But, even those things are beginning to lose their charm. Losing interest in even the most simple things only adds more fear on top of my fears regarding my grandma, flying, fucking up in college, and more. In short, I am deeply terrified all the time right now. I may not show it, but damn do I feel it! 

Now, what am I afraid of? Well, I’m afraid of basically everything at the moment, including my own shadow. But, to be more specific, I know exactly what is scaring the ever-living shit out of me, besides what is going on with my grandma. 

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I'm afraid of flying. Not only am I not thrilled about being trapped in a metal tube with a bunch of other people for over an hour, all during a pandemic, but I have a handful of mostly irrational fears regarding flying (such as getting sucked out of the airplane window after being hit by a piece of shrapnel from an exploded plane engine). At least, flying with my dad should make things easier for me to deal with. My mom is almost just as afraid of flying as I am, and we tend to feed each other's anxiety. My dad, on the other hand, flies nearly every week for work, and has never been one to show any signs of anxiety. If anything, he downplays everything and pokes fun at me for being a wuss, which is better than adding fuel to the fire that is my irrational fear of flying. 

On top of that, I'm not looking forward to spending the frigid nights in Minnesota at my grandma's creepy haunted farmhouse that has no central heating. Unless sleeping plans change (and trust me, I'm trying to figure out how to avoid staying the long, winter nights at the farm), I'm gonna be staying the nights on the farm with only a few other people. Needless to say, I'll be sleeping there under a mountain of blankets with one eye open. And my dad will be the one to check the upstairs when we inevitably hear someone walking around up there in the middle of the night. I wish I was joking. 

Most of all, I'm terrified of saying my final goodbyes to my beloved grandma. I've said my final goodbyes to loved ones in the past, but never have I knowingly said a final, living goodbye to a dying relative before. When I saw my paternal grandpa for the last time in 2017, I had no idea I would never see him alive again. When I saw my maternal great grandpa lying in his death bed in 2011, I had no idea he would be gone just an hour later. When I spent my 2019 Christmas with my maternal great grandma one last time, I had no idea I would never see her alive again. However, this time, I can be almost certain that when I leave the farm on that dreadful Sunday afternoon, I will never see my paternal grandma alive again. Words cannot describe how that currently makes me feel. 

Sleep is impossible for me to get tonight. I am wide awake, absolutely scared shitless of the journey to Minnesota tomorrow, and of what I might be walking into when I step through the squeaky kitchen door of that 120+ year old farmhouse I've known my entire life. Thankfully, my aunt and dad have opened up considerably this week, giving me as many details as I asked for. Consequently, I now feel much more prepared and less anxious. If anything, I am champing at the bit. I want to be there right now!

On my drive to class, I called my dad to figure out last-minute packing and traveling details, as well as find out what the latest updates on the family were. He still spoke in relatively vague terms, as usual. But, when I pried him for details, he finally relayed them to me. For privacy reasons, I will not reveal most of the information I gathered from him. However, I knew to prepare to spend several long winter nights in the farmhouse, but not alone. Besides my dad, uncle, and grandma, we'll be accompanied by 24/7 hospice nurses, as well as a family friend who recently quit their job as an ICU nurse for a simpler life on her farm with her husband. Of course, my grandma's best friends will also be over frequently to fawn over her and help her with her needs. 

I'll also be surrounded by all of my cousins, my cousins' friends and significant others, and so many more people. From the sounds of it, the whole county now knows of my grandma's exponentially worsening condition, and just like when my grandpa passed away, everyone from basically everywhere has overwhelmed us with love and support. 

My aunt regaled me with stories of love and compassion from all of the little towns in the area, as well as from the Mayo clinic in Rochester (and also the city of Rochester). The farmhouse has never been cleaner, and my family and their friends have already started to renovate the place, starting with the simple and hidden stuff. They've dealt with the rot and mold, the stains that have seeped into the carpets and wallpaper, the chewed-on wiring that's probably as old as the house, and have doubled the size of the junk pile in the pasture with old, rotting crap that was sitting in the house for decades. When grandma passes away, the big renovations should begin, giving new life to that ancient farmhouse that's belonged to my family since they arrived in the States in the early 1900's.

But, in the meantime, it sounds like my grandma is still in decent condition considering what she's going through. While she now requires round-the-clock care and is not nearly as mobile as she was when I last saw her, she is still the same old grandma I've grown up with and loved. And, she can't wait to see me. Apparently, she won't shut up about how I (her favorite grand-daughter) am gonna visit her even if I freeze to death in the process. 

I've made sure to pack my luggage with as much of my art as I could fit into it, so my grandma can have one last gift from me (or in this case, multiple gifts). I've also brought as much art supplies as I could reasonably pack, so I can work on some art with and around my grandma (and the rest of my family, of course). To make the trip as easy and fast as possible, I won't be checking any luggage. Everything I take will come with me onto the plane, so I don't have to worry about waiting an hour or more for my shit to arrive on the carousel after we land. Hopefully, TSA won't frisk me like they usually do, as I no longer need to take fifty-something pounds worth of scary medical equipment with me anymore. 

If I'm looking forward to anything regarding this trip, it will be showing off to my paternal relatives how much stronger and healthier I've become since they last saw me in-person, as well as tell them about how much I've grown and succeeded since the summer of 2019. After all, since last we hung out, I've mostly conquered my fear of driving and have gotten my license and my own vehicle. I've transformed from a frail, sickly, shaky little creature with a constant cough and wheeze, to a beast in comparison who can hike for miles and miles up and down steep, treacherous terrain without running out of breath. I don't want them to worry about me anymore. I especially want my grandma to pass away knowing I will be alright. If God allows her, I want to believe she'll be watching me live my life. Instead of watching me suffer and die in my 30's, I want her to see me live to be as old and strong as her. 

Whether or not they've admitted it, I've always been able to tell how genuinely concerned about my health my paternal relatives have been. They don't show their emotions, or even talk about their worries and fears, which has helped me really tune-in my "sixth sense" over the years. I have caught glimpses and whispers of their worries about me, which has always worried me, too. The only other person they seemed to worry so much about was my grandpa Bob, and he was paralyzed, in a wheelchair, suffering from multiple heart, blood, and lung conditions till he passed away at 76 from his (I think fourth) heart attack. Was I really in such bad condition that my paternal family worried about me almost as much as they worried about my grandpa? If so, I hope their jaws will drop to through floor when I arrive at the farm this time around, as lively and healthy as I've become. 

After all, I don't want my paternal relatives to worry about me anymore, especially after all the strife and tragedy they've... well, we've been through, especially in the past several years or so. As sad as I will be, I at least want to quell their concern for me; to show them that they need not be so protective of me, or wake up in the middle of the night wondering if I'm still alive. And, I especially want my grandma to be at the utmost peace, which I hope I can help deliver to her by being around her, and showing and telling her all I've been through over the last couple of years. She deserves to know that I am healthy, alive, and am getting on with life just fine. I cannot, and will not hide that miraculous fact from her. 

"Ready to fly again?" Dad asked as I clambered into his car.

"I'm about as ready as I'll ever be..." I nervously trailed off.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll do just fine. Just let me lead ya through, and we'll make it to the farm with no issues."

"I appreciate your confidence, Dad..." I sighed, rubbing my clammy hands together, feeling his disappointment wash over me. 

It didn't take us long to arrive at the airport, which thankfully wasn't busy at all (at least, compared to how it usually is). True to his promise, Dad did lead me through the airport like a professional, all while rolling his eyes at my flying phobias. To his credit, he did listen to everything I had to say, but not without repeating them back to me in his usual mocking tone, "Oh yeah, we'll totally hit turbulence so severe the plane's wings will snap off and we'll all plummet to our deaths. Yeah, sure. That will absolutely happen." 

When it came time to board the plane, Dad looked at me in the face with an ornery twinkle in his eye and declared, "Guess what I'm gonna have ya do? We're gonna sit as close to the front of the airplane as we can, and I'm gonna have ya take the window seat. If something terrible happens, I'll take the blame for it. But, if nothing bad happens, you have to help make dinner while we're at the farm. Deal?"

I may have pissed myself momentarily, but then gave a sharp nod and replied, "Deal! I think."

Dad stuck out his hand and I grabbed it to complete a firm handshake (I swear, my dad tried to yank my arm out of its socket), sealing the challenge. 

Ten minutes later, just like he told me, we were seated in the fifth row on the 737 I've grown to fear. Dad took the middle seat, and I watched out the airplane window at  the ground crew doing their jobs. Our plane wasn't full, but empty either. There were lots of people, but when the last person boarded, almost every row of seats had an open seat (or two). Meaning, Dad took the aisle seat, and I sat by the window, prepared to leap into the middle seat if shit got real. 

While Dad closed his eyes and napped, I sat in my seat anxious as fuck, wide-eyed and twitchy. I watched as each passenger after me boarded the plane, where I admittedly sized them up in a way, picking out who might be the best helpers if the plane decided to disintegrate 30,000 feet above the world. The vast majority of the people who boarded the plane were wise, ancie- er I mean, senior citizens. The few younger families who boarded were all busy with children. Besides maybe three other people, it seemed like Dad and I were two of the most young, fit, and least burdened people on the plane. 

Once the last person boarded the plane, the stewardess who welcomed everyone on board pushed the large plane door shut and locked it, sealing our fate. My anxiety spiked when the locking mechanism snapped shut, as I was now on that plane for good. Either I'd leave the plane in Minnesota, safe and sound, or I'd die a harrowing death along the way. I prayed incessantly for the former. 

I glanced over at my dad for guidance. He was pretty much passed out, his earbuds blocking out any outside noises. So, I figured it was best to follow suit. Instead of straining my ears to hear every creak and rumble, I'd start my flight listening to "Darkness and the Light" by the band, Trampled by Turtles, watching as the plane was pushed away from the terminal, and the jets roared to life. Before the song ended, I was pushed back into my seat as the plane's wheels lifted off the ground, and the lights of Denver were soon as twinkly and numerous as the stars in the country night sky. The scariest part of the flight was over. 

The rest of the flight seemed to go by in a blur. After spending some time watching out the plane window at the seemingly endless night, I got bored of that and buried my head in my phone, listening to my vast collection of songs and playing Brick Breaker. Almost miraculously, I spent most of the flight a lot calmer now that the anticipatory anxiety was out of the way, and I was deaf to whatever weird noises the plane may have been making. If I caught myself getting nervous, I would glance up at the flight attendant seated at the front of the plane. She was always quiet and calm, except when she laughed at someone's joke or stood up to make an announcement (which she always did with a gentle tone and calming smile). If the flight attendants were calm and collected, chances were, everything was going smoothly. I could let my guard down a little bit. 

The plane touched the tarmac without issue in Minneapolis, and I wasted no time getting off the plane as soon as possible. While I was wearing a medical-grade N95 mask that made it impossible to pick up any outside smells, I still felt like I was breathing in every virus within a five mile radius of me. I needed to get out of that environment and into the open country air. 

My dad, seemingly on autopilot, led us through the (eerily empty) Minneapolis airport, never stopping to find directions to our next destination: the car rental facility. Dad boasted about his elite status enabling us to pick out a luxury, fast vehicle for the trip. As we wandered through the parking lot packed full of brand new rental vehicles, he tried to make a convertible Corvette sound like the best ride to drive in a rural Minnesota blizzard. Of course, me being the voice of reason, I found the trucks and got us into a grey Toyota Tacoma crew cab (not before looking for an Xterra, in the off-chance the airport had one. Turns out, Xterras are very rare outside of Colorado). 

"Aw, you're no fun!" Dad teased. 

"Yeah well. I would like to make it to the farm and back in one piece." I smiled, "Plus, I love trucks, and this Taco's got heated seats."

Dad started the truck, revving its engine obnoxiously with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. 

"Oh my God," I thought to myself, "We're gonna fucking die."

 

About halfway through the harrowing drive to the farm (my dad has a tendency to drive like we're behind in a rally race just to annoy me), we pulled into a rural gas station to get some last-minute snacks and drinks to tie us over for the night. As is habit for me, I put on a KN95.

"Y'know, it's against the law to wear that." Dad remarked.

"Huh?" I scowled in confusion. 

"That mask," Dad clarified, "You can't wear that into this gas station."

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want," I rolled my eyes, "I have a civic duty to outrageously declare that I think covid might be a problem."

"Damn, that's radical!" Dad sneered, "Pretty soon you'll be advocating for free basic healthcare for everyone."

"You say that like I am not already basically a communist at this point." I snickered. 

Inside the gas station, I stocked up on mostly junk food with a few Slim Jims and enough caffeine to kill a horse, while Dad got us a little pack of frosted doughnuts and a couple apples. Amazingly, we were able to purchase our stuff without being harassed by the fellow (maskless) customers, though we were stared at a little bit funny. Maybe, it was the camo I was wearing that saved us from harassment that night. 

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. The closer we got to the farm, the higher the tension in the air rose. Fear made its presence known deep within me once again, though I swallowed it the best way I knew how. Still, I became jumpy and wide-eyed again, while a knot in my throat also began to form. The Country Oldies station was playing on the radio, and I had to change it to the comedy station to avoid bursting into tears. But, that hardly helped. I was already scared and depressed, unsure of what I'd find within the farmhouse. 

Prior to the trip, my grandma Connie gave me a set of booklets she had as her mother died of cancer. Since I still had minimal information on my grandma's health, I read all through the booklets, which all had detailed, useful information regarding hospice care and the dying experience. Also, just by searching terms like "near death stories" and "hospice" on Youtube (which, by the way, is extremely risky), I came across lectures from a neuroscientist called Dr. Peter Fenwick, which further put me at ease about my grandma. She may be sick. She may be weak. She may be 100% dependent on others. But, she's at peace and in no pain. 

Dad drifted onto grandma's driveway as I held onto my seat for dear life, and then skidded to a stop in front of the granary. 

"You came in a little hot there!" I raised my eyebrows. 

"A little?" Dad laughed. 

"Yeah, just a little. Just a little..."

We stepped out into the cold country night. The smell of cattle permeated the still air. In the black skies above, the arm of the Milky Way was clearly visible through the breaks in the clouds. All was silent, except for the quiet hoofbeats of the cattle as they shuffled in the dark. 

I grabbed my bags and cautiously made my way towards the old farmhouse. I let my old man go into the house before me, and I spent more time than I needed to take off my boots and coat. Dad made his way into the living room, where he was greeted by his oldest brother, my uncle Wade. I felt a little better knowing uncle Wade was there, and like usual, uncle Wade gave me a huge bear hug when I emerged into the living room. 

"Gramma's sleepin'," Wade began to explain in his thick Minnesotan accent, "She doesn't have her hearin' aids in, so she can't hear shit. Don't be worried about making too much noise. Just get settled and sleep. Everythin's set up for y'all in the living room. Maya, the couch is yours. Brother, you get the air mattress." 

The men continued to talk about grandma as I got set up on the living room couch. Everything within the house was exactly the same as it had always been, though it smelled very strongly of cinnamon thanks to the cinnamon candles that were lit in every room. The house was also much cleaner than I remember it being. The family had clearly been hard at work making the place as comfortable and homey as possible. However, they failed to rid the house of its eeriness. If anything, that aspect of the house was amplified. It was like the house was holding its breath, watching my every move. 

I shook off the strange feelings as a mixture of grief and wacky EMFs from crossed wires within the walls, and finished unpacking and getting ready for bed. The whole time, the house was silent, besides the muffled conversation between the men in the kitchen. When my ears began to ring from the prolonged silence, I turned on the TV to break the silence. Reruns of my favorite show, Ridiculousness, were on MTV all night long. 

"Oh hell ya..." I mumbled to myself as I got comfortable on the floor in front of the TV, excited to laugh my ass off at all the stupid shit people did on that show. 

At some point, I fell asleep, though not totally. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night, and the guys were still up in the kitchen, talking about life. I decided to get up and join them there, not to talk or really even listen, but just to be present. As I sat there, eyes glazed over, the sound of footsteps above us interrupted the guys' conversation. We listened for a moment as the heavy, slow bootsteps paced the hallway above us. They were obviously human. Too loud for a wild animal, and too long and methodical to be the house settling. 

"Uhhhh..." I whispered, "What is that?"

The men stared at me in silence with concern on their faces as the footsteps continued, then abruptly stopped above the main room. Seconds after the footsteps ended, the men wandered into the main room, with me trailing close behind them. However, I stopped in the main room, refusing to go any further. My dad checked on grandma to see if she was awake and needed anything, and Wade headed upstairs to find what could've caused the very distinct noise of adult footsteps above us. 

I was the most useless. I just stood in the main room by the cast iron stove still and silent as a tree, ready to dive out a window if anything even remotely startling happened. Thankfully (or perhaps not), nothing was found. Not even a mouse. 

We regrouped in the living room. Grandma was fast asleep, and nothing was upstairs. It was just us. I began to ponder in my mind if I really wanted to stay the night at that farmhouse, or if I wanted to just crash on my uncle Wes's couch instead. But, since I knew nobody was in the house who wasn't supposed to be there (as far as we knew), I figured I ought to stay. Hopefully, that's all we would hear that night. 

Well. It wasn't. All throughout the night, my sleep was interrupted by all sorts of weird noises, from more footsteps upstairs to knocking noises like someone was tapping their fist on the walls and doors. There were also much more explainable noises, such as the sounds of coyotes yipping outside, and the creaking of the house as it settled. But, the human-like noises were very different from the noises the old farmhouse has always made, and it was clear that there were no animals or other people upstairs. 

To be honest, as unsettling as some of those noises were (especially the footsteps pacing the rooms and halls upstairs), I knew having a possible haunting on our hands was a hell of a lot better than having a wild animal rummaging around the boxes in the upstairs bedrooms. An ethereal being can't really hurt living people or cause too much damage. However, an animal, especially one that was big enough to make so much noise, would be so much scarier.

I'm still not quite sure what we would've done had my uncle discovered a frightened, cornered raccoon perched on top of a mountain of antiques upstairs. What I can say is that it would've been a harrowing experience. Much worse than seeing my great-great-great-grandpa Johann reading a novel in an old rocking chair. 

Someone grabbed my foot in the early morning hours, and I shot up, almost falling ass-over-teakettle off the couch. But, I immediately relaxed when I heard my grandma's voice saying, "Good morning, sleepy head!", and my dad cackling like a hyena as he stood behind her.

"Oh, you scared the shit out of me!" I hyperventilated, "Good morning, grandma. Glad to see ya!"

"Glad to see ya, too." she replied, "Now, get back to sleep. Lay down! Lay down!" 

"No. I'm up, grandma." I sighed as my dad pushed her in her wheelchair towards the other sofa, "Can I get ya anything?"

"No, I'm not yet ready to eat." grandma answered, "I gotta watch my news first. You eat now!"

While Dad helped grandma get comfortable, I got up and ready for the day. It was still pitch dark outside, so I checked my phone for the time. It was just before six in the morning, but I was wide awake thanks to grandma Shirley. 

In the carpeted bathroom, I got dressed and brushed as quickly as possible. For one, I felt like for every minute I spent in that bathroom, I was shaving years off my life by breathing in the musty air (carpeted bathrooms with drop tile ceilings are among the worst ideas someone has ever had). And, as much as I'm embarrassed to admit it, I was still pretty spooked. I was certain if I closed my eyes for too long while washing my face, I'd look up to see my reflection doing something I wasn't. 

After getting cleaned up and ready, I headed for the kitchen to take my pills before a migraine set in. My dad was up, cooking eggs and bacon on the stove, listening to the rock station on the radio. He offered me some food, but I declined. I wasn't yet hungry, and chose to have a big glass of whole milk for breakfast instead. Dad tossed me a plate of strawberry jam toast, knowing I'd eat that, and tried to get me to eat an egg as well, but that I declined. 

"No thanks, dad. I don't like eggs enough to eat one right now. The toast, however, is perfect!"

"Glad you like it." Dad nodded, taking a huge bite of his scrambled eggs. 

By then, the sun had just peeked above the horizon, illuminating the country around us through the windows. It was a very cold morning. The house was only just beginning to warm up, since my dad took the space heaters out of grandma's room and set them up elsewhere, and the stove was on. I sat at the kitchen table wrapped up in my warmest clothes, watching the morning outside. 

Soon, my uncle Wade showed up. He had left well before the ass-crack of dawn to haul a small load of corn from Lake City to Winona, but would be with us for the rest of the day. He trudged into the house and greeted us with a smile. However, he couldn't resist practically lifting me up out of my chair to give me another huge bear hug. 

After breakfast, I helped to clean up the kitchen and do the dishes the old fashioned way (grandma was always against most modern technology, including dishwashers). While I did so, I read the poem grandma had hung up next to the sink: 

"Thank God for dirty dishes, 

They have a tale to tell. 

While other folks go hungry, 

We're eating very well."

"It's freezin' out here!" I shouted over the wind as it stung my face, wondering why anyone would live in a place where the wind hurts your face. 

"Welcome to Minnesota!" my uncle laughed, "If only we had some snow to go with the wind!"

"Yeah, no! The last thing I need is ice shards in my eyeballs!"

"Oh, c'mon! That's just the icing on the cake!" 

Uncle Wade reached down to open up the tractor shed door, revealing a sixty-pound bale of hay. 

"Junior's got a cold," Wade sighed, "So, we have to give the horses at least a week's worth in hay to eat. Obviously, my son refuses to come around with a cold like he's got. He's quarantining at home till his covid test comes back. He's got his shots, so it should come back negative."

(Junior is my cousin Wade, Wade sr.'s son). 

I strutted ahead of my uncle Wade and squatted down to grab the bale. I was careful not to bend my back, and used my legs and arms to lift the bale instead. Wade stared in amazement as I lifted the bale with relative ease, and heaved it up to my chest to carry to the horses. 

"Maya, you don't hafta-"

"I got it, uncle Wade!" I shouted proudly, "Don't you worry!" 

I waddled over to the cage-wire fence adjacent to the gate, and the horses came galloping towards me, whinnying and bunny-hopping with delight. Almost without thinking, I began to swing the bale like a pendulum, counting in my mind, "One... Two... Three..."

On four I let go of the bale, sending it over the fence. It fell between the two horses, who immediately put their heads down on either side of the bale and chomped away. 

"Holy shit!" I heard Wade exclaim behind me, "How did you- How did your scrawny ass do that?!"

"Trikafta!" I replied without hesitation. I then took off for the house before my face froze off in the cold, while my bamboozled uncle just stood there. That wet, frigid wind was absolutely miserable!

Inside the house, my grandma, cousin Andrew, Andrew's girlfriend, and my dad were all seated around the kitchen table, just finishing up lunch. I sat down next to my grandma Shirley, who was seated in grandpa's old wheelchair gingerly eating some of her friend's home-made soup. I watched my grandma take the smallest sips of her meal, ever so relieved to see her still eating, though still deeply saddened at the sight of her condition. 

Last time I saw her, she was remarkably strong and healthy for a woman her age. She was just as active as I was, helping to take care of the calf, eager and able to get out-and-about. She made all of our meals, and ensured I had a comfortable place to sleep at night, gleefully taking on the role of "caretaker". She missed taking care of grandpa, and was glad when she could take care of me and that orphaned bull calf for the week I was there. 

Summer came and went. In the early spring of 2020, covid reared its ugly head in the States. Isolation, recession, illness, political turmoil, and death settled in. I believe, strongly, that's what really got to my grandma. She became increasingly weak and frail as the months wore on. Then, just when things were looking up thanks to the vaccines, and she was once again enjoying the outside world, she began to have trouble walking and developed a cough. A CT scan revealed the widespread cancer. She understandably decided not to pursue cancer treatment. Instead, she was ready to move on from this life and into the next. 

As utterly depressing as it was to see my grandma so sick, I sensed a faint aura of excitement or jubilee in the house, and especially around her. It's really hard to explain it without going into crystal-mommy-woo-woo shit, because that's not the picture I'm trying to paint as I try (and fail) to use words to properly explain it.

In very simple (non woo-woo shit) terms, I could sense that my grandma was eager and ready to reunite with loved ones who have passed on from this world, and I was excited for her to rejoin her loved ones in what we call "Heaven" in the English language (but has a much more complicated, convoluted term in Hebrew/Greek Scripture, but that's besides the point). I could also sense she just didn't feel right being taken care of; she desperately wanted to take care of us, and she seemed anxious to serve others again on the Other Side. And, I felt (and still feel) very sad that she wasn't the one cooking lunch, or taking the family out to dinner, or doing the chores around the house. She even expressed it herself the whole time I was with her.

"Here, let me pay for supper..." she'd weakly murmur as she shakily reached for her purse. 

"No, ma. We got it! Don't worry about paying for that. It's okay, I've got it." My dad would respond. 

But, grandma wasn't satisfied with that answer. She didn't express it with words. The defeated look in her tired, grey eyes said it all, and I had to go outside to shed a few tears for her after that short, yet poignant exchange. I'm sure my dad felt her pain, too. 

The same sense of defeat and depression seemed to wash over all of us when my grandma, too weak to lift the heavy mug, ended up spilling coffee all over the table and herself one morning. Of course, Dad and I cleaned up the mess in less than a minute. But, its emotional impact on all of us was still tremendous, and grandma especially felt it.

Before the cancer, my grandma was as strong as an ox, yet careful as a kitten. Up until that morning, I've never seen her shake like that as she tried to lift the coffee mug to her lips. Hell, I've never seen her spill any drink (grandpa was always the one who made messes, but he was also severely physically impaired). It was deeply disturbing to all of us when it finally did happen, and grandma completely relied on us to take care of the mess. 

No wonder grandma's so ready to leave her weak and dying flesh to join the spiritual realm young and able again. I feel kind of gross admitting this, but I too, will be relieved when she passes away. Cancer is one of the worst ways to go, and it absolutely sickens me to see someone I love and look up to so much waste away like that. Especially someone as loving and tenacious as my grandma Shirley. 

The second night spent on the farm was hardly any different than the first. The strange, inexplicable footsteps, thumps, knocks, and even the sound of a closing door continued, but I was no longer really spooked by them. Just unsettled. I knew they weren't caused by anything that was truly capable of harm. We'd already extensively checked the house and outdoors for humans and animals that didn't belong, and found neither. We never saw anything either; just felt odd presences and heard perplexing noises that weren't just "old house" noises. 

The noises grew more frequent and obvious as time wore on, and especially as my grandma's condition suddenly took a turn for the absolute worst on the second night. She was still not in any pain thanks to the medications she was on. But, she grew increasingly tired and pretty much completely lost her appetite by the second day I was there. She also nearly entirely lost her ability to use the bathroom on her own or do things as simple as change the channel on the TV, all within the span of twelve hours. 

It was then I began to wonder if my grandma had been "holding on" to see me. She knew I was coming, and wouldn't shut up about me on the days leading up to my flight into Minneapolis. It was also pretty obvious that I was (and still am) The Favorite. While looking through piles upon piles of pictures starting from 2001, about half of them were just of me. The other half were of everyone else in the family.

In a way, I felt terribly guilty. Had I just been prolonging my grandma's suffering by giving her a reason to hold onto life just a little longer? After all, I've heard many stories of dying people somehow convincing the Grim Reaper to stay away awhile longer, so they can see a loved one alive one last time. It tore me apart thinking my grandma was suffering so severely just to see me one last time while on this Earth. A part of me regretted letting her know that I was on my way to the farm. Maybe if she hadn't known I was coming, she would've gone easier and sooner. 

To relieve myself of this festering guilt, I headed outside where the night was void of clouds and an arm of the Milky Way was clearly visible stretching across the sky. I made sure to wander pretty far from the lights of the farmhouse, so my eyes could adjust to the darkness, enabling me to see the numerous colorful gases and stars that made up a small part of our home galaxy. Staring up at the bronze, blue, and gold heavens sprinkled with twinkling dots, I allowed my thoughts to wander. I didn't say much aloud (I don't even remember if I said my prayer in words), knowing God was aware of what my heart was trying to convey. 

Essentially, I told God about my nauseating worry that I had inadvertently caused my grandma Shirley to suffer more than she needed to, by giving her a valid reason to stay alive a little longer. I expressed that if it was her time, right then and there, that I would understand it. Of course, I would miss her greatly and grieve her death. But, there would also be a bit of relief, knowing she was no longer suffering from such a terrible illness as cancer. That, and I also hoped that with her passing, whatever weird spiritual shit that was happening within the house would also diminish. After all, I'd never witnessed the house so active with strange, unexplained activity and unsettling (though not exactly threatening) vibes before. At least, not since my grandpa Bob passed away. It was, of course, pretty fucking creepy and I didn't want anything to do with it, regardless of if it was sinister or not. 

In short, I simply prayed for peace and comfort. Whatever that peace and comfort were or meant, I just prayed for it. We, as a family, needed that. Desperately. 

Almost as soon as I finished my prayer and turned towards the house, I heard engines in the distance rapidly approaching. Before I could really react, a whole convoy of vehicles; a shitbox sedan, two huge pickups, a couple SUVs, all came speeding onto the driveway in a single-file line. I was, quite literally, a deer in the headlights until I got to my senses and bolted off the driveway and into the front lawn. For a brief moment, I concealed myself in the darkness beside an ancient oak tree, not quite sure to think of the sudden, rowdy company. Then, I remembered: it was Friday night, and everyone was coming over for a massive fish boil. 

I trotted out of the woods and was immediately charged by two four-legged creatures. The largest of the two knocked me to the ground, and the smaller one immediately lunged at my face, mauling me with kisses. Lots and lots of kisses. 

"Ruby! Hank! Off!" I heard my aunt Jess call from the darkness. 

Immediately, the animals got off me, and I stumbled to my feet soaked in dog slobber. 

"Sorry about that!" Jess shook her head. 

"Oh, no worries," I chuckled, "Y'know I love dogs!"

I squatted back down to pet the two crazies. Hank was an older, though still very puppy-like, Golden Lab. The other, Ruby, the Black Lab, was still just a puppy, and hadn't quite yet learned how to wag her tail (her tail wagged her instead). After a moment of petting, the dogs caught a whiff of the giant vat of seafood boiling in the kitchen, and charged towards the house with me lagging behind. 

Inside, the air was warm as ever, both temperature and feeling wise. There was just something magical about being surrounded by almost my entire paternal side of the family, in a farmhouse so full of memories and love. Even grandma seemed youthful and full of life, at least for the first half hour or so of the party. Seated in grandpa's old wheelchair at his spot at the dining table, grandma ate a hearty plate of shrimp and coleslaw, and was laughing along with the rest of us as we relayed stories of the last couple years or so. 

In the center of the dining table, a wireless speaker was playing country bluegrass music (the same kind I love to wreck my truck's speakers with whenever I drive). Surrounding it were mango-flavored beers and my favorite kind of Kombucha, which happened to be my cousin's favorite too. Several decks' worth in playing cards were scattered around the table as some people attempted to play Euchre while everyone else was eating seafood like ravenous tigers. Nobody used crab crackers to break open the boiled crustaceans we were eating. We all used our hands and teeth, shaking our heads in a tearing motion not unlike what nature documentaries film predators doing. 

We were civil, but so very far from civilized. 

Of course, grandma just had to spoil the dogs. Hank knew right away how to beg, but Ruby didn't know that she could beg for food. At least, not until grandma gave both dogs a hearty helping of steamed, seasoned veggies and boiled whitefish. My aunt Jess, unable to tell my grandma not to do that, just pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head in disappointment. Jess tried, and ultimately failed, to keep Ruby from learning that she could get people food from the table when humans were eating. 

During all of this, we were swapping stories, most of which were absolutely hilarious. Andy relayed tales of his days working on various oil rigs around the country, from "losing too many braincells to count" dealing with trespassing rednecks and covid-deniers in West Virginia, to the stupid shit he did over the summer with a shitload of tannerite. 

Dad and I told stories about our adventures with the Jeep, and the troubles we dealt with along the way. The funniest part was when Dad and I explained how he accidentally hot-wired the Jeep while trying to install the CB radio, and it lurched forward before Dad disconnected the wires and got back to the drawing board. My toes were within a half inch of being flattened by the Jeep's rear tire, but I had jumped into the Jeep before my toes became 2D. Of course, me being a bit of an asshole said, "I about pulled an Uncle Wade there...", rightfully earning myself a swift swat in the back of my head by Uncle Wade who chuckled, "You little shit!" 

Of course, this ornery little exchange led my uncle to talk, in detail, about what he remembered happening that fateful spring day in 2018, when he was almost killed by his own tractor. He was trying to get his Case International Harvester to start after it had been sitting in the tractor shed for a very long time, using a start-box to shock the battery to life. However, the tractor was in gear, though my uncle thought it was in neutral. When Wade jumped the tractor, it came to life in first gear, knocking him off his ladder and rolling over his legs. Uncle Wade woke up in a pool of his own blood on the gravel in front of his tractor shed, and had just enough sense to call Junior before passing out again. 

However, when Junior arrived at the scene and called the paramedics while Uncle Wade lied lifeless and bleeding, the dispatcher told my cousin that help was already on the way. Someone had already called an emergency helicopter for my uncle, almost twenty minutes before Junior did. However, my uncle doesn't recall calling for an ambulance, and he was completely alone on the farm with no one else around to witness the accident. So, who called the ambulance? Had my uncle woken up once before, called 9-1-1, and didn't remember it? Or, did something or Someone else call the paramedics before my cousin did?

"I wasn't much of a religious man before that..." Uncle Wade finished his story, "But, now my faith remains firm as ever. Not only did someone call the paramedics before I remembered calling Junior, but if the paramedics weren't called before Junior called them, I would've died and not come back. I'd lost almost half of the blood in my body by the time I made it to the hospital and could get a blood transfusion..."

Even after my uncle was stabilized at the hospital, the doctors were certain he'd be bed-ridden for months, and was likely to not make a full recovery. However, like all of us in the family, Uncle Wade's an intensely stubborn and tough man. He was at home on crutches a week and a half after the accident. Two weeks after his fight with his International Harvester, my grandpa Bob died, and I saw my uncle Wade on crutches with sixteen stitches in the back of his head (he had been scalped by the wheel-well of the tractor as he fell off the ladder), but not always using them. 

"Sure, I had two broken feet and a massive gash in my head, but I didn't listen to the doctors all that well..." Uncle Wade admitted, "I kinda had fun freaking everyone out by putting weight on my legs when I shouldn't have... But, it was all well and good because I made a full recovery..."

Andy's girlfriend, an ICU nurse who quit her job after working through the pandemic without a break, nearly choked on her food. 

"There's a reason why we tell people not to put weight on their broken legs!" she practically screamed. 

"Again, everything was just fine in the end." my uncle bragged, "I wasn't about to just sit in bed all day everyday for six months. I needed to get up and move around, y'know?"

"Speaking of which..." my dad began with a grin stretching across his face, "Maya's definitely gone against the advice of doctors more than once, right? Right?"

"Dad..." I growled, side-eyeing him. 

"Didn't you have a cardiology appointment recently?" Dad teased.

"Dad, no..."

"And instead of taking the doctor's advice to rest and eat healthy the day before your exam, you drank a shitload of caffeine and went for a hike in the valley?"

Andy's girlfriend was staring daggers into my soul as I took a swig of my fifth can of soda of the night. 

"How did it go?" my uncle asked. 

"It went just fine!" I replied truthfully, "I'm healthy as can be and the caffeine plus the hike had no ill effects on my echocardiogram."

"Why did you need an echocardiogram?" Andy's girlfriend asked me, "And why did you do exactly what you weren't supposed to do before it?" 

"Uhhhh... How do I explain this?" I thought aloud, while Andy's girlfriend's stare grew more intense and she crossed her arms. 

Thankfully, my grandma Shirley rescued me from having to explain my situation when she declared that she was tired and wanted to go to bed. I was so relieved that I didn't have to explain my heart situation to an ICU nurse while drinking copious amounts of caffeine and eggnog. At least, not then. 

With grandma in bed and nothing but a pile of broken crab legs and lobster tails left behind,  the party was over. Everyone, besides myself, my uncle, and Dad, left for the night. I was quick to get in my PJs so I could curl up on the couch with a bedtime snack and watch more re-runs of Ridiculousness. Meanwhile, the guys stayed up in the kitchen, once again talking about life. And, grandma was sound asleep in her bedroom next door to the living room, comfortable as could be. 

However, it was very cold that night. For whatever reason, nobody wanted to heat the house up using the cast iron stove in the main room. Instead, we kept the candles lit and a single space heater in the living room on full-blast. My aunt had also brought over sleeping bags that could keep us warm even if it got below freezing in the house, but I did everything I could to not sleep in them. They seriously smelled like a dairy farm. 

As the night progressed and it only got colder, I finally figured it was better to smell like a feedlot than freeze to death. Thankfully, I was simply exhausted and fell asleep quickly. However, it wasn't long before I was woken up by the sound of heavy footsteps walking around upstairs again, with nobody actually up there. Dad heard them too, and he groggily got up to check on grandma and make sure no rabid raccoons were running around up there.  

"Oh shit!" I heard him gasp as he entered grandma's room. 

Instantly, I felt my heart drop into my stomach, fearing the worst. I didn't breathe until I heard my grandma's muffled voice. She was still alive. But, why was my dad shocked when he walked into her room?

Well, to spare details, my grandma had been up for some time, but couldn't wake either of us up using a little bell we had her keep on her night-stand. She wasn't feeling too good and needed another dose of medication, which my dad immediately provided for her when he knew what she needed. Since everyone was safe and okay, I felt comfortable to fall back asleep. Just in time for the morning sun to rise and shine directly in my face. 

For the first part of the early morning, I remained half-asleep on the couch. I was conscious of my surroundings, but kept my eyes shut and arm over my face to block out the sun. But, then I started to get a strange feeling, like something or someone was invading my space. For awhile longer, I simply ignored the feeling thinking it was just my dad moving around in the living room (I could hear what sounded like him moving around in the room). However, I began to feel a little warm, so I opened my eyes. A pair of wide, humans eyes were staring right back at me, inches from my face, and fight-or-flight kicked in. 

"Oh my Jesus-" I wheezed as I sat up and balled up my fists in front of me. 

My aunt stepped back, clapping her hands and laughing, "That's what you get for sleeping in!"

"Wha- Where- What time is it?" I frantically panted as my eyes darted around looking for the clock. 

"It's just after 7:30 AM." my aunt replied, "Breakfast is ready! We got eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, the like!"

"Oh, ok." I sighed, holding my hand against my racing heart, "I'll be ready in a moment. Just gotta get my bearings straight."

"Did I scare ya?" Aunt Stacy finally asked, an ornery grin stretching across her face. 

"Damn right, you did!" I huffed, finally able to chuckle a little. 

Reading back at this piece, so far, I notice that I've been vague at times. Know that this has been on purpose. There are personal details that I am simply not quite comfortable sharing, at least online. Things that were happening beyond the footsteps that are often present shortly before someone dies. Those things include (but are not limited to) incredible encounters with birds and animals (for my family, it involved Bald Eagles), visions of dead loved ones, electronics in the house malfunctioning for no apparent reason, deeply personal dreams, so on and so fourth. 

I'm not yet comfortable sharing those (at least on this collection of writings) yet, as they are still very fresh and cut deeply into mine and my family's emotions. Dying and death are sacred and necessary parts of life. Though, they are far from easy or enjoyable. While joy, love, and gratefulness were ever-present emotions and feelings on the farm, the sting of dying and death were still with us on that farm, too. I could sense, even before I knew about all of the personal and supernatural shit going on, that death was close by. That things weren't quite right. I felt these things even before my grandma's cancer diagnosis, though at the time, I chalked them up to anxiety surrounding college and my emotional inability to accept my autism diagnosis, and the fact that I am, and will forever be, "different" and "disabled". 

However, as emotionally tough as it's been to accept parts of myself that I cannot change or control, I've just realized that the grief I was feeling even before my grandma's diagnosis wasn't entirely rooted in my self-acceptance struggles. In fact, I'd argue that most of that pain had nothing to do with me. Instead, somehow, some way, I could sense that something was wrong with my grandma, before I consciously knew of her condition. Before we even knew she had cancer. 

Even writing about this shit in a personal journal is tough, let alone throwing it out there for others to discuss. It's really begun to fuck up my whole worldview. As scientific and analytical as I often am, I don't have the pride to just blow off these feelings and events as mere coincidences, or just dismiss them as my anxiety rearing its ugly head again. Sure, parts of those dreadful feelings have come from my heightened anxiety surrounding college, and the fact that I'm learning in therapy about what it takes to accept the parts of myself that I was born with and cannot change. But, most of my anger, grief, and anxiety were coming from someplace else that I wasn't consciously aware of. That place being my grandma's deteriorating health. 

I just wish that my apparent "psychic" abilities (for lack of a better term) were more specific. But, all I really had was a perpetual feeling of extreme dread and sadness. 

I also wish that we had scientific reasons behind why people have these strange feelings and experiences. But, as far as I am aware, science knows almost nothing about them. We know that some people are "visited" by their recently deceased loved ones before they get the call. We know that people often report seeing and hearing weird shit before and after a loved one dies. We know that clocks within the vicinity of the dying person tend to stop at the exact time the dying person takes their final breath. We know that the dying can "hang on" for just a few more hours or days if they know a close loved one is coming to visit. Or, they survive just long enough to protect their loved ones from witnessing their death. We know a lot of shit like this. We just don't know how or why. Frankly, I don't think we ever will. 

With that said, do I want to delve into this weird, freaky shit further? No, not really. I am curious, and I'm more than happy to find scientific reasons for the weird going-ons (such as, checking the upstairs for animals whenever footsteps were/are heard, or chalking up the occasional loud bangs in the kitchen and main room as the stoves reacting to changing temperature in that poorly insulated house). But, there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'll ever try to open myself up to whatever may or may not exist beyond what science can answer, in the sense that I'll sit down with a group of friends and play with an Ouija board. I think that's just as stupid as running with a flag in a bull pen. 

If anyone wants to go to a graveyard and start trying to converse with the dead, or go to a church and try to perform an exorcism, go right ahead! But, I'm not gonna take part in that stuff. Hell no!

Minutes after my aunt rudely startled me awake, I was at the breakfast table with a plate full of bacon, egg whites (I don't like egg yolk, it just tastes weird), sweet peas, and a small spoonful of questionable-looking hashbrowns. Grandma wasn't hungry enough for breakfast that morning, which deeply concerned us all, especially since she was quite sick the night before. My aunt (the optimist of the family) figured that grandma was just worn out after the excitement from the night before, and she just needed to rest in preparation for another family get-together. 

"Oh, she'll be right back to 'er old self tonight, I know it!" my aunt Stacy declared. 

"I'm sure hope you're right..." I silently thought as I chewed the last of my meal. 

Just then, my dad strutted into the kitchen, asking me if I wanted to go to uncle Wes's with him for a bit. There, I could shower and enjoy a slight change in scenery, before going back to the farm with my two youngest cousins. 

I headed out into the blustery winter morning with my dad, and we took off for Wes's in the Taco. Once there, I spent some time with the animals at his house. Wes's dogs were overjoyed to see me (and I was ready for Hank to jump on me that time), and a grey calico cat followed me around the house and into the bathroom, purring very loudly and brushing up against my legs whenever she could. I was warned that the friendly calico liked to be in the bathroom with whoever was in there, because she loved the warmth that the shower gave off. As someone with two dogs who are just the same, I didn't mind having a cat perched up on my clean clothes as I showered, so long as she stayed there. 

Once showered, I dried off and finished getting ready for the day feeling like a brand new person. The calico leapt up on the counter as I was brushing my hair and gently pawed at me. She, too, wanted to be brushed, which I did, and she loved every second of it. I wasn't, however, going to share my toothbrush no matter how many times the cat asked me to. 

Cleaned up and ready for the day, I headed back outside where my dad was waiting for me. Instead of returning to the farm right away, we'd take a couple hours to ourselves. My aunt and uncle Wade had grandma taken care of for a awhile. Dad was interested in Wes' most recent construction project, so I let the men go discuss my uncle's sunroom-in-progress while I wandered out into the barren cornfield. I needed some alone time to process everything I've been through thus far. Alone time with the Lord. 

I trudged across frozen soil till I was almost halfway between Wes' and the farm, where I felt comfortable enough to begin my private conversation with God. By then, a sickly feeling had settled deep within my heart. Grandma was not gonna live to see Christmas. 

At first, I was angry at God. Angry that He was taking my grandma so soon in such a horrific way. I held back no punches. I cursed God, both aloud and in my heart. I ranted about how absolutely hellish dying of cancer must be, and asked God why He couldn't take my grandma swiftly, and instead chose to take her slowly and agonizingly. Why did she have to suffer so much towards the end of her life? Why did it have to be so soon? Why wasn't she given more time? Why, why, why?

Then, came the tears, which I allowed myself to shed. In reality, my anger was only hiding my pain. I didn't really mean any of the dreadful things I had to say to God. I was just pissed at the cancer, and needed to get it off my chest. I wondered (and still do wonder) what purpose dying of cancer had. I knew that Jesus called illness and death opportunities for His hand to make an appearance. But, if that was the case, where was His healing this time around? Why did He seem to withhold His curing hand from my grandma?

Suddenly, a screech from above spooked me out of my prayerful state. In the cloudy skies, a bald eagle swooped down and glided just five or so feet above me. I could feel the breeze of his wings he was so close. The eagle then banked right to make one more flyby, before disappearing in a little grove of trees on our land. From the barren branches, he continued to screech, almost as though he was shouting, "I'm here! I'm here! Look at me! I'm here!"

My grandparents identified themselves with the bald eagle, much like they identified themselves with the Hereford cattle. While my grandma was dying at home, bald eagles made their presence known much more than usual, and seemed to want to be seen by us all. Sadly, they never stayed for a picture. My encounter with that eagle in the cornfield was no different, but much more personal as it was just me who witnessed it, during a conversation with my Creator. The encounter reminded me that my grandma was ready to go be with the Lord, and reunite with my grandpa. That's why God wasn't healing her, but was instead allowing her to die at home without any pain. 

My grandma wasn't dying alone or afraid. Sure, it was uncomfortable for her, but she was at peace and lucid when she wasn't sleeping. She reminded us that she loved us, and she was loved, and she would celebrate Christmas with her husband. When I asked, "How do you know?" later that day, Grandma replied, "Because my twin sister came over the other day, and told me she would bring me to see Bob soon, and we'd have Christmas together."

My grandma's twin sister died in 2016. I didn't know this until I told my dad about it, and he looked at me like I had grown a second head. 

Despite that, I believed my grandma wholeheartedly, as she wasn't the least bit confused or delirious. She knew, damn well, that her sister and husband had both died. Yet, she was apparently being visited by them, and the visitations were realer than real to her. According to the hospice nurses, almost everyone who is dying will have these types of visions. They're mysterious and almost unbelievable to those of us who are alive and well. But, to those who have one foot in this life, and one foot in the next, it's anything but mysterious and impossible to believe.

My grandma was sure of where she would soon go, and was sure of who she would soon see, and was more than ready to see the face of God. 

I now understood, much more clearly, why God was allowing her to die. She was eager to go. It was, in a way, her choice. A choice I will forever revere. 

Like the night before, all of us sat around the dining table. Only, this time, grandma had gone to bed earlier than expected, and the air was a little more somber. My dad and his siblings played Euchre while I watched my dad’s plays over his shoulder. My aunt Jess (uncle Wes’s wife) had the SteelDrivers’s song, “Ghosts of Mississippi” playing on a wireless speaker in the center of the dining table, which fit the tense mood quite well.

I’m not quite sure if it’s genetics or upbringing, but I couldn’t help but notice it. The similarities between myself and my paternal family were striking. Right down to the Blues-Grass we listened to, the focused scowls on our faces, and the manners in which we spoke. The perpetual chill of loneliness I’ve always felt was gone, so long as I was on the family farm, surrounded by nature, animals, and people just like me. Intelligent and educated, yet rural and bitch-faced. But great sadness still hung over the dining room table. 

My aunt Stacy and younger cousin Kael came charging down the stairs with their arms full of boxes, which they slammed down on the dining table sending cards and bits of tinsel flying everywhere. 

“We found the Christmas decor!” my aunt proudly declared. 

“And like five Christmas trees!” Kael added. 

Just like that, joy and excitement blew away the depressing tension like a Colorado cold front. Almost all of us got to our feet and began to dig through the boxes. I had a huge handful of red bows, which I took outside to decorate the porch banister with. My youngest cousin, Jake, followed me and wrapped the outside banisters with silver tinsel. Kael set up a small Christmas tree in the living room with aunt Stacy’s help, and uncle Wade put out a potted Christmas tree on the entryway porch. Once those boxes were emptied, my cousins and aunt led my nervous ass up the steep, creaky stairs to the musty, cold second floor of the farmhouse. 

Honestly, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I prepared myself for the worst. After all, that farmhouse has been slowly decaying over the last several decades. God only knows when someone last paid any real attention to the cracks in the walls or the leaks in the roof. However, the farmhouse wasn’t in nearly as bad of shape as I thought it would be, though it was still in dire need of a major makeover. 

In the hallway, blaze orange flower wallpaper from the 60’s mixed in perfectly horribly with the blaze orange shag carpet. The bedrooms were slightly easier to look at, since their colors were much milder compared to the migraine-inducing hallway (most of the rooms were papered in a cross-stitched design, though other layers of wallpaper showed where the most recent layer was peeling. But, they were still pretty terrible, with their peeling wallpaper and bowing ceilings where the lath and straw were exposed due to water damage. But, nothing had collapsed, and I couldn’t really smell anything too horrible. 

I didn’t have too much time (or the will) to survey the area much farther. I had a festive job to do, and I didn’t want to be up there for long anyway. I carefully made my way down the steep, shaggy stairs with a Christmas tree in my arms that was almost as big as I was. The Blues-Grass that had been playing earlier was now changed to a country Christmas playlist, and aunt Jess guided me to a little space behind the cast iron stove where that Christmas tree could safely fit. Once the dusty Christmas tree was in place, I charged back upstairs to help bring down a giant box of ornaments, with Stacy just behind me with a box full of even more Christmas stuff. 

“How many trees should we set up?” I asked as I put the ornaments in the middle of the living room floor. 

“I think two’s enough.” Stacy replied. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Ok.” I smiled as I opened up the box of ornaments, half-expecting some unholy creature to crawl out of it. 

My cousin Kael insisted that we decorated the trees according to the color of their lights. The little tree in the living room was wrapped in white bulbs, so naturally silver, white, and gold would adorn it. The other tree would be much more festive and colorful, matching its colorful surroundings perfectly. With everyone helping, it didn’t take long for the trees to be dusted off and properly decorated. Little lace tree skirts were draped around their stumps, and a few small gifts were placed under both trees. And, the main room wouldn’t be complete without stockings hung on the wall behind the stove. As a joke, I nailed one of my own socks to the wall, though nobody really noticed. In fact, I bet it’s still there. 

Now that the house was festive and warm again, our growling stomachs signaled that it was now time for dinner. We didn’t really have any leftovers, and the food we did have would take a long time to prepare. After some discussion, we decided to order some food from Buck Wild Bar and Grill in Zumbro Falls. That food being three pizzas, two huge orders of fish and chips, a few dozen hot wings, a pound of Wisconsin cheese curds, and enough Busch Lite to last the night. I was sick of being cooped up inside, so I opted to go with my uncle Wade, Andy, and Andy’s girlfriend to grab the food. Along the way, we’d drop off Kael, Jake, and the puppy at their house just up the road.

I wasn't sure about cramming all six of us and a rambunctious puppy in a two-door shitbox sedan, especially since everyone was so damn tall. But, we managed, somehow. I had a puppy and someone's leg on my lap, and I felt like I was going to suffocate to death in that cramped car, though I kept my cool for the longest drive to my uncle Wes' I've ever embarked on. Once there, I burst out of the car before Andy even stopped it, with a puppy and three other people behind me. It was fucking freezing outside, so we didn't say much more than a "Love ya, bye!" as we watched our cousins and their puppy scamper into the warm house. 

Back inside the car, with uncle Wade, Andy, and Andy's girlfriend, Andy glanced in the rearview at me and asked, "You can drive, right?"

"Uhhh, yeah?" I answered, squinting my eyes. 

"We forgot to order our food in advance, so we're gonna be at the bar for at least 45 minutes." Andy grinned, "Just wanted to make sure you can get us all home in one piece."

"Great..." I growled, rolling my eyes. 

"Oh, it won't be too bad. Zumbro's not even ten minutes away." Wade assured me. 

"I guess..." I trailed off. 

Buck Wild was pretty quiet for a Saturday night. Only a few other people were there playing pool. Me and my crew sat up at the bar, where every North American wild animal stared down at us from their places on the rustic log walls. While everyone else ordered interestingly-named alcoholic drinks such as "Crack Pipe" and "Rattlesnake Bite", I just asked for a can of soda, which I sipped while keeping a very close eye on the number of drinks my relatives were chugging. As time wore on, it became glaringly obvious that I'd be driving everyone home that night. 

Luckily for me, the food was ready before anyone had the chance to get too wasted, but it was clear everyone (except for me, the goody-two-shoes of the family) was feeling the alcohol. Wade tossed me the keys, and I also grabbed a couple pizzas. My cousin carried out four packs of beer, each pack containing three-dozen beers, which he predicted wouldn't last the whole night. I believed him. 

The drive back wasn't nearly as harrowing as I envisioned it. Sure, I was driving a two-door sedan with the smell of alcohol and pizza permeating the air. But, I knew what I was doing, where I was going, and I was glad there wasn't another soul on the road the whole ride home. I did, however, drive well under the speed limit on Highway 63, just because I was afraid of hitting ice and/or a whitetail deer. If I'd been driving my Xterra, I would've been going over the speed limit. But, in a shitbox sedan, a collision with a deer at highway speeds in the middle of nowhere would be very, very bad.  

Back at the farm, I helped to unload the food and beer, then set it up in the kitchen like we'd set up dinner the night before. 

I avoided the pizza and went for some fish and chips instead, along with a hearty helping of coleslaw and carrots. Everyone else took care of the three pizzas. Nothing was left of the pizza after the first serving. Just before I could take my first bite of fish, one more family member let herself into the farmhouse. 

I hadn't seen my cousin Misty in ages. She was the oldest Nibbe grand-daughter, having been adopted by my uncle Wade shortly after my cousin Troy was born (Wade's eldest son). Misty lived and worked in the city. But, she made sure to come down that Saturday night for some Euchre, food, and of course, drinks. My cousin, Kellen, had also come down to visit. Kellen is Stacy's son, and flew down to Minnesota from his home in Las Vegas to visit with us and grandma for a few days. 

I sat quietly with my plate of food, listening to my family swap even more stories from the years. I'm not sure if it was the alcohol, or the fact that only adults were in the house, or both, but I heard many R-rated stories that I never heard before. In a way, I felt like I was in a sacred space. Like I'd passed some sort of rite-of-passage into adulthood and I was now allowed to listen in on my family's more graphic stories. Most were hilarious, some were disturbing, and some where downright disgusting. But, even the most gruesome stories ended on a lighter, much more hilarious note. We howled like hyenas the whole night and into the early morning. 

Sometime in the night, right after Kellen ended a story of his, we heard what sounded like a door slam and then loud, obvious footsteps upstairs. We all instantly fell silent and glanced at each other concerned yet intrigued. Everyone was accounted for at the table. We stayed quiet a little longer and strained our ears, when we heard even more movement upstairs, like someone was shuffling between the boxes up there. Wade and Dad got up to check on grandma, while Kellen and Andy decided to scope out the upstairs. Like usual, grandma was fast asleep, and nothing was upstairs. 

None of us were really spooked, except for Andy's girlfriend, who was practically sitting on Andy's lap when he sat back down at his seat. 

"They're making their presence known." Stacy said quietly once everyone was back at the table. 

"What's making its presence known?!" Andy's girlfriend demanded. 

"The ghosts." Stacy replied matter-of-factly. 

My dad, the aggressive atheist of the family, shot my aunt a disparaging look, "There's no ghosts! That was just the house settling."

"No, those were footsteps alright." Jess interjected. 

"Yeah, those were definitely footsteps..." Wade agreed. 

My dad chuckled, rolling his eyes and making a cuckoo gesture. 

"Is- is this a frequent thing that happens?" Andy's girlfriend nearly whispered. 

"Not usually..." Stacy said. 

"But they've been more active than usual. That's for damn sure..." I added, taking a healthy swig of eggnog.

"And, you guys aren't bothered?" Andy's girlfriend asked, astonished. 

"No, not really..." we all shrugged. 

"It's just a thing that exists..." I smiled. 

"And, I haven't seen anything. Just heard a lot of noise..." my uncle said, "Like everyone else says, this house is just more active than usual, because... Well..." 

Wade gently gestured towards my grandma's bedroom, and we all sat in silence for a moment, staring towards her bedroom. 

"Grandpa Bob passed away in this house..." I mumbled, breaking the silence. 

"That, he did." Dad nodded, "It was a good death, too. He died the way he wanted to-"

"In the house he was born and raised in." Stacy interrupted. 

"So what you're saying is..." Andy's girlfriend trailed off. 

"Whatever's here is benevolent." Stacy said, "Personally, I firmly believe it's the spirits of our passed loved ones making their presence known, and reassuring us and grandma that she's in good hands."

"And, I think it's all mumbo-jumbo." Dad just had to interject, "But, Stacy's right. It's nothing to be afraid of. It's just 'old house' noises... Or, grandpa Bob, if you believe Stacy."

Strangely, as if right on cue, a bottom door on an antique cabinet swung open, and several papers slid out onto the floor. It was such a perfectly-timed moment, as though the spirits themselves were trying to prove my dad wrong. It was actually quite funny. 

Misty got down on the floor and began to gather up the papers when she paused, holding one up. 

"My Bird Book, by Robert N." She read aloud. 

Chills shot down my spine. Everyone was taken quite aback. 

"That was just opened by vibrations from us walk..."

My aunt Stacy shot my dad The Look, and he shut up. 

Misty carried the booklet over to the table, and we began to pass it around, gently looking through its yellowed pages at my grandpa's illustrations of various Minnesota birds. At the very back of the booklet, my grandpa had written, "5th grade". My grandpa had made that beautiful little booklet in elementary school. Even more interesting, was that my grandpa's art style mirrored my own. I didn't even know grandpa was an artist up until then! 

I felt the table rattle a little bit as my aunt and uncle dropped a bunch of yellowed pages and photo albums onto the table's center. 

"These are the people you'll be sharing the house with!" Stacy grinned at Andy and his girlfriend. 

Laid before us were numerous pictures, documents, and writings passed down the generations. A lot of things were written in an older dialect of German, though I still recognized some of the words and the people in the pictures. Not only did we have papers to look through, but Wade had brought down a rusty toy horse buggy and a creepy-as-all-hell porcelain doll with a cracked face and yellowed eyes, as well as a framed birth certificate, entirely hand-written in German. The name, Johann Nibbe, was written at the very bottom. 

"This barely scratches the surface..." my aunt Jess said, "Wes has copies of all of this and so much more."

"I betcha this doll's the source of all the weird shit going on." I sneered as I poked at it with a pencil. 

"Aw, don't say that!" Stacy whined, "She's a gorgeous doll. I mean, look at her little curls and dress. No wonder she was great-grandma's favorite!"

I grimaced and sat back. I didn't care if it was a favorite family doll. The thing was still a Halloween haunted house decoration in my eyes. Damn thing's eyes probably glowed red in the dark. 

I then paid attention to the pictures. Even without knowing who most of the people in the faded, black-and-white photos by name, I knew exactly who my relatives were, as they all looked just like me. In a way, I felt like I was staring into a mirror. Words will never be able to articulate the feelings I felt while staring at myself in those pictures from well over a century ago. It felt just as magical as when I caught my reflection in the South Platte river, only to see my grandma Shirley staring back at me. 

"So..." Stacy began, "As far as I know, both the Nibbe's and the Atkinson's (my grandma's maiden name) came over to the states in the early 1900s. The Nibbe's were largely Germans from Russia, as well as Germans from... Well, Germany. And the Atkinson's came from Herefordshire, England, bringing some of their Hereford cattle with them."

"Oh, damn..." I mumbled, just as a I flipped to a picture of my great-grandpa Alfred Nibbe posing with a haltered Hereford bull. 

"The Nibbe's, as you could prolly guess, weren't as well off as the Atkinsons. In fact, your great-great-great grandpa Johann was a raging alcoholic. But, he calmed down towards the end of his life and made things right with his son, Johann Nibbe the third. Johann the third went on to have many, many children, one of whom was your great-grandpa Alfred Nibbe, who inherited this very farm from his father. And, his father bought this farm while it was still fairly new, from a Schaffer. In fact, your aunt Jess is related to the Schaffer's." 

"Uh-oh..." I jokingly said. 

"Hey, hey, hey!" Andy shouted, "This ain't rural West Virginia!"

"Do you recognize anyone in these pictures?" I asked Andy's girlfriend. 

"Uhh, no." She replied, giggling, "God, I hope not!"

"To change subjects," my aunt continued while shooting me The Look, "It turns out a couple of your Atkinson relatives, and a Nibbe, had Cystic Fibrosis."

"Really?!" both myself and my dad raised our eyebrows.

"Yup!" Stacy nodded, "The Nibbe didn't last very long, but the Atkinson's lived to be quite old despite their condition."

"How old?" I asked, eagerly. 

"Well, one of them lived to be in his forties but died because he drank and smoke his whole life. And, the other was a sweet old woman I got to meet when I was a little girl, who lived to be seventy-two."

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed, "How the hell did they live so long?!"

"Beats me." my aunt shrugged, "I guess we've just got strong genes. Y'know your grandpa lived for decades when the doctors said he would die shortly after his aneurysm. He survived many heart attacks, blood cancer, various deadly viruses, and more."

"And, when he died?" I egged on. 

"Well, your father's gonna disagree with me, but I think grandpa just got sick of livin'. He had made his peace with the Lord. He had made clear how he wanted to die. Not even a year before his passing, he and grandma got all of his affairs in order. And, when he died, he went quickly, at home on the farm." Stacy sighed. 

"And now..." my dad perked up, "Ma's leaving on her own terms, too. She refused cancer treatment, saying, over and over, that she was ready to go. She intends to die here, at home. And, we have hospice here to help with that."

"It's truly a blessing..." my uncle Wade smiled. 

"A blessing, indeed." Stacy agreed. 

Around two-in-the-morning or so, the house was once again silent. Those who were sober enough to drive, brought home everyone else who couldn't, leaving just myself, my dad, and grandma on the farm. Dad and I were still a little too wound up to sleep, so while he took some time to watch some 80's action movie in the main room, I sat at the kitchen table and played World of Warcraft. All was well, and the ghosts who were actively making their presence known throughout the entire party also seemed to quiet down. 

Still, as I sat alone in the kitchen eviscerating hordes of demons in my favorite MMO, I couldn't help but wonder just what on God's green earth was going on in that house. Were we all just going crazy? Were our imaginations just running away from us? Was there a carbon monoxide leak somewhere? 

I started to get kind of paranoid about the whole carbon monoxide idea, and got up to check around the house for a working detector. Sure enough, there were several working carbon monoxide detectors plugged into the walls of various rooms: one was in the kitchen, one was a smoke and carbon monoxide detector in the main room directly over the kitchen doorway, one was in the entryway above the basement door, and one was plugged into the hallway by the stairs. All of them were blinking too, signaling that they were in working order.

We couldn't have been hallucinating these "ghostly" experiences as we slowly suffocated to death. Even if we were, we probably wouldn't have been hearing and experiencing the same shit together. Yet, here we were, in a toxic-gas-free house, not always focused in on a possible haunting on our hands till something happened, which we'd all hear and experience at the exact same time. It was all very, very strange. 

I then began to wonder if there was, perhaps something else causing the noises, such as pipes in the ceiling between the upstairs and the downstairs. But, when I asked my dad about it, he glanced up from his phone and explained that, no, there were no pipes hidden behind the sheetrock above us, and the wires that were there were installed in the early 1990s when my family updated the wiring in the house. 

"So, not only did you guys not put pipes up there, but you also updated the wiring?" I asked. 

"Yup. We had to completely rewire the place in order to move back into this house from the brick house in the 1990s." Dad replied, "It was a severe fire hazard otherwise. But, there never was a bathroom or any sort of plumbing upstairs. In fact, before the 1970s, there was no running water in this house at all except for in the kitchen. There was a little outhouse and shower in a separate building outside the back door by the basement."

(For reference, the brick house was the farm that my uncle Wade now lives on that my grandma and grandpa first purchased after their marriage. My great-grandparents Alfred and Lenora still lived in the Victorian farmhouse at the time. When Alfred grew older, my grandparents moved into the Victorian house to take care of the farm as well as him. While my grandparents and their children took over the Victorian house, they rented out the brick house, and my great-grandparents were moved into a manufactured home adjacent to the Victorian farmhouse, which was there until my great grandma Lenora died at the age of 95 in 2009. Alfred died in that manufactured home in 1985 after suffering from numerous age-related aliments. He was 85 years old. 

In 1990, my uncle Wade decided he wanted a house of his own, and my grandparents wanted a change in scenery. So, while Wade stayed at the Victorian house, my grandparents moved into the brick house. But, Wade's first wife hated the Victorian house so much, that in 1992, my grandparents and them switched places. Wade's wife still hated the brick house, but liked it a little better than the Victorian house. When he had the money, Wade knocked down the brick house and buried it in the well adjacent to it, and then built a new house on the foundation of the brick house). 

"Really?!" I gasped. 

"Yup. Grandpa Alfred didn't like change enough to put a bathroom in the house. He was very old-school, and thought everyone who used most modern technology, including bathrooms in the house, was a sensitive little wuss." Dad chuckled, "You can even see what we called the 'shit house' in the aerial pictures of the farm leading up to the early 90s when that tornado came through and took it out, as well as several other out-buildings."

"Wow. I never knew any of that." I exclaimed, "I only heard about the barn that got wrecked by that tornado, as well as how the bathroom down here was a bedroom until grandma and grandpa moved back here in the 70s. I guess I just never put two-and-two together."

"Well, now you know." Dad smiled. 

Not only were there no pipes that could rattle and groan above us, but the wiring was also fairly new, which seemed to debunk the idea that we felt "weird" in the house because of the EMFs caused by crossed wires. The mystery had only grown. 

Being the wuss of the family, so-to-speak, I decided not to investigate further. Instead, I simply sat back down in the kitchen and attempted to immerse myself in the video game. Except, I couldn't focus. I kept getting distracted by my surroundings, such as the numerous family photos my grandma had hung up on the wall, stuck to the fridge, stuffed behind light switch covers, peeking out from under books and other documents.

There were also lots and lots of things, such as several pairs of whitetail deer antlers from bucks my grandpa hunted before his aneurysm took hunting away from him. Or the numerous paintings, photos, and figurines of Hereford cattle in nearly every nook and cranny. Those were just the things I could see from my place at the kitchen table. I couldn't even imagine the family history that house held, though I could begin to explore it. 

Starting in the entryway where the basement and garage doors face each other, I searched through the various dusty knick-knacks left on the shelves by grandpa's gun cabinet. There, I discovered even more Herefords, as well as more family pictures containing younger versions of my grandparents with other people I didn't know or recognize. I also found an old Budweiser drinking mug with a living wolf spider within it, so I called off my exploration of the shelves early. 

As mentioned before, grandpa's gun cabinet right next to the shelves was empty. There used to be five shotguns and rifles behind the glass (which had a frosted image of a whitetail buck on it), but when grandpa died, he left them to his kids. My dad ended up getting two of his father's guns because my aunt didn't want one: a 12-gauge shotgun and a little semi-auto .22 rifle. 

From there, I explored the items left by the garage door. Most of the things were in a few boxes I didn't open. Besides that, there were a few small rusty tractor parts leaned up against the wall by a box of soda. Nothing that unique or interesting, really. Most farms I've visited have those things just lying around somewhere. 

I moved on into the kitchen by the front door (or, what has been used as a front door for the last twenty years or so). On the brown patterned-papered walls nearby were more paintings of Herefords, as well as aerial images of the farm dating back to as far as 1950 or so. Old kerosene lanterns with Clydesdales painted on them, dangled from the ceiling on brass hooks painted smoky black.

From my position facing the front door, if I looked to my right, I would see into what was the farm's first in-house bathroom, which was once a pantry. Instead of a door, a thick crimson curtain was strung over the worn wooden doorframe. Despite their age, both the toilet and the sink still worked, although the sink's rusty faucet has never stopped dripping every few seconds for as long as I've been alive. 

After perusing the pictures on the walls and numerous antique items in the drawers in the kitchen, I plodded into the main room and sat down at the dining table. The pictures and documents passed down the generations were still sprawled out all over the place on the table, so once again, I began to review them, allowing my mind time in the silence to put together a family narrative of sorts. However, my thinking was beginning to slow down and become fuzzy. Exhaustion had finally settled in. 

Before long, I had crawled into my sleeping bag on the couch, and passed out. 

The day was bright and warm, the oak and maple trees in the front yard of the farmhouse were heavy with huge, green leaves, and the whole landscape was unusually overgrown with gorgeous wildflowers of all shapes and colors. This confused me, because when I fell asleep, it was freezing outside and in the middle of the night. Obviously, I was now in a dream (which I only realized when I woke up, but I digress).

I drifted into the center of the front yard as the wildflowers bobbed their heads in the wind, then turned to face the farmhouse. The farmhouse looked the same, except for it had a fresh coat of white paint and a dark green shingled roof. While it was day, I could still see inside the house through the windows as though it was night time, and the house itself was filled with bright, golden light. Curious to see who and what was inside, I made my way onto the front porch, and went into the house through its original front door, which swung open into the main room. 

Inside the main room, the house had clearly been restored to its former glory. Instead of carpet and linoleum flooring, almost the entire house had its original wood flooring, polished to a beautiful glossy mahogany. Pictures of family members adorned the cream-colored walls, though their faces were too blurry to make out. The only things on the walls I could make out was a rustic wooden cross hung adjacent to the entryway to the kitchen, and some vague paintings. However, I did recognize the furniture, all of which was the same. Except, the dining table set was gone, and a giant Hereford cowhide was on the floor in its place. 

In the kitchen, I could hear laughter and see people moving around. I stayed in the main room for awhile, trying to get a clear picture of my surroundings, till I heard my name being called by a rather ambiguous voice. Into the kitchen I went, and I was greeted by pretty much my entire family seated shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen table, chowing down on some delicious-looking food. Grandma Shirley was there as well, seated in grandpa's old wheelchair with a small plate of what looked to be stew.  

I turned towards the kitchen island with a plate in hand, and noticed that all the food was celebratory-type food. There was cake, cheese and crackers, venison sausage, and a crockpot full of stew. Gold and silver ribbons and tinsel were strung up along the walls and doorways, and strangely, floating colored orbs gracefully orbited around the chandelier and ceiling fan in the kitchen, and darted in and out through open doorways and windows. In the dream, these colored orbs felt normal and calming, along with the celebration. 

I sat down at the kitchen table across from my dad with my meal and began to chow down, when the kitchen door swung open and in came a tall, young man with blue eyes and sandy brown hair. It was my grandpa Bob as a young, healthy man. He grinned as he always did; wide though rarely ever showing his teeth unless he was laughing. Behind him, two older (though still able-bodied) adults I sort of recognized came trudging in, also smiling, arm-in-arm. Looking back, I believe those two were my great-grandparents, Alfred and Lenora. I never knew Alfred, but great-grandma Lenora lived to be 95 years old, and I knew her till she died when I was eight years old. Anyway...

Without a word, my grandpa patted me on the shoulder as he walked past, then knelt down on the ground next to my grandma at the table. They both gazed into each other's eyes in the most loving way, then went in for a quick little kiss. Afterwards, grandpa Bob stood back up to his full height, holding my grandma's arms in his, and lifted her up out of the wheelchair. Just like that, grandma Shirley was transformed. She was no longer sick and dying in a wheelchair. She was a young woman again. Her and grandpa were back to being high-school sweethearts, full of love and adoration for one another. 

Upon being rejuvenated to her young, healthy self again, she grabbed my grandpa's face in her hands and kissed him once again, and he embraced her, lifting her up off the ground in a bear-hug, before sweeping an arm around her legs and lifting her up in a fireman's carry. There, they shared yet another kiss. It was such a beautiful and glorious event to witness. One that, even though it was a dream, will forever be branded into my memory. 

My grandparents when they were high school sweethearts, probably in Oak Center (a "town" just a mile down the road from the farm). They looked exactly like this in my dream.  

 

My grandparents shortly after their wedding. 

 

My grandparents with my uncle Wade (the kid) in Arizona. They used to move to Arizona for the winter because my grandpa suffered from arthritis his whole life, and the Minnesota winters were merciless towards his arthritic hands. However, they stopped traveling for the winter when a friend of my grandpa's, who said was willing to watch over my grandpa's 300 herefords, failed to do so, and my grandparents returned to the farm to find all of their herefords starved and rotten. Needless to say, my grandpa never saw that "friend" again.

 

My grandparents and all their children. My grandpa would suffer his stroke/aneurysm within a couple of years after this picture was taken. Also, my grandpa intentionally closed his eyes for this picture because he liked to annoy my grandma. 

 

Grandma and Grandpa somewhere around 2001 or 2002. 

 

Grandma and Grandpa out with friends. Despite grandpa's disability, and grandma's crippling fear of flying, they managed to travel all over the country, as well as into Canada and down to Mexico. They drove all over, and made many friends along the way. 

 

Grandma and Grandpa around 2010(ish). 

 

 

 

 

I woke up to the sound of a fierce winter wind rattling the windows. The warmth, sun, flowers, and joy I'd experienced in my dream were no longer there. The heat I was feeling was due to a handful of space heaters moved into the living room, where grandma was sitting, sickly as ever, on the smaller sofa facing the TV. My eyes flicked over to the old wall clock hung up above me. It was just after 7:30 AM. 

Groggily, I got to my feet and shuffled over to the bathroom to begin my day, listening in on my dad and aunt as they made breakfast in the kitchen. In the bathroom, I dressed up extra warm, knowing I'd be braving the frozen wind for church that morning. I knew grandma wouldn't go to church that day. In fact, deep down inside my heart, I knew she'd never leave that house again. Even more depressing, I knew she wouldn't make it to Christmas. 

That revelation brought me to tears yet again. I was especially sensitive as I knew that Sunday would be my last Sunday with my grandma. My last living day with my grandma, period. But, the few minutes I took to cry my eyes out alone in the bathroom was what I needed that morning. They seemed to cleanse my soul, and give me just enough strength to endure that final Sunday and make the best of it. 

Before I left the bathroom, I washed my face until my cheeks became less swollen and the salt under my eyes had completely disappeared. I refused to let my family see my pain, especially grandma. I needed to be strong for them. I needed to be strong for grandma. 

Grandma Shirley, throughout my entire trip on the farm, acknowledged that I was very sad, but was adamant that I didn't cry too much or neglect myself. She assured us all that she was at peace, in no pain, and knew exactly where she was going. After all, she was being visited by relatives she knew, damn well, had passed away. But, still, she was certain that it was truly them she was being visited by, and not just near-death hallucinations. 

Looking back, there were moments during the days where grandma would almost startle awake for seemingly no reason. But, then she'd glance over her shoulder and smile, doing her best to make room on the couch for someone only she could see. I even witnessed her reach out her hands and give the air a little hug once. But, to her, she wasn't hugging or making room for nothing. Loved ones were coming by to assure her that she'd have a Christmas. Not with us, but with them. 

I plodded out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where a plate of bacon and strawberry jam toast was already waiting for me. My aunt and dad were in there, and we had a light conversation about the day's activities. Our original plans to go to church that morning were foiled by the weather. It was just too cold and windy out there to go to church. That, and my dad was exhibiting terrible cold-like symptoms, and we were concerned he may have covid. The last thing we needed to do was go to church and infect the entire congregation. 

Still, I needed to stretch my legs and get some fresh air to further comfort my scared and grieving soul. 

My aunt was right about the weather. It was miserably cold, and the wind was strong enough to lean into at times. Such a wind cuts through even the warmest clothes and chills the bones. I could only stand it for a few minutes before I turned tail and charged back into the house, shivering intensely. 

"Can't handle the cold, huh?" my aunt mocked, "I thought you were a Colorado mountain woman or somethin'!"

"Clearly, you can't handle it either!" I sneered back. 

"Fair point..." my aunt shrugged.  

I ventured into the living room and sat on the floor next to one of the space heaters. I held my fingers up to the vent and allowed them to tingle back to life. Meanwhile, my grandma was behind me, silently asleep on the couch under a heated blanket. On the TV, the local news catastrophized about the state of the world. Once I could feel my fingers again, I reached for the remote and surfed the channels till I found more reruns of Ridiculousness. Finally, I curled back up next to the space heater, wrapped up in my sherpa and a yarn blanket, giggling like a hyena at the (light-hearted) stupidity of humanity. 

Eventually, my dad, aunt, and then my uncle Wade joined me and grandma in the living room. Joy filled the room as we all smiled and laughed at the TV. Even grandma woke up laughing along with us, though she didn't know what she was laughing at till she put her glasses on just in time to see a dirtbike rider skid down a sand dune on his helmet. 

"Reminds me of you..." my grandma quietly snickered as she turned towards her sons, which only added fuel to our laughter (something, something, boys will be boys). 

I still can't explain why we were so full of laughter and delight that miserably cold and dreary Sunday. Perhaps, it had to do with the fact that my grandma made it very clear, over and over again, that she didn't want us to worry or be sad, as she would soon be reunited with passed loved ones. That, and she loved nothing more than to see our wide smiles and hear our hysterical laughter. She's always loved that, as all grandmas should. 

While we were in the middle of one of our many laughing fits, my aunt Stacy suddenly shot up from the couch and aimed our attention out the window. There, a huge line of vehicles was beginning to form behind pastor's white pickup truck. They were all following pastor's lead into the driveway. None of us knew why so many people were paying us a visit. Pastor should've been in the middle of a sermon at church. Was he perhaps bringing church to the house?

Aunt Stacy and I rushed to the window, where she began to count the number of cars turning onto the driveway, "One, two, three.... Twenty-one, twenty-two... Oh Lordy! There are so many people!"

"What is happening?!" I asked, worried but also exuberant. 

"I-I don't know." Stacy stuttered. 

When the train of vehicles finally stopped trickling in onto the property, I rushed to the kitchen to see the crowd forming outside. Pastor came up to the porch, so I opened the door for him. 

"How many do you think we can fit in the house?" He asked. 

"How many are there?" I asked, wide-eyed as I craned my neck to see over pastor's shoulder.

"About sixty people..." Pastor replied, "We're just gonna sing a few hymns and carols and say a Christmas prayer, so we don't need seats."

"Oh, ok." I nodded, "In that case, y'all come in! Grandma's in the living room. She's awake but not exactly mobile."

"Alright, then." Pastor nodded as he turned around, "Everyone! Maya says come on in! Shirley's in the living room! There's enough room for all of us!"

My dad and uncle held the doors open for our guests (the storm door and the front door), and I stood behind the kitchen island to put some distance between myself and the congregation. After all, I had no idea what the hell was happening, let alone what to expect. Worse, my manners had gone completely out the window on the farm. I was basically feral, and I couldn't remember what a handshake was. God forbid I had to make any sort of eye contact with anyone. Thankfully, our guests didn't seem to notice how caught off-guard I was, and were instead just glad to be in a warm house instead of outside in the relentless winter winds. 

It took about ten minutes for everyone to get situated, but once they did, Pastor took the lead. For the next twenty minutes or so, people sang the most beautiful Christmas melody. From my place in the middle of the crowd, I caught glimpses of my aunt and grandma. My grandma's face was bright as ever. She had an ear-to-ear grin for the entire Christmas melody. I, too, couldn't help but smile as the spirit of Christmas made itself at home. In fact, towards the end of the chorus, as they finished with "What Child is This", I was in tears. But, they were positive tears. I was overwhelmed by the love and joy that engulfed everyone. Clearly, they had rehearsed the whole thing just for us, knowing grandma was too sick to attend church at Trinity Lutheran.

After the last hymn was finished, Pastor led us all in a prayer, essentially asking God for peace and healing, "...here on Earth as it is in heaven.", assuring us all that healing would happen, both on Earth for us, as well as in the next life for grandma. Of course, Pastor said that prayer knowing my grandma would probably not live to see Christmas with us, and I appreciated the care he took when choosing his words. In fact, I now wonder if they were Pastor's words at all. It almost seemed like the Holy Spirit had taken the reins of his prayer. 

As most people began to trickle back outside, close friends and family, along with the pastor, stayed behind for a little longer. They all stayed crowded around grandma in the living room, many holding gifts, food, and flowers out for her. By then, my grandma had mostly lost the use of her hands, so my aunt took over the opening of the gifts while I decided to take some of the food off people's hands and set it down in the kitchen. Overall, it was a joyful and loving surprise event. One that I will never forget. 

(For the record, my dad stayed away from everyone else the best he could. He didn't come back inside till everyone else was situated in the main room and living room, and he stayed in the hallway by the basement door until most of everyone else left. Even then, he kept his distance from the pastor and the few who stayed behind, wearing his mask the whole time). 

While Pastor and the others hung out with my grandma, I snuck outside for some much needed nature-time. But, first I joined my uncle Wade in sending off the bulk of our guests. For a brief time, my manners returned. I shook hands, made eye contact, and wore a constant smile. But, as soon as the final guest's car left the driveway, I took off for the barren cornfields, my foxhide headdress shielding me from most of the cold. 

Out there in the cornfields, I could once again convene with my Creator. This time, I greeted God with a much more grateful prayer. While I was bereaved and upset that I had to head back to Colorado in a few hours, I was also so thankful to God that the entire community was rallying around Grandma and the rest of the family. I felt as though I no longer needed to be a "sheepdog" in the family, in the sense that I didn't need to worry about my grandma being left alone, or her needs unmet. Grandma would be just fine without me. So would the rest of my Minnesota family. 

I could head home in peace. 

On the night of December 18, 2021, I got the dreadful call.

"Grandma's gone..." my dad's voice croaked on the phone, "She passed in her sleep, surrounded by all of us. Figured I'd let you know..."

I took in a heavy sigh as tears began to stream down my cheeks, "Oh... Okay..."

Not much more was said. I just needed to be alone with my thoughts for awhile. Alone to process what I'd just been told.

Immediately after I hung up the phone, I began to pray, and I was quite angry at God. Once again, I began to ask Him all of the classic "why" questions. Why did she have to pass away so soon? Why did she have to die of cancer? Why did she have to suffer like she did? Why couldn't she have survived till Christmas? Why, why, why...

Of course, I kind of had answers to all of these questions. I just didn't like any of them. I hated the fact that my grandma died soon after grandpa. I hated the fact that she died suffering from cancer. I hated how everything had gone and was going. 2021 couldn't end soon enough! 

But, soon, my thoughts began to shift. I noticed the silver lining. Grandma passed away just as she wanted to: at home and surrounded by family. Her passing was also very fast. Not even four months before she died, she was carrying on with life as normal. She never once stepped foot in a care home or even ended up in the hospital. When the cancer was discovered, she immediately made the choice to pass away peacefully, and minimize the suffering using medication and at-home hospice care. And, she assured me, over and over again, that she wasn't in pain, that she knew where she'd be celebrating Christmas, and that she loved me and hoped I didn't cry over her passing too much. 

I just wished I could have some closure and soon, but with the holidays in full-swing, returning to the farm would have to wait. But, my dad was adamant that I didn't need to attend the funeral, but we'd return to the farm as soon as we could. 

"You did one of the most important things you will ever do..." my dad said before I hung up, "You visited and celebrated with her when she was still alive. You have no idea how grateful we all are that you did that."

"It was tough..." I sighed, "But, it was necessary..."

"That, it was." Dad agreed, "That, it was..."

On Christmas Day morning, I embarked on a mountain adventure with my dad, driving my Xterra. While the spirit of Christmas was alive and well between us, it was also a very tough Christmas. In my lap, I had grandma Shirley's last gift and card. But, I didn't feel ready to open it right away. I just needed to wait for the right time to come. When that was, I didn't know. But, I would know when it was time to open the card and gift. 

Dad took us on icy backroads through the mountains. Strong gusts of warm, chinook winds rushed down the mountainsides, occasionally obscuring the road in dust and sparkly snow. My senses felt heightened that day. The sparkly snow in the air reminded me of the colorful orbs I saw in my most recent dream. And, the roar of the wind in the trees and the imposing nature of the mountains reminded me of Elijah's experiences in the wilderness after he ran away from Israel, sick, depressed, and pissed off at God. God was not in the raging wind, or the great fires, or the earthquakes Elijah witnessed while hiding out in a cave. Instead, God was heard in the stillness and silence after the weather died down.

After traveling aimlessly on the winding, icy roads, we finally came to the banks along the northern fork of the South Platte river. We continued to follow the road through the mountains as the frozen winds raged, till we came across a sheltered section of the river to stop at and stretch our legs. There, I got the sense that I ought to bring my Grandma's gift with me along the banks of the frozen river. I can't explain why I felt that way, I just felt it.

My dad had forgotten his winter coat, so I ventured to the banks of the river alone while he stayed put in the Xterra with his maps, trying to figure out where we ought to go next. I plodded to the river's edge, wind-driven snow and dust rushing up against my back. But, it died down almost as soon as I found a place on a driftwood log to sit on right by the icy water's edge. There, everything became still, though not silent. 

The fast-flowing sections of the river cut through the ice and burst through small holes and crevices within and around huge granite boulders in the middle of the waters. Songbirds of all types sang their hearts out from the branches of the Aspens and Firs on the mountainsides and along the river's bank. Occasionally, melting snow would plop down from the boughs and branches of the trees, disturbed by the wind and sun's heat. I could even see late-season trout by the rocky bottom of the river, attempting to continue their journey upstream. Then, I heard a familiar noise echo between the mountains. The distance screech of a bald eagle. 

In that moment of quiet after the eagle's cry rang out, I inexplicably felt prompted to open my grandma's last card and gift. In a way, I felt I wasn't alone either. A warm, familiar presence seemed to be standing right over my shoulder, waiting for me to open my gift. I knew, damn well, nobody was behind me. I even glanced over my shoulder to make sure my dad hadn't snuck up on me, but he was still hiding from the cold in the Xterra. So, alone but not really, I carefully opened up grandma's last Christmas card to me. I felt a punch in the gut when no words greeted me. Grandma lost her ability to write before she got the card. But, two twenty-dollar bills slid out instead. 

"Thank you..." I mumbled aloud to nobody in particular, as I then reached for the gift. 

Behind the wrapping paper was an expensive pair of brand new binoculars. They were perfect for spotting wildlife on my hikes and hunts, and they would last me a lifetime! Again, I said my thanks aloud and, with card, cash, and binoculars in hand, I headed back to the Xterra.

I felt as though someone was walking right beside me and behind me, though it was just me (again, I checked). The presence was loving and friendly. It almost felt like my grandma and grandpa were walking back to the car with me. I hiked back onto the road near where the Xterra was parked, just in time to get a face full of dust and snow as another great gust of wind rushed down the mountainside towards me. As the wind roared past my ears, it felt like the presence that had joined me by the river went with it.

It was a strange, strange experience. One that later prompted me to ask my doctors about it, because I was concerned I may be going crazy (spoiler alert: I'm not going crazy or experiencing anything alarming. Apparently, lots of grieving people experience exactly what I experienced). It wasn't threatening, or anything I could see or sense beyond a vague feeling of company (if it was a bear or a cougar I was sensing, the feeling would've been much stronger and sinister). The presence was just peacefully there beside me, in the wilderness alongside the northern fork of the South Platte river. 

I like to believe that presence was Grandma Shirley, spending one last Christmas Day with me, if only briefly. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six months later.... 

 

 

"I am so excited to spend the day with you!" my aunt Stacy practically squealed. 

"I am too." I smiled, "It's been too long!"

I put my backpack of supplies into the trunk of my aunt Stacy's sedan, and my aunt's boyfriend, Dale, put the food I picked out of my freezer into a cooler in the backseat. The three of us were meeting up with most of the rest of my family in a rented cabin near Fairplay, and while Stacy and Dale were heading back home the next day, I had the option to stay at the cabin with everyone else till that Wednesday. But, before I made a decision whether to leave at the ass-crack of dawn the next day, or stay till Wednesday, I wanted to scope the place out. 

"So, you're twenty-one now..." my aunt began as we veered onto 285 from Morrison road, "Have you had your first beer yet?"

"No, I honestly haven't." I answered, "I did have my first taste of wine on my birthday with my grandpa Lyle and grandma Connie..."

"And?" my aunt urged. 

"I didn't like the Red Wine too much. Too smooth and sweet for me. But, I liked the two shots of Sake I had."

"I'm not all that surprised." my aunt smiled, "Your dad doesn't like sweet drinks either. Neither did your grandpa Bob. It means you'll probably like Busch Light."

"Is that so?"

"Yup. You're not a true Nibbe till you start drinking Busch Light."

"Alright. I'll give it a shot tonight." I nodded. 

"There ya go!" my aunt laughed. 

We took the backroads to Fairplay, avoiding the traffic on the main roads, and we were rewarded with scenery that took Stacy and Dale's breaths away. Personally, I was too excited about spending time with my family to notice the snow-capped mountains, swollen clear rivers and streams, the pine boughs waving in the wind, or the massive storm front ahead of us. 

"Looks like it's gonna rain!" my aunt announced as we approached a curtain of white. 

"That's no rain. That's snow!" I corrected her. 

"Nuh-uh. Not here in May." she contested. 

"Nope. We're 9,000 feet above sea-level, and it's really cold outside. That is, in fact, snow. Hope you dressed warm." I grinned knowing both my aunt and Dale were in T-shirts and shorts. 

"Oh, Jesus..." Stacy trailed off. 

"Shoulda taken the Xterra." I continued with an ornery grin.  

"We shoulda." Dale agreed. 

Still, we continued, driving the shitbox sedan right into the wall of ice and snow. The road turned from cracked asphalt to rocky gravel, as entire trees began to bow in the wind, and heavy, wet snow clouded our view of the world. Stacy, not used to the mountains I've grown to love and know so well, began to freak out. 

"Oh. My. God..." she uttered between sharp breaths, "What have we gotten ourselves into? It's a blizzard. It's literally a blizzard!"

"No, it's not!" I laughed, "It's just a squall. It'll be over in five minutes. Jeez, you sound just like grandma Shirley! You need a Xanax."

"A squall, you say?" Dale asked as he slowed the car down to a crawl. 

"Yup. It'll be over in no time. In fact, it's already starting to taper off a bit." I said. 

Of course, I was right. Just as we turned onto the driveway leading up to our cabin, the squall had moved on. Only a light flurry wisped through the grass and aspens with a slowing breeze. Above us, the swirling silver and white clouds were beginning to break, revealing slivers of clear blue sky for sunrays to burn through. But, just to our west, another squall was on its way, cresting over the snowcapped peaks just as I turned to look. 

But, before I could stand on the porch and watch the landscape, I figured I ought to help bring things in. Especially because both Dale and Stacy were looking a little breathless. 

"Here, I got it!" I offered as my aunt took off for the porch stairs with her suitcase. 

"No, I have it! I have it." she assured me between pants. 

"You sure?" 

By then, she'd already begun to head up the rickety porch stairs, so I just shrugged and decided to carry in as much as I could in one trip. Which, of course, included a 24 pack of Busch Light, as well as a box of PBR, and a box of hard seltzer. For most people, that would be more than enough alcohol for the night. But, for my family? Yeah, that would only last a couple hours, if that. 

As I clambered up the porch steps, I bumped shoulders with Stacy, who seemed astonished by all the stuff I was carrying all at once. But, strangely (for her), she didn't stop me and ask to help. She sounded awfully winded. And from the quick glance I shared with her, she also seemed alarmingly pale. 

Quickly, I made it the rest of the way up the porch steps, charged around the corner, dropped everything off in front of the door for Dale to pick up and put away. Then, I high-tailed it back downstairs, where my aunt was, seated in the car holding her chest. 

"You... You good?" I asked, concerned. 

After a few breaths, Stacy answered, "I.... I don't.... know... I'm havin' a hard time.... breathin'..."

"First and foremost, stay seated." I commanded, then I turned to Dale and shouted, "Bring down some water! She's a fish outta water!"

"There's bottles in the trunk. A whole bunch of them!" I heard Dale call back from the porch above me. 

"Got it!" I replied as I jogged to the trunk and ripped a water bottle out of its plastic wrapping. 

"Chug this. You need it." I told my aunt Stacy, who was still seated in the car, hyperventilating, and whiter than the snow on the ground. 

She nodded and took a hearty swig after each breath. While she did this, I went to fetch more water bottles. Another for her, and one for myself. Gradually, her breathing slowed down and became less panicked. Color returned to her face. And the glassy look in her eyes began to fade. 

"Better?" I gently asked. 

"Yes. Much better." Stacy nodded, sighing with relief, "What was that?"

"What was what?" I asked. 

"That horrible feeling? It felt like I was dying. Like... my chest was being compressed. It hurt to breathe!"

"I think you didn't listen to me and gave yourself Hypoxia for a bit there." I snarked. 

Stacy smiled and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was going to be just fine. 

"C'mon!" I motioned, "Let's get ya up to the living room. Another squall's coming and I don't want you to be in this smelly-ass car forever."

Stacy nodded, grabbing my outstretched hand, and I pulled her to her feet. Again, I made sure she could walk okay, and I followed close behind her up the stairs until she collapsed onto the living room couch. 

Once everyone was settled and all of our stuff was in, I went off to explore my surroundings a bit, familiarizing myself with the cabin and surrounding wilderness. Of course, I didn't go all that far, especially because I didn't want to get caught up in the approaching snow squall. I wasn't exactly dressed for that kind of weather. I'd left my foxhide headdress at home.

Our cabin wasn't totally isolated from society. The nearest neighbors were about two-hundred yards away from our cabin, hidden by a forest of aspens behind our cabin. Our cabin was built in a barren, rocky field of prairie grass. Most of the trees grew in forests across the valley from us. Besides me, not a soul was in sight. It was just me and the sound of an increasing wind hissing through the stubble. No birds, no dogs, no wolves, deer, or bears. Nothing. No one. It was like I was the only living creature on earth, standing on the porch of our little cabin, watching over the land. 

As the next squall approached, I leaned up comfortably against the porch railings, a Diet Coke in one hand, and the other hand in my hoodie pocket. I listened as the wind picked up from a barely-noticeable breeze, till it was howling through the trees. Thankfully for me, the wind was coming in from the north, so I was completely sheltered from it on the porch in front of the south-facing cabin.

The sky darkened once again, and within just a few minutes of the first great gust coming through, it was nearly a complete white-out. I could barely make out the nearest tree, and the driveway seemed to disappear into nothingness. Still, I stood comfortably sheltered on the porch. So long as I was out of the wind, it wasn't terribly cold. But, just as I let my guard down, the wind suddenly shifted, blasting me with cold and ice. 

"Aw fuck!" I growled as I bounded back into the house and slammed the front door behind me. 

"That's what ya get for givin' me a hard time!" Stacy laughed. 

"Yeah, well..." I chuckled, "God's clearly got a sense of humor. That was horribly cold!"

But, as fast as the snow came though, it was gone. And, as the sheets of ice and snow moved on, it revealed another two cars on the rocky road nearby the cabin. Those cars belonged to the rest of the crew. 

"Look what the wind blew in!" Dale shouted as he opened the glass front door to let in my cousin Troy and his wife, Quinn. 

"Yeah, right?" Troy laughed, "It's fuckin' cold. Didn't expect this."

"Neither did I!" Stacy admitted, "I thought Maya was bullshitting when she told us that it would be snowy and cold."

"Again, shoulda listened to me!" I grinned, "I'm always right."

"At least it's warm inside." Quinn said. 

"I guess all o'r hikin' plans have gone out the window!" my cousin, Wade Jr, declared as he stepped into the cabin, his girlfriend close behind him. 

"No shit." Troy smiled, "I guess we're just gonna spend our time up here gettin' drunk and playin' Hammer-Schlagen."

"Works for me." Junior shrugged, "Dad brought the log. It's a little soft, but hey, it's somethin'."

Outside, braving the weather in his hoodie, shorts, and flip-flops, was my uncle Wade placing a fairly large log on top of a cooler. He then buried the claw of a large, well-worn hammer into the top of the log. On an adjacent metal table, he put a brand new box of nails. 

Of course, it wouldn't be a family get-together without more alcohol. My cousins brought several large coolers' worth in Busch Light into the cabin, along with two huge bottles of Jack Daniels' Tennessee Whiskey, a couple bottles of red wine, a bottle of Peppermint Gin, and several other alcoholic beverages I didn't care to notice. 

Soon, uncle Wes and aunt Jess came up with their suitcases. My younger cousins, Kael and Jake weren't far behind. I, of course, was the recipient of many hugs and "so-glad-ta-see-ya's". But, before anyone even had begun to completely settle, Jess pulled out a fully-charged Bluetooth speaker. A minute later, familiar bluegrass began to echo throughout the little cabin.

Everyone, except for me, was worn out and winded. Still, I sat down on the downstairs couch with a few others and just relaxed. I haven't felt so safe since Minnesota in December. It was so cozy in that pinewood cabin, especially with Earl Scruggs' instrumentals, my family's light conversation, and the lonesome sound of the wind reverberating through the air. Outside, through the wall of windows making up the south-facing side of the cabin, it was once again blizzarding. The nearby pines and the aspens bent with the wind, and snow drifted across the deck with the gusts. The driveway to the cabin seemed to lead to nowhere, as it quickly faded into silver-blue nothingness. Visibility was reduced to just a few yards or so. 

Occasionally, the ambience would be interrupted by the sound of a drink can being popped open, or someone loudly letting loose an exaggerated belch. Or, a playful bickering among those who were playing Euchre at the dining table, under the soft yellow glow of a small chandelier. My aunt Jess brought out a couple logs of cheddar jalapeno venison sausage (the same stuff I'd raided from my great uncle Courtney's freezer a few months before), chopped it into slices, and placed the plate in the center of the dining table. The room filled with the subtle scent of venison, mixed in with the scent of pinewood and Busch Light. Before long, the venison was gone (and, of course, Troy and Junior nearly got into a playful fistfight over the last slice of venison sausage). 

Once again, we were civil, but so far from civilized. And, that's exactly how I like it. 

Before the snow and wind began to let up, we all decided to head up to a popular brewery in Fairplay called The Southpark Brewery. Unfortunately, none of us were exactly dressed to endure wet, heavy snow being driven sideways by a 40 mile-per-hour unblocked wind, even if it was just to the cars parked on the driveway below. But, the desire to go to the brewery for quick drinks and snacks was stronger than the desire to stay warm. 

"So... uh, we're gonna let the storm pass before we leave, right?" I asked, timidly. I was no longer the brave one, especially because that squall was a particularly nasty one. 

"I'm not!" Junior practically shouted as he pulled his cowboy boots on, "We might get a little frostbite, but it's worth it for some craft whiskey."

"You sure 'bout that?" Junior's girlfriend, Liz, pondered, "I'm with Maya. I'm not sure this is the best time to leave..."

"Well, we're goin'!" Troy piped up as he pulled on a hoodie, "You drivin', Quinn? Or should I?"

"You drive." She replied as she pulled one of Troy's hoodies over hers. 

"Fine. I'll just use Wade as a windbreak." I said as I glanced over at my uncle Wade, who had since changed into jeans and boots. 

My aunt Jess came walking down the stairs in her warmest jacket, "What're y'all doin'?"

"We're headed out to Southpark Brewery." Stacy answered. 

"Really?" Jess asked, "In this weather?"

"Yup!" 

"Well then..." Jess mumbled, "This is gonna be interesting..."

I turned my attention to a west-facing window, which was pretty much completely white thanks to the howling snow. Every now and then, the snow would subside, only to kick up again with another blast. To get to the cars, we'd have to walk (or, more accurately, run) against that vicious cold. A vicious cold we were far from dressed for. But, according to Junior, even if we got frostbite, the whiskey would be worth it. Right? 

Right before Wes opened the door, there was a flash of light, followed by a roll of thunder. 

"Jim Cantore would be ecstatic." Uncle Wade smiled. 

"That was thunder?!" my younger cousin, Kael, scrunched his face into a scared expression. 

"Yup. That was thunder alright." Wes nodded as he rested an arm across his son's shoulders and ventured out into the thundering cold with him. 

"Maybe going outside is a really bad idea right now..." I silently thought to myself as my family made their way outside. Meanwhile, I stood stiff by the front door until Dale nudged me in the back. 

"C'mon, we're going!" he urged, "Ready or not, we're going!"

I slipped on a KN95 mask and pulled my hoodie strings as tight as possible for extra protection from the cold, as I stepped outside right behind my uncle Wade. I figured if I stayed directly behind him, then I'd stay out of most of the snow and wind. Even better, Dale and Stacy were right behind me, keeping the wind off my back. Dale had one hand firmly on my shoulder, and his other in his pocket, with Stacy's arm locked around his. For the full 45 seconds we were outside, we were cackling like hyenas. It wasn't just freezing cold. It was fucking freezing cold outside.

That wind-driven snow was horrendous, and it was impossible for any of us to move fast on the porch, as it was encased in a thin sheet of ice. Considering the fact that I was wearing cowboy boots, I figured the safest (and fastest) way to get off the porch was to grab Wade's arm and have him pull me along to the stairs. Once there, Dale grabbed a fistfull of my hoodie to keep me from shattering my tailbone on the way down (the railing was also coated in ice). By the time we'd made it to the car, I couldn't see a damn thing through my glasses or feel my fingers. Dale, realizing that I was struggling to open the car door, pulled it open for me then shoved me inside. 

Seated in Junior's 2WD, sandwiched between Wade and Dale, I pulled my glassed off and questioned, once again, if it was a good idea to drive twenty minutes in this wintery derecho.

"Maybe we really ought to wait this shit out. It's fucking intense." I remarked, using my sleeve to defrost my glasses.  

"Eh. We've driven in worse." Junior shrugged as he stuck the keys in the ignition, "But, this weather is pretty damn rough. Wish I'd remembered my winter gear."

"We ought to go to Breck or Silverthorne or somewhere, and get some nice, warm coats and gloves." My uncle Wade suggested, rubbing his frozen hands together. 

"Agreed." I nodded. 

"Just not tonight!" Dale added. 

"We could if we'd just taken my Xterra..."

"Oh, you and your Xterra!" Junior mocked, "We don't need no fuckin' Xterra! We got this 'ere front-wheel drive Equinox."

"Yeah. With bald tires and the clearance of a Supra..." I rolled my eyes. 

"A budget-boosted Supra, thank ya very much!" Junior grinned. 

We took to the rocky, icy road slow and steadily. Our visibility was low, and the fierce western winds rocked the car with every gust. I nervously rubbed my seatbelt and clenched my jaw, especially whenever the snow came down heavier and the wind blew harder. Even Junior's girlfriend was feeling the anxiety, and kept giving him shit each time we hit a rock or pit in the road. Junior largely ignored her and stared straight ahead with a focused scowl, keeping one hand on the wheel, and the other hand clasped around hers. 

Meanwhile, I stayed stiff and silent (as I often do when I am particularly anxious), praying to God that the squall would soon let up and we wouldn't get into too much trouble. I conjured up as many worst-case scenarios in my mind as I could, coming up with possible solutions to such potential disasters. But, the "what-ifs" stopped when I realized where and with whom I was.

It wasn't like I was with my mom's side of the family, most of whom are shorter weaker than I am, and who would've relied on me (of all people) to get us to safety. I was surrounded by tall, stout, hardcore Minnesota rednecks, who have spent their lives farming, trucking, hunting, firefighting, and engineering, and have cheated death as many times as I have. With them, there wasn't much for me to worry about. If we got stuck, we'd get us unstuck in no time. I wasn't going to die starved and frozen solid on their watch. 

At least, I hoped I wouldn't. 

I began to relax a little more as the bands of snow became lighter and the winds gradually died down. Shortly after the flakes stopped falling, we reached asphalt. Less than ten minutes later, the Southpark Brewery was in sight. Once again, we'd made it back to civilization in one piece!

"Whatcha gonna drink, Maya?" Junior broke the silence. 

"I don't know. I'll see what's on the menu." I shrugged, "Not sure I wanna drink right now, though. I might wait till we're back at the cabin, just to be on the safe and sober side."

"Good idea." Uncle Wade nodded, "But, if you do get drunk at the brewery, we'll make sure you're ok. Just be careful. You seem like a lightweight."

"Yeah. You're pretty scrawny. We won't have a hard time carrying you to the car if you get shitfaced." Dale joked. 

"Kinda surprised ya didn't blow away earlier." Uncle Wade chuckled, "That wind was somethin'!" 

"Ha, ha, ha." I rolled my eyes, "Very funny..." 

Not much happened at the brewery, as I decided to not try any alcohol. But, back at the cabin, while sitting at the dining table enjoying a snack of more venison sausage and salad, Troy put an ice-cold can of Busch Light in front of me. 

"Ya ready to be baptized?" Jess asked, smiling. 

"I damn sure am!"

"Hell ya!" Jess cheered. 

Once everyone in my family (who was old enough to drink) was seated or standing around the table, Busch Lights in hand, we all cracked open our cans, clinked them together, and drank. 

"Mmmmm... sparkling beer water." I smiled. 

"So, ya like it?" Stacy asked. 

"I do! I like it a lot, actually!"

"She's a Nibbe alright!" Troy shouted. 

"Wait, you're tellin' me she's not adopted?!" Junior facetiously grinned. 

"I mean... she is pretty short and small." Jess added. 

"Oh, shut the hell up, y'all!" I laughed, taking another swig of my beer. 

"Can we play Hammer-Schlagen, now?" my youngest cousin, Jake, begged, "Please?"

"Sure. Why not?" Uncle Wade said as he stood up, "The weather's not too bad yet."

Most of us headed back out onto the front porch and stood around the Hammer-Schlagen log. Junior and Troy quickly pounded in a nail for everyone, then held out the hammer for whoever wanted to go first. 

"Wait." Jess interrupted, "How are we gonna play this? Is it last-nail-standing or first-nail-in?"

"Let's play last-nail-standin'." Stacy said, "It's more fun to hit everyone else's nails instead of just yours. Troy, you first!"

"Alrighty. Last-nail-standin' it is!" Troy nodded as he tossed the hammer into the air and caught it perfectly. 

For a moment, he hovered the hammerhead over the nails till he chose one to hit. That one being Dale's. It was a perfect strike. 

"Ah, you son-of-a-bitch!" Dale chuckled. 

Troy handed the hammer to his wife who was standing on his left. Because she was eight months pregnant, she didn't get to drink and she didn't have to toss up the hammer. But, she flipped the hammer anyway while Troy protected her from getting hit by it. Quinn then immediately went for Junior's nail, but missed. Next, it was Liz's turn. 

The game lasted for roughly a half hour as the hammer was passed from person-to-person. For that round, instead of playing, I decided to sit back and film, getting an idea on how the game worked before I participated in a round. Still, I had tons of fun just standing by and watching. Towards the end, the game got much more intense, especially as another approaching snow-squall really lit a fire under everyone's asses. However, the added excitement made it harder for everyone to hit the nails. Hitting the nail in Hammer-Schlagen is surprisingly hard. It's harder the faster you try to pound a nail. 

Unfortunately, when only Wade's, Junior's, and Troy's nails were standing, my phone died, and most of everyone had retreated to the great indoors. Worse yet, the storm was upon us with a straight east wind. But, instead of tucking our tails and running inside, we just toughed it out, huddled closer together as the snow and wind whipped around us. When another ten minutes or so went by, Troy's nail was the only one left standing. By then, we were all shivering hard and had almost an inch of snow on our shoulders. 

Thank God Jess had a roaring fire going in the cast-iron stove for us when we got inside.

"If we're really gonna play this, we're all going to the nearest church tomorrow to repent of our sins." Uncle Wes smiled as he stared down at the box labeled "Cards Against Humanity". 

Most of us laughed. Jess about rolled her eyes to the back of her head, and Troy began to set up the decks of cards, dealing seven white cards to everyone at the table. In the background, the song "Riding the Danville Pike" by the band, Blue Highway, played loud and proud from Jess's Bluetooth. 

Once I was dealt my seven cards, I about died when I read each one. I had to bite the inside of my cheek in order to control my laughter, when Troy remarked, "Damn, Maya. You sure you ain't drunk?"

"I've only had one Busch Light so far." I laughed, "I'm just drunk off life."

"Alright. I believe you." Troy smiled as he leaned over to show Quinn one of his cards.

"Fuck, these are awful." Junior laughed. 

"That's the point." Stacy said, pointing to the slogan on the box: "A party game for horrible people."

"We're all goin' to hell after this..." Liz shook her head. 

Once everyone had their seven cards in-hand, Dale was chosen to read the first black card. To avoid getting anyone cancelled, let's just say both the black card, and the ensuing white cards, were horrible. That's what made them so fucking funny. I haven't laughed like that in years. By round three, everyone was in tears. 

At some point in the middle of the game, I drew the perfect white card: Cystic Fibrosis. Even better, it was Troy's turn to read a black card. 

"Instead of coal, Santa now gives bad children, blank." 

I immediately threw out my chosen card to Troy while laughing so hard I could not breathe or see. 

"Oh my God." I howled, "My stomach hurts from laughing so much. Holy shit!"

"I'm actually kind of scared to pick these up. Especially yours, Maya." Troy raised his eyebrows. 

Timidly, almost as though he was opening a can of springing snakes, Troy flipped his deck of white cards and immediately picked out the winner. 

"I already know who won this fuckin' round." Troy smiled. 

"Read 'em." Dale urged. 

"Alright. I'll start slow and save the best for last."

Most people used that round for their shittiest throwaway cards, the shittiest throwaway card being "shiny things". But, when Troy got to mine, he could hardly read it out as he laughed till his face turned bright red. It took him a few tries to stutter to the punchline. 

"Instead of coal, Santa now gives bad children Cy- Cysti- Fuck! Santa gives bad children Cystic Fibrosis!"

The room erupted in wheezing laughter. I would've fallen right out of my chair if Junior wasn't there to keep me from tipping over. We must've laughed for a solid five minutes before anyone could say anything. There was no question who won that round. 

Needless to say, the game began to die after that. There would never be a better pair of cards in Cards Against Humanity. At least, not in my family. 

My cousins decided to put away Cards Against Humanity to play more Euchre instead. Halfway into the first round, the background bluegrass was suddenly interrupted by Jess's ringtone. She flipped over her phone to see who it was, and her eyes immediately rolled into the back of her head as she answered it, disappearing into a back room. Stacy, sensing something was wrong, followed her. Now, all that remained were the sounds of quiet conversation, cards flicking, and a roaring wind outside. 

As much fun as I was having, I was unsettled by the sudden (and seemingly upsetting) phone call. My gut seemed to be warning me of something bad. Not like death-in-the-family bad, but certainly something felt very off. Too bad Jess was too far away for me to eavesdrop. 

When she and Stacy returned, Wes turned and asked them what that was all about. Jess, still quiet but audible from the kitchen replied, "Maya's stepmom is pissed..."

"Oh..." Wes nodded. 

"Yeah..." Jess sighed making eye contact with me. 

"Is... is everything alright?" I shakily asked. 

"Oh yeah." Jess assured me, "It's nothing for you to worry about."

Jess and Wes sat back down at the table.

"Y'know, no matter what, you're always, always, always welcome to hang out with us." Jess began, resting a hand on my shoulder, "Even if your dad and his family are visiting us, you're still very much welcome to be here as well. Never feel like you can't be with us just 'cuz they are. You are family. You are a Nibbe, through and through. We're elated to have you at the cabin now. We can't wait to have you at the farm again. Let no one convince ya otherwise."

"Everyone here's got room for ya." Wade added, "You're welcome to be with us no matter what."

"Absolutely..." Troy muttered. 

Dale squinted his eyes in confusion. He and Stacy only met a few years before. He was completely in the dark regarding the shitshow that was my family situation. Stacy beckoned him to a far room, presumably to fill him in on the drama.

"I mean... I feel a little badly for all this. I didn't mean to invi-"

"Don't!" Jess sharply interrupted me, "You did nothin' wrong. Not then, not now. Never apologize or feel bad for spending time with us as a family. We're family! You're part of us! You have every right to be with us no matter what anyone else says or thinks! We miss you lots when you're not with us. Let your stepmom have her moment. She'll get over it, soon enough!"

"Damn right!" Junior encouraged, taking a huge swig of Tennessee Whiskey straight from the bottle, finishing it off with a loud belch.

"Even if your dad's family comes for a visit while you're already with us, we have so much space that you wouldn't have to see them if you don't want to. If they come up here, one of us will take you someplace else if you wish. Or, if you stay, we'll keep you close." Jess continued, "I know it's a super shitty situation, but just know that, no matter what, you're safe with us."

"We'll never leave you alone to fend for yourself." Troy assured, "We've got you covered."

"We love ya too much to let anything bad happen to you." Stacy smiled as she emerged from the back bedroom with Dale, "With us, you're safe as can be."

"We'll do what we can to make things as easy and comfortable for you as possible." Wade added, "If you ever feel even a little bit unsafe, we'll be there to help ya, whether it's three in the mornin' or six in the evenin'. If some bullshit comes up that you need support to get through, we'll be there. All of us will."

"Mmm-hmm." Jess smiled, "Sound good to ya?"

A lump had formed in my throat, preventing me from speaking. My heart was swollen with love. While I always knew I was welcome on the farm no matter what, my family had never spoken to me about that so directly before. I fought hard to keep my tears back. I smiled in an attempt to stay strong, but a tear managed to run down my cheek, and I sniffled. 

Without a word, Jess pulled me into a bear hug, "If you cry, we'll all cry." 

"I... know..." I managed to croak, "Just know... that I'm happy."

"So'r we..." Jess mumbled, rubbing my back, "So'r we..."

"Thank... you..." my jaw trembled as I smiled and wiped away more tears, "I love you all."

At around midnight, when the wind was calm and the skies were clear, Troy, Wade, and I ventured outside to enjoy the cold, mountain air and stargaze. Above us, trillions of stars within hundreds of thousands of galaxies flickered like candlelight in the pitch-dark skies. Occasionally, in the far distance, a yelping coyote was heard. There were also a handful of strange, almost frightening animal noises I couldn't quite put my finger on. But, I felt completely safe and sound on the porch between my cousin and uncle, staring up at the beautiful sky above us. Whatever godforsaken creatures were out there, prowling in the darkness. They couldn't get to us. 

As I stared at the universe above, I found myself wondering where grandma and grandpa were. Obviously, I knew their bodies were buried six feet underneath God's country, just across the road from the farm they loved and cherished so much. Had my grandpa gotten his way, he and grandma would've been buried together on their land. But, grandma wanted to be buried at Trinity Lutheran church. So, that's where they now lied together. 

But, what about their souls? Where were their souls? Were they also resting with their bodies, as some sects of Christianity and Judaism believe. Waiting for the day God comes back to Earth and calls the dead to wake? Or, were their souls in the ether? Somewhere among those billions upon billions of galaxies? Or, perhaps, in a different realm beyond our three-dimensional universe? If so, was God also there with them? Had they seen the face of their Creator? Were they now spending eternity in His presence, waiting for everyone after them to join them? 

Better yet, where was God? I struggled (and still struggle) with the fact that God's somehow able to be with each and every person on earth, yet also be with each and every star and planet in the universe and beyond, and also be with the souls of the departed, simultaneously. Most Biblical writers believed in a flat earth, encased in a dome of sorts. The stars, in their eyes, were just little lanterns floating above the surface of the earth, that God put there. Beyond that were heavenly realms containing the souls of the dead. Never did they realize that the earth was actually an insignificant speck of rock in the grand scheme of things. Never did they realize that there was a measurement called "light years", and the universe was trillions of light years across. Never did they realize that there were thousands, perhaps even millions or billions or trillions, of earth-like planets theoretically able to support life just as (if not, more) intelligent as us. Never did they realize that God and the afterlife existed completely separate from the universe, if they exist at all (which, even on my best days, I wrestle with).

I wondered if/how Scripture would've been written had its authors known that those little lights in the night sky weren't just lanterns, but just a fraction of a fraction of the stars and galaxies found within the known universe. I wondered if they would've still thought God cared about us as much as they say He does, if they'd known that the nearest earth-like planet was a mere four lightyears away.

Again, I asked myself these things as I stood on that icy porch, silently enduring an existential crisis that, if not nipped in the bud, would eventually become a full-on freakout, "Where are you, Lord? Where's grandma and grandpa?"

Suddenly, in an inexplicable way, I felt someone approaching us from the dark. I didn't feel threatened. If anything, it was as though another family member had joined us on the porch that night. I shifted to my right a step, closer to my uncle Wade, giving whoever it was I felt a little more room to squeeze between me and Troy. But, there was no one. Just the warm, loving presence itself. 

For a single breath, I caught a faint whiff of roses, which instantly reminded me of my grandma Shirley and her love for white roses. Considering I was still soft from the events that transpired just an hour or so before, I once again struggled to hold back tears as I gazed over my left shoulder. My grandma wasn't there. Or, at least, I couldn't see her. But, I damn sure felt her, and smelled her beautiful white roses.

It was as though God had heard my prayer, and decided to answer it right away. Not only was He big enough to be with me and among the stars, but my grandma Shirley was still able to be with me in spirit. She was merely a prayer away. Again, I fought hard to keep my emotions under control, especially when I caught another whiff of grandma's white roses. 

Troy glanced over at me as I shivered a bit, and moved closer to help keep me a little warmer. Wade then draped his arm across my shoulders and dragged me into a side-hug, holding me there. Grandma's warm, loving, rosy presence remained, too. 

"I love ya, kiddo..." my uncle smiled, "We love havin' ya here."

I smiled slightly, "Love ya too."

"Quinn and I will be home for pretty much the whole rest of the year..." Troy trailed off, "You are more than welcome to come stay with us anytime you'd like. I would actually love some help with the animals, as Quinn and I will probably be pretty busy with the baby. We've got a donkey, some goats, some chickens, a dog, a couple steers. We also live on a bluff right above the Zumbro river, with a walkway headin' down to the water. In the evenings, the fish are really bitin'. I'll gladly go fishin' with ya every night." 

 "And, I also have a lot of cattle and chickens back on grandma and grandpa's farm." Wade said, "If- or maybe I should say- when you come down this summer, you can help with the calves again. Maybe even help butcher a chicken or two."

"Or five." Troy chuckled, "When ya come down again, we'll throw a huge party. I can have you blow up another old truck cab with tannerite if you'd like. Or, we can just keep it simple and have a little bonfire." 

"Obliterating a truck cab with tannerite sounds like a blast." I laughed, "Pun absolutely intended."

"Well, yeah. I showed ya that video of the boys doing just that, didn't I?" Wade asked, reaching for his phone. 

"Oh yeah." I nodded, "You sent it to me and everything."

"That was one hell of an explosion." Troy reminisced, "Just to warn ya, though. That shockwave was pretty intense. If I was ten yards closer, it would've probably destroyed my eardrums."

"Or knocked ya on your ass." I added. 

"Eh, I don't know about that." Troy said, "I'm pretty solid. You...on the other hand."

"Shut up." I playfully punched him, "I'm bigger and stronger than I look."

"Yeah, well you're still short and scrawny." Wade further teased, "But, that's alright. I'll catch ya when the 12-gauge knocks you down." 

"Haha. Thanks for the support." I rolled my eyes. 

"Anytime, Shrimp!" Troy grinned as he crushed his empty Busch Light can in his hand and dropped it into a nearby recycling container, "Let's get inside, warm up, and hit the hay. We've got an early start tomorrow. So many places to explore, so little time."

Lying awake alone in the pitch dark living room, I stared outside through the southern windows of the cabin, where moon and starlight reflected off the snow. The world around me glowed a dim bluish color. To the east, the sky glowed orange thanks to the lights of Fairplay bouncing off the frozen atmosphere. 

I was exhausted, yet my mind still reeled with thoughts to and about the Lord, keeping me awake and a little afraid. In a way, I was reliving the deaths of my grandparents. While it wasn't painful enough to make me cry, my heart still throbbed from the sting of death. I reflected upon how I didn't fear my own death, but I was absolutely petrified of the very inevitable fact that, unless I died in some freak accident, I was going to bury more close family and friends. I was gonna watch the people closest to me grow older, sicker, and more frail. I was gonna have to make some excruciatingly difficult end-of-life decisions for some of my loved ones, like my aunt, uncles, and father did for their parents. 

With that thought, a sudden forgotten memory bubbled to the surface. I recalled being in my aunt's car with my dad riding shotgun. We were headed back to grandma and grandpa's farm after spending some time on the shores of Lake Peppin. While I sat in silence, watching out the window as cropland and pastures flew past, my dad and aunt were discussing their parents' end-of-life care, knowing that grandma and grandpa were getting old, and grandpa's health was no longer where it should've been. 

"If Dad goes first, taking care of Mom won't be that hard..." I remembered my dad saying, "But, if Mom goes-"

"Then Dad's care will fall onto our shoulders." my aunt Stacy interrupted him, "If Dad is forced into a nursing home, he'll probably disown us and die really fast. He's been adamant about dying in the same house he's lived in since childhood. And, I want his wish to be fulfilled..."

Little did we know that, over a decade later, my grandpa Bob's wish was granted, though it wasn't exactly a peaceful death. As dramatic and traumatizing as it was for everyone who received grandma's phone-call about my grandpa's fourth heart attack, and for my uncle Wes to arrive just as EMTs from Rochester were landing their rescue-copter in the yard. My grandpa's wish to die on the farm he was raised on was fulfilled, as tragic and shocking as his death was. 

Then, not even four years later, my grandma also died on the farm, but in a much more peaceful way, as her death was expected and hospice made her extremely comfortable. But, just because she died in her bed (which had been moved into the main room), pain-free and under a heated blanket, while almost my entire family were seated just inches away at the dining table, playing Euchre, drinking Busch Light, all while bluegrass quietly played from the same speaker Wes and Jess had brought to the cabin, it didn't make her death any easier for anyone to deal with. Nothing could've prepared any of us for my grandma's final breath. Nothing could've softened that blow. 

Not even our faith in everlasting life and in an infinitely loving and caring Creator. 

 

"Will the circle be unbroken

By and by, Lord, by and by

There's a better home a-waitin'

In the sky, Lord, in the sky..."

The morning was bright and beautiful, but so far from warm. When I woke up, I swore I could see my breath. Stacy and Dale had hit the road just after seven, and by eight, I was showered, dressed, and sitting in a sun-warmed chair at the breakfast table with the rest of my family, wrapped up in two hoodies and a blanket to beat the cold. 

On the table, among plates of bacon, omelettes, warmed venison sausage, and hashbrowns, were several maps of various towns and roads within reasonable distance from the cabin. And, of course, it wouldn't be a Nibbe family breakfast without bluegrass, Euchre, and Busch Light. 

Outside, it was windier than ever. Dust and glistening snow frequently blasted past the rattling windows, and the cabin was kept cold by a constant, freezing draft. The stubble grass bowed violently with each passing gust, and the distant trees were getting the hell beat out of them. The sun didn't do a damn thing to warm the place up. Neither did the furnace or kitchen stove.

"Well... unless this wind lets up, we're not gonna be doing a whole lotta hikin'." Wes growled. 

"According to my weather app, it's just gonna get worse as the day goes on." Junior scowled, "Winds 25-35 miles an hour, with gusts occasionally over 50-60 miles an hour, with a high of 42 degrees. Oh, and there's a good chance for more heavy snow throughout the day."

"Great..." Quinn rolled her eyes. 

"Breckenridge looks quite a bit better..." I trialed off, scrolling through my weather app, "Winds only 15-25 miles per hour, with light snow showers and a high of 45."

"Isn't it like May 30th or somethin'?" Wade chuckled, "It should be a helluva lot warmer."

"Not at 10,000 feet apparently." Jess shook her head. 

"Well, it gets much better for every 1,000 feet we go down." Troy said, "Maybe we oughta check out Central City or Idaho Springs. I heard there's a lot of cool abandoned mining shit down there. And, it'll be a warm 60 degrees down there."

"That's pretty far away though." I replied. 

"Well, it's better to be warm down there than freeze up here." Junior shrugged, "Even if it takes us a couple hours 'r so to get there and come back."

"I mean, we do have all day. Literally." Liz added, gulping down the last of her coffee. 

"Well, I'll ask the boys what they want to do." Jess said as she headed upstairs to ask her sons what they wanted to do. 

A moment later, she came back down to tell us my younger cousins would rather freeze in Breckenridge than endure a two-and-a-half hour car ride to warmer, calmer pastures. Plus, we could buy some warmer clothes in Breckenridge anyway. So, Breckenridge it was!

I helped Jess and Liz clean up the kitchen and put away leftovers, while Wade and Junior braved the ferocious cold to put the trash outside and salt the porch and stairs. Upstairs, I could hear Wes arguing with his sons that shorts and T-shirts were not appropriate attire for that day, unless they literally wanted to turn into giant popsicles.

Something, something, boys will always be boys.

Just before we left, I dug around my backpack hoping to discover gloves or a warmer hat, but there were none. The warmest clothes I had were the ones I was already wearing, and yet, I was still cold as ice. Nervously, I gazed outside at the freezing cold, and wondered how I was gonna survive the long, 45 second journey to the car. I was not, at all, looking forward to going out there, especially considering how exposed to the elements we would be. In fact, I was honestly getting pretty anxious just staring out the window as the distant trees whipped back and fourth, and waves of snow howled past. But, I refused to show it, and hid my fear behind a stoic expression.  

"Well... We better get out there 'fore too long." Troy shivered as he rushed inside from the cold, "Who's ridin' with who?"

"Wes and the boys'll ride with me." Jess declared. 

"Liz and I will ride together." Junior replied. 

"So, that just leaves Dad and Maya..." Troy pondered. 

"I don't care who's car I ride in." I said, "As long as it's warm."

"Oh yeah." Troy nodded, "All the cars are already running and warmed up for us. And, Quinn's already in our car."

"I guess I'll go with Junior and Liz." Wade said. 

"Alright." Troy nodded, "In that case, you're comin' with me, Maya."

I was hesitant to go out in what was basically a snow-icane. But, it was either I braved the bitter cold for a short time with family by my side, or I spent the entire day freezing my ass off alone in the cabin. I stood by like last time and waited for everyone else to head out before I did, when Troy draped his arm across my shoulders and dragged me out there with him. Right as Troy pulled the front door closed behind us, a huge gust came by, spraying us with stinging snow and dust and partially blinding me. 

"Fuck this!" I shouted as I dug my heels into the floor, bowed my head, and shoved my hands in my pockets. 

Troy said something back to me, but I couldn't quite hear him over the wind. Still, he kept his arm across my shoulders, pushing me along till we got down to his heated Honda Civic.  

The car was warm as a sauna when I clambered in. Within just a few minutes, I felt color and warmth return to my stinging cheeks, and I regained feeling in my hands an feet. On the radio, "Unapologetically Country" by Hardy was playing quietly in the background as Troy wrestled the driver's side door from the wind's grasp. 

"Jesus, it's miserable out there..." Troy sighed as he reached for his sunglasses, "Y'all stayin' warm enough now?"

"Yup." 

"All good!"

"Perfect." Troy said as he put his 2WD shitbox into reverse and backed out of the icy driveway. 

Wes and Jess were already at the end of the driveway, ready to lead the Shitbox Brigade to Breckenridge. Or, so we thought. 

When we got to the end of the driveway, Wes rolled down his window and beckoned Troy to drive up next to him. 

"You know where we're goin?" Wes shouted over the wind. 

"Breckenridge, right?" Troy replied. 

"Well yeah. But do ya know how to get there?" Wes asked, "Our phones are frozen solid and won't load."

"Oh yeah." Troy nodded, "We've got Maya with us. She can get us there."

"Alrighty!" Wes shouted, "We'll follow y'all."

"Hope you're alright with that." Troy grinned at me, rolling up his window. 

"I mean... I can try." I mumbled, "I can't guarantee shit though."

"Good 'nuff." Troy shrugged, "We'll find our way eventually."

Troy's Honda Civic took to the slushy mountain roads surprisingly well. He drove slowly yet steadily, avoiding every rock and pothole he could for Quinn's comfort. Meanwhile, I stared out the window at the morning mountain landscape and let my mind wander.

As we headed closer and closer to the wide open plains of the South Park Basin, I reflected back on the night before. Specifically, on the little phone call my aunt Jess received, presumably from my stepmom, and how everyone reacted to it. The more I pondered it in the car ride to Breckenridge, the more I started to think it was one of those "God moments". My stepmom had no business calling my family and practically demanding that I be banished. Why she did it still baffles me, as she doesn't usually do such things (unless she thinks she has something to easily gain). And, as far as I'm aware, the Nibbe's aren't exactly very fond of her. 

But, my family's ensuing reaction was what truly was the "God moment". It was like they knew my deepest, darkest fear: that I was less than family, and was more like a guest. Even though (as far as I know), I never admitted that to them. 

Regardless of if I ever told them that deep fear of mine or not, my family decided to put it immediately to rest, assuring me, over and over and over again, that I was a cherished member of the Nibbe family. That I was always and forever welcome to stay with them, both at the cabin and on the farm. I belonged to the farmland just as much as they did. I was just as close to my grandparents as they were. I was just as resourceful and redneck as they were. I shared the family's uncanny ability to "talk" to animals, as well as their artistic style, their taste in music, their taste in food and drink, and so much more.

Hell, I wasn't just welcome. I was wanted. Arguably to some, needed (as was the case for the little bull calf I rescued and nursed back to health in 2019). And, no one had the right to convince me otherwise. Not even my dad's wife. 

As Jess said, I'm a Nibbe, through and through. Albeit, a pretty short and scrawny Nibbe, especially compared to the giants that make up most of my paternal side. But, a Nibbe nonetheless. Not a damn thing could ever change that. 

Clearly, God wanted me to know that without a shadow-of-a-doubt. I don't believe in God the way a Calvinist might. But, I do believe that some things are set in our path by God intentionally, so that we may grow as people. Not just emotionally, physically, morally, etc. But, spiritually as well. Not only did my trust and love in my paternal relatives swell, but so did my trust and love in the Lord as well. 

Those "God moments", or whatever one would call those moments of fate, are rare. But, they can (and often will) change the course of one's life forever. 

When my stepmom called and asked that I be banished from the cabin, and my family instead rallied around me, I swear I saw God that night. I saw Him in everyone's eyes. I felt His embrace when aunt Jess pulled me into a hug, and again when uncle Wade did the same later on that night, and again when Troy rested his arm across my shoulders and led me through the storm-force winds and snow.

I saw His infinite love, beauty, mercy, and creativity in the arm of the Milky Way, in the Aspens and the Ponderosas, in the way the windblown snow and dust glistened like rainbow glitter in the morning sunlight, in the golden stubble grass as it bowed in the wind, in the black iridescent feathers of a magpie that landed on the porch for a brief moment to rest. I felt His infinite, overwhelming, reckless love when my family assured and showed me that I was more than just worthy of their love and protection, and when I felt my grandma Shirley walk up and stand next to me, Troy, and Wade on the porch as we stargazed. 

Because of those "God moments", my faith in God has only strengthened. My trust in Him has only solidified. Many of my greatest fears and worries have diminished almost to nothingness. 

"Pronghorn!" Troy suddenly startled me out of my daydream. 

Sure enough, a whole herd of them was trotting along the prairie grass in the basin, not far from the highway we were now on. Their white butts facing the heavy gusts of sparkly snow, and their heads low searching for brush to graze.

"You hunt those things, don't you?" Troy asked. 

"Yup!" I nodded proudly, "They're my favorite animal to hunt. Nothing's better than chasing those turbo goats across the golden plains. They're tastier than elk to me."

"Damn. I've honestly never tried pronghorn before. So I can't attest to whether or not they're tastier than elk." Troy admitted, "I must say, though. I like corn-fed whitetails over most elk I've had. I'm not a big fan of the gamey taste."

"Pronghorn are super gamey." I said, "But, I really like the gamey taste."

"I suppose you can soak the meat in orange or pineapple juice to tame the taste of game..." Troy mused. 

"Yeah, you can." I replied, "I did it with some neck meat from my 2018 doe out of curiosity. There was still a slight taste of game, but for the most part, it tasted like beef." 

"So... I reckon it wasn't your favorite then?"

"It wasn't. But, I ate that meat anyway, obviously. It was still delicious in the stew I made it in."

"Gotcha..." Troy noted, "One of these days, I'll get a pronghorn... One of these days..."

"Let me know when you get a tag." I responded, "I'll join ya!"

"Hell ya! Sounds like a plan!"

The further we descended from the South Park Basin towards Breckenridge, the warmer and calmer the weather became, and the less snow accumulated on the ground. But, at the same time, the traffic was becoming more snarled, and Troy was having to contend with the fast n' very furious Denver drivers. 

"Get off my ass..." Troy growled as an Audi SUV followed closely behind us, "I'm going five over..."

"Yup! That's Denver for ya!" I grinned, "He'll back off if you go 15 over."

"God damn..." Troy scowled, "Dude's drivin' like he's got a turtlehead pokin' out. Fuck's sake!"

"Yeah well..." I trailed off, "Get used to it. Everyone with a Colorado license plate drives like they're on the verge of shittin' themselves no matter what."

"Including you!" Quinn laughed, referencing how I peeled out of the Village Inn parking lot after I had breakfast with everyone, hours before getting in my aunt Stacy's car and riding up to the cabin. 

"What can I say? I'm from Denver, born 'n raised!" I boasted, "I'm allowed to drive like a bat outta hell. It's in my blood!"

"I mean... You do drive like your dad." Quinn smiled. 

"Yeah, she was screamin' at him to slow the fuck down a few days ago. He took us 'round in the jeep and Quinn was not all that happy." Troy laughed.

"It's true." Quinn nodded, "I can't deny it."

"Y'all are a bunch of wusses." I mocked. 

"Says the one who didn't wanna go outside earlier cuz you're afraid of the cold!" Troy rolled his eyes, laughing. 

"Touche..." I chuckled, "Tou-fuckin'-che..."

As expected, Breckenridge was cold but tolerable. The streets were kept warm by many gas-powered firepits and patio heaters, as well as the constant flow of people and traffic through town. Every shop's doors were wide open, enticing visitors and tourists to come in and shop around.

Of course, we all B-lined it to the nearest shop selling warm winter clothes, especially the places that were having clearance sales. There, we bought everything we needed to stay warm and cozy the rest of the time we endured the mountains' harsh spring weather, all for heavily discounted prices!

From there, donning our newly-bought insulated gloves, hats, and flannel, we went on the prowl for food like a pride of lions. Hunger led us all the way uphill to the Breckenridge Brewery, where we were just able to beat the lunch rush crowds. 

There, we sat down at the biggest table the brewery had available for us, and instead of paper menus being handed out to us, we were instructed to use our phones to scan a QR code for the menus. My mouth began to water as I read through the menu and noticed the smells around me. I hadn't realized how hungry I'd been. 

"Are you gonna drink anything?" Troy leaned over to ask me, "If you do, it's on me."

"Uhhhh..." I trailed off as I swiped through the drinks menu. 

"I'm gettin' the ale." Troy pointed out, "They've got 'em in five ounces if you don't wanna drink a whole pint."

"Alrighty." I smiled, "I'll give the five ounces of Avalanche Ale a shot. By the way, what does this stuff taste like?"

"It's basically Busch Light, but a little thicker." Troy shrugged, "If you like Busch, then you'll like this stuff."

"Ok." I nodded, "I believe you."

We placed our orders digitally, then waited for a server to come to us. Before long, a waitress arrived to confirm everyone's orders. 

"I need to see everyone's IDs." She declared. 

"Even mine?" Uncle Wade smiled, scratching his silver beard. 

"Yes sir." the waitress laughed, "Even yours."

Long before our food arrived, the waitress returned with our drinks. Everyone, except for me, had ordered a pint. My ale came in a small glass. 

"I see you're 'bout to get wasted there, Maya." Jess chuckled, taking a sip from her pint of beer. 

"Yup! Damn sure am." I nodded, taking a quick little sip of my ale. 

Troy was right! I really liked the Avalanche Ale. It tasted a lot like Busch Light, but with a stronger burning sensation of alcohol and a hint of maple. The longer I let the taste sit in my mouth without chasing down my ale with water, the stronger the taste of maple became. 

At the time of this writing, three weeks later, Avalanche Ale is still my favorite alcohol so far!

 

"Moose!" I shouted out of nowhere on the drive back to the cabin. 

"What?! Where?!" Troy shouted back, slamming on the brakes. 

"There!" I pointed out the car window, "In the willows below. A whole bunch of 'em!"

"Pull over!" Quinn demanded, "I've never seen a moose before! I wanna see one!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying." Troy stuttered as we drove around another bend, "Here!"

We pulled over behind another convoy of tourists, all of whom had pulled over to witness this massive gathering of moose in the willow bog below the road. Then, all four of us (myself, Troy, Quinn, and Uncle Wade), poured out of the sedan, jogged across the road, and stood at the edge of the bluff overlooking the willow bog. 

The moose were pretty far away (I estimated a couple hundred yards). But because of how huge they were, we could easily tell what they were up to. The closest moose to us was a young bull. His antlers were still very small and full of velvet, and he had almost completely lost his winter coat, though clumps still stuck to him. For most of the time I saw him, he was busy chewing away at the flame willows, twitching his ear every now and then. About fifty yards behind him, I spotted two cows, standing side-by-side with their heads low into the willows. Glancing to my left, about four-hundred yards away, I saw the body of the moose that I'd initially seen. But, it was too far to tell the sex. 

Still, much like my family and everyone else who'd pulled over, I was in awe of the moose. I've seen wild moose many times before, but not so many at once in flaming bog of willowbrush. I remember counting at least five of them, though there were likely more hidden among the flame willows. 

Then, just as we turned to leave, a laughing screech came from above. We all stopped in our tracks and searched the skies for the source. Not far above us, against the blue and grey skies, two Bald Eagles glided overhead. Their appearance was brief, as they swiftly disappeared into the forested mountain across the willows from us. But, once again, I sensed my grandparents' presence. I felt their protective love. 

Once again, I found myself in a state of prayer, asking God where my grandparents were, and where was He? But, this time, in a much more positive way than I'd asked the night before. 

Back at the cabin, when the sun was sinking below the western horizon and the weather was calm between snow squalls, I ventured outside to explore my surroundings and get some much-needed alone time with nature. Plus, I had a lot of problems to settle with God, and I figured I ought to tackle at least one of them before returning to my place at the dining table to play more Euchre. 

As I wandered through a grove of Aspens on the property behind the cabin, I gazed at the purple-pink clouds above me and began to wrestle with my faith. I reflected back on my journey with God thus far. And, damn, what a journey it's been!

But, it wasn't (and still isn't) over. I shifted my eyes to the nearest western mountain. To me, that mountain looked to be the size of the pile of bones I had to pick with God; impossible to tear down within a single lifetime. Especially since that pile seemed to be growing with time. 

The past twenty-one years of my life have aged me significantly. I've turned bitter, resentful, and downright hostile towards God due to all the shit I've been dragged through. Sure, it could always be worse. But, one of many reasons why I was (and still am) very pissed off at God, is because of how many times people have used me to exemplify a much worse-off person. That has both terrified and depressed me, and has especially made me question the point of my existence. Assuming there was one.

Among the aspens, I found a granite boulder to sit down on so I could continue to wrestle with my Creator while resting my weary body. My thoughts began to shift away from processing the lives and deaths of my paternal grandparents, and more towards processing my own life. Specifically, the fact that I wouldn't be dead in ten or twenty years from Cystic Fibrosis. I was, in many respects, cured of my condition. It had been almost three years since Trikafta was approved for people like me, but its effects and reality haven't really sunk in for me. And, I was just as terrified of living another sixty years or so, as I was of losing loved ones.

It was a fear I wasn't willing to really touch, but one that my grandma Shirley's passing would eventually force me to struggle with. Why? Well, not only was I, once again, experiencing the excruciating loss of a close loved one. But, that sting of death forced me to reflect upon my own mortality. Forced me to reckon with the fact that, unlike what my doctors were predicting till the day I got my paws on my first box of Trikafta, I wasn't going to die an early death. 

As I've written numerous times before, and will shamelessly write a thousand times more, I spent my childhood preparing for an early death instead of a long life. And, that really fucked up a lot of things for me, especially now as a twenty-one-year-old college student. 

Therein lies many of the roots of my resentment and hostility towards God. My childhood had been completely wrecked by Cystic Fibrosis (among many other things most of my peers never had to deal with). I'd been forced to grow up extremely fast. By the time I was seven years old, I was more or less self-sufficient when it came to taking care of myself at home. I never was a typical little girl, or a typical teenager. I'm not a typical young adult either. All because, pretty much my entire life, I was destined to die young, no matter how hard I fought. The goal never was to make it to retirement age prior to Trikafta. It was simply to stay as healthy and able for as long as possible, before my genetics stole that away from me, and I drowned in my own mucus in a hospital room. 

That only changed when Trikafta hit me like a speeding semi-truck. I was not expecting it, and I sure as hell wasn't ready for it. Now, three years later, I am still frozen in place like a fainting goat. Legs stiff towards the sky and everything. Grateful to be healthy and alive, but still petrified by the implications of living well into my eighties, nineties, or perhaps even into my hundreds. The pandemic, as well as my grandma's passing, only added fuel to the fire that's become my greatest existential crisis yet. 

No wonder I was (and still am), so damn pissed at God. And so damn scared of what's to come. 

The wind, once again, began to pick up ahead of yet another snow-squall. Not wanting to freeze to death, I jogged back to the shelter of the cabin, where the air was warm and smelled of delicious foods. While I sat down at the dining table with a plate full of pasta, I was reminded that, as scary as the prospect of living as long as my peers was, I wouldn't have to go through it alone. 

Around me at the table was my paternal family, though not everyone part of my family (as some couldn't make that trip). Already, my family had made it clear to me that I'll always be cherished by them, that I always had a place on the farm, that I would always and forever belong. Back in December, my cousins Kellen and Andy (who didn't make it to the cabin) assured me of that, and the night before at the cabin, my family there also assured me that I was loved and supported. 

Thanks to my paternal and maternal family, as well as my close friends, I didn't have to be terrified of the future. There was no real reason for me to be terrified of living for decades to come. I would never have to face the future alone, or without tons of support and love from people whom cherished me, and who I cherished, loved, and supported too. 

Perhaps, God allowed me to live as I have, knowing that I would have more than enough of the support I would ever need. Not everyone has family and friends like I do, after all. 

I may never know what motivated God to keep me alive. I'll forever oscillate between believing that God healed my body when doctors couldn't, and believing that I'm just some sort of immortal freak-of-nature. I'll forever struggle to find purpose and meaning within mine and others' lives. I may even forever be pissed off at God, at least, until we can bury the hatchets together, face-to-face. I have faith in a Creator who is okay with all of that. I even dare to believe that since God is described as the literal embodiment of Love, Mercy, Justice, Understanding, Peace, Healing, etc, He even welcomes my challenges and doubts and fears and flaws. 

After all, with God, nothing is impossible. 

And, with a supportive family and friends like I have, I am confident we can weather any storm that comes our way, no matter how nasty the hard times get. 

Note: After some writing and thinking, I decided this next bit belongs in this piece, and not my Jeep story/continuation of Little Blue Feather. So, while I'm comfortable ending this piece at the page above, I also think this next bit is relevant to this piece. I don't think this piece will be satisfyingly finished, to me at least, till I return to the Minnesota farm. Clearly, I have much to process and realize. It ain't gonna come full circle till I return to the farm, at least. But, I digress...

Also, this section is super heavy and gets super dark at times. I learned a lot about my dad and other paternal relatives I didn't get to know before. There's R-rated, then there's the shit I learned from my dad. Long story short, I'm actually glad I didn't attend my grandma Shirley's funeral. I will find another way to gain closure. 

 

 

 

"I guess there's no easy way to say this but," Dad hesitated as we ate lunch together at a small Mexican restaurant, "I-I'm glad you weren't at Grandma Shirley's funeral."

I stared at my dad with an inquisitive scowl. I stayed quiet for him to elaborate. 

"Y'know, the culture of our family. The culture of that entire community in general- doesn't talk about feelings. They take pride in not complaining, in not crying, in not pointing out when things are shitty. They deal with their issues in very, very unhealthy and toxic ways. It ain't just the drugs, alcohol, suicides, and murders that are problematic. Clearly, they are. But, they're the results of a much more... uhhhh... subtle? Issue. You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?"

"I think so..." I nodded, "Go on."

"That issue has been heavily ingrained in the church I grew up in for as long as it's been around. And, that issue- if I'm going to give it a name- is basically called being Toxically Positive. You got nothin' to bitch about if you're not a starving child in Africa, y'know. Even then, many of my high school peers would say that so long as you've got Jesus, you've got everything. Even if you're a starving child in some impoverished community in Sudan or some shit, if you're a Christian- or more specifically- a Conservative Trinitarian Lutheran Christian, then you've still got nothin' to complain about, 'cause you've still got Jesus." Dad continued, stuttering and stopping between words as he struggled to put into words what he wanted to convey, 

"So, of course, at gramma's funeral, Pastor really tried to make her situation seem as lighthearted and voluntary as possible. He'd say shit like, 'She went on her own terms' , 'She went peacefully and without struggle', 'She didn't complain one little bit, cuz she had the Lord'. Pretty abrasive shit like that, at best. At worst, Pastor was spewing lies. Yet, in that church and in that culture I grew up in, saying shit like that's the norm. It's more offensive to admit one's struggles and feelings than it's to actually be honest with others. To be open and expressive. You still following?"

"I think so, Dad..." I nodded again. 

"Friends, distant family, Pastor, hell even my own brothers and sister- they didn't have a damn clue how to deal with gramma's passing. At the wake, so many people came up to me and had the gull to tell me not to cry because gramma was in a much better place, and she wouldn't want me to cry. But, that just ain't healthy. When Pastor said somethin' similar at her funeral, it took everything I had not to chuck the hymn book at him... I had to walk out and take a break outside for a few." Dad explained with tears in his eyes, "That's why I'm glad you weren't at the funeral. Plus, I would like to talk about the past- our past- with the understanding that neither you nor I are the same people we were five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago."

"Are you suggesting we start attending therapy together again?" I asked, "Cause if that's the case, I'm all for it!"

"Sure. If that's what you want." Dad nodded, "But, what about having one-on-one conversations like what we're havin' right now? How do you feel about that?"

"I actually think that's a decent idea, so long as we don't cross each other's boundaries."

"Of course!" Dad nodded, "But, I would like to... well... at least, share my perspective of the past with you, as well as talk about where I came from and why I was and am the way that I... well... was and am. And also why I think it's best you didn't go to gramma's funeral. Y'know?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "But... why? I don't mean that in a dismissive way. I just would like to know what's changed with you, or what hasn't changed, if that makes any sense."

"Well... I think the change began with grandpa's funeral." Dad said as he looked down at his hands, scowling with focus, "Honestly, I dreaded you comin' down to the farm for his funeral. Not because I didn't want you there. Obviously, I did. But, because there was basically no relationship between you and my wife, my son, or my stepson. And, because of the nature of the church there. And, I didn't know how things would turn out... But, when you stepped out of aunt Stacy's car and saw me and my wife standing out in the yard, there was no conflict between you and my wife. Sure, there was no interaction at all, but you guys remained calm and relatively cordial with one another that whole trip. That was actually a nice surprise, at least to me. But, I wonder what your perspective from that trip was?"

"Frankly, I can't even really remember that trip." I admitted, "Hell, I can hardly remember anything from much of my past. It's all just melded into one giant mess of foggy memories. I'd have to look back at my writings from that time to really figure out, and perhaps dig up some memories, what was going on. I'm sure it wasn't anything bad, though, given the time and place."

Dad nodded, obviously wanting me to continue on. 

"And, these days, I can definitely say that I have basically no hard feelings- at least, in the moment- towards you, your wife, your son or stepson. Things today are way different than they were X number of years ago. As an adult, I have autonomy to choose where I wanna go, who I wanna see, who I wanna interact with, etc. I'm not bound to one place or another like I was when I was really little. And, now that I no longer feel so trapped, I feel a lot less defensive and afraid. On top of that, as you said, we were very different people X years ago. If college's taught me anything so far, it's that twenty and thirty-somethings are really fucking dumb. How could I expect anything more from you or my mom. Y'all were what? 22 and 23 when I was born?"

"23 and 24." Dad corrected me, "Still young and incredibly dumb."

"Well, yeah." I agreed, "Still, as I was sayin', I want to make it absolutely clear that I harbor no real ill-feelings towards you or your family. At least... not in a personal way."

"What do you mean by a personal way?" Dad asked. 

"Well, I'm more pissed off at the circumstances more than anything." I clarified, "I know you weren't perfect, my mom wasn't perfect- nobody was perfect. Even now, none of us's perfect. I can't say I can be mad at you for who you were five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. But, I'm still very bitter towards mine- well, our circumstances. They weren't anyone's fault. But, I've definitely got a lot of thorns in my side. I hope I'm making sense..."

"You are." Dad nodded, "Sounds like you worked all of your feelings towards the adults in your life out in therapy?"

"Well, I also just got older." I chuckled, "Covid really opened my eyes in regards to how alarmingly dumb so many adults can be. College has really shown me how dumb and immature most twenty-and-thirty-somethin's are, myself included-"

"You're not stupid like that." Dad interrupted, "You're the world's youngest eighty-year-old, in terms of behavior. And you're literally a genius. But, continue."

"As I was saying..." I began with a smile, "I can't look back at the past expecting twenty-somethin'-year-old you to have known or done much, if any, better. Same goes for my mom, your wife, every other adult in our lives. Hindsight's twenty-twenty, y'know? Truth is, y'all did the best you could given the circumstances and your limited understanding and knowledge at the time. Clearly, you did somethin' right. Not only am I still alive, somehow, but you're still in my life. You know how many dads in your situation would've just walked out?"

"You've got one hell of a point, kiddo." Dad sniffled, but he smiled to hold back the tears. 

"Plus, I remember hearing from one of my therapists-I forget which one- but one of 'em said to me, 'When you're growing up, you're also watching your parents grow up'. Since then, I've held that quote near and dear to myself as I've worked through my past in therapy, in my writings, in my mind and sleep. All the anger and shoulda-woulda-coulda's I had towards you, my mom, really every adult who's been in my life since the very beginning, were extinguished when I realized that. With that said, if you and Mom hadn't changed over the last twenty years, things would probably be very different. If you hadn't learned a damn thing in the past twenty years, I'd be very pissed. But, good news is, I'm not pissed at all. I'm actually quite proud of the family I've got."

"Well... That's good to hear..." Dad muttered as he chewed on a bite of his burrito. I could still see the intense emotions in his face. 

"Knowing all of that, I'm more than willing to start exploring the past and healing the present with you, Dad. I think it's very important that we do that. We gotta break those toxic cultural norms you, and to a certain extent, I, grew up with. Clearly, that shit runs deep. But, if there's a will to shed that toxicity, there's damn sure a way."

Dad swallowed, "That's one of the main reasons why I left the farm as soon as I could. Because I knew, from a very young age, that somethin' was seriously wrong with the people and the place I grew up around. I just couldn't put a finger on it till decades later." 

"I mean... could you get into the nitty gritty, or is it still too fresh?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. 

"I could..." Dad pondered, "If you're alright with it, since we're eating lunch 'n all."

"Well..." I half-smiled, "Spit it out!"

For the next half hour, Dad relayed some very M-Rated information to me about his teenage and early adult years. He largely stayed away from the crowds who were heavily into drinking, drugs, and other such activities. But, he did know people from school who got neck-deep into addiction and untreated mental health issues. Many of them died as a result, some are still stuck in that vicious cycle of addiction, depression, and violence. 

"Perry was one such guy..." Dad sighed (for reference, Perry was my aunt Stacy's boyfriend of almost twenty years. But, in 2019, exactly one year to the date after my grandpa died, Perry committed suicide), "I knew from the very beginning that he wasn't in the best of places. I told Stacy not to date him, but she was convinced he had a good heart and was perfectly fine, and dated him anyway. I never saw him be violent or strung-out on anything, but the signs of his depression were very evident his entire life. In fact, he lost a brother, a cousin, his mom, and his grandma all to suicide."

"Damn..." I mumbled. 

"So, I can't say I was very surprised when I heard that Perry had ended himself, too. In my mind it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, Perry's not the only guy I knew who died by suicide." Dad sighed, "Untreated mental illness has taken the lives of several of my former high school classmates." 

"Why so?" I asked, knowing the answer but still wanting to hear it from my dad. 

"Well... obviously, the culture strongly discouraged people from asking for help." Dad explained, "Us men were taught never to cry or show any sort of negative emotion that made us look weak. If you cried or showed fear or talked about feelings, you'd be looked down upon by others at best. At worst, you'd basically be shunned. Dying by suicide or alcohol or drugs were seen as more respectable than going to therapy or crying it all out. It sounds preposterous, and it is! But, that's just the nature of the culture I'd been raised in. Not to mention how ingrained the church's doctrine was, and still is, in those parts. Conservative Lutherans have ruled over Southern Minnesota basically since the first Germans arrived there."

"I'm starting to get it..." I mumbled, "You left because of how toxic many parts of that culture was?"

"Exactly!" Dad nodded. 

"Do you think it will ever change?" I asked, "I mean- it's gotta. Right?"

"Well... yes and no. I do think many midwestern rural areas, including Lake City and Zumbro Falls, will one day progress well beyond their backwards roots. In some ways, it already has and is happening. The younger generations are much more educated and accepting than the older folks down there, for the most part. But, it's gonna take country towns much longer to change and progress than the cities will, especially because the older, more conservative types tend to live more rurally than many aspiring yuppies like me. At least, when I was growing up, you were either a farmer, someone who worked for a farmer, a homemaker, or a mechanic. To be most of everything else, you had to pack your shit and leave, which is what I did. Pretty much the same week I graduated from Rochester Community College, I packed up my life in the back of my pickup truck and left for Boulder, Colorado for a job opportunity."

"But, with the internet, do you think it is and will change?" I asked, timidly, "If I end up in a career that can be done 100% from home, I plan on living in the middle of nowhere. Or, at least as rurally as the farm is."

"Of course!" Dad nodded, "And, my perspective shouldn't discourage you from pursuing that goal, if it's still a goal by the time you graduate with whatever degree you want. I just think it's important to lay out why I got the fuck outta dodge and moved to Yuppieville, and what I think you should watch out for if you choose to move outside of town. It's basic street-smarts. Plus, many rural communities are still super backwards morally. Hence, is why I'm glad you didn't go to gramma's funeral. The last thing you'd needed to hear was the bullshit Pastor was spewin' that day."

I sat in silence while Dad took a swig of his water. I could tell he wasn't ready to get off his soapbox just yet. 

"Like I said, I had to take a break from the service. It struck a nerve, as you can probably tell."

"Yeah, you're definitely very passionate." I agreed, "But, continue. I wanna hear all about it!"

"Well..." Dad took in a breath, "One of the biggest gripes I had with Pastor that day, which is frankly something I've always took issue, was how much he... I guess, for lack of better terms... put down the emotions of grief and despair like they were sinful emotions to have. To do this, Pastor cherrypicked the fuck out of the Bible, and even Biblically-illiterate me saw just how the Scripture he used to Bible-bash us was so twisted. It was sickening!"

"Yeah, I agree." I nodded, taking a sip of water, "If you actually read the damn Bible, you'd find that even Jesus wept."

"Exactly," Dad nodded, "But, in churches like the one I was raised in, they completely ignore everything that isn't butterflies and unicorn farts. No wonder people are leaving the church in droves, even in those small towns."

"Yup." I nodded. 

"But, I've got another confession to make," Dad sighed, "I wanna go back to church. There's gotta be churches out there that aren't backwards cults."

"Wait... I thought you were a rabid atheist, Dad." I laughed, "The hell happened?"

"Well..." Dad trailed off as he searched for words, "I guess I was. But, not toward the character of Christ. Christ- whether or not He existed or was actually God- was a cool dude. I believe if people strove to emulate the person Christ was, this world would be a much better, much more giving and inclusive place. I was- and I guess, am- a foaming-at-the-mouth atheist towards the churches like I'd grown up in."

"But, those are bigots you're very much against," I pointed out, "Not necessarily God."

"Well, right." Dad agreed, "As I said, I'm not angry at the being whom Christ was. Now, I'm not sure I believe in Him either. But, I damn sure am pissed at the church. I'm not sure how or why the church has so severely corrupted the message of Christ. But, whatever the reason, it's really fuckin' things up right now. And, was really fuckin' things up in the 80's and 90's with their Satanic Panic bullshit, which hasn't really gone away." 

Before I could interrupt my dad, he continued, "But, there is hope. This morning when we drove past that little church on Simms, I saw they had a little Pride flag posted on their sign. There's also another church near my house that has a Pride flag hung up in one of their front-facing windows. Seems like the church might finally be reforming, one little place at a time. Give it ten or fifteen years, and maybe that little Lutheran church I grew up in will follow suit. And, maybe I'll find God again."

For the first time in a long time, I was literally speechless, but in a very good way. I just couldn't believe my ears; my cynical, pessimistic, atheistic, everything-will-be-just-fine dad had clearly undergone some major growth over the last twenty years or so. Since I turned 21, my old man seemed to know that I was ready to hear his side of things. That I could fully understand and digest why he was the way that he was. And, perhaps we could finally rectify our rocky, distant past.

Perhaps, this was God's way of answering one of my last major unanswered prayers: the one wherein I begged for a closer relationship with my father. One where I sobbed for healing and understanding, for a father I could love and trust and be close with. A prayer that would take a major miracle to answer. 

And... well. I think I got my answer. 

Golden light bathed the landscape as I stepped out of my Xterra. It had been several days since that conversation I had with my dad, and I finally felt I'd process it enough to bring my thoughts to the Lord in the seclusion of nature in the valley. 

For once, it was cool enough to wear a light hoodie. Swift gusts of wind stirred up by the setting sun and a cold front, hissed through the waist-high grass as I walked uphill against it. I reveled in the sweet scents of prairie grass and wildflowers the wind brought to me. I could even catch faint whiffs of a couple red cedars planted on the ridgetop, the scents of which got stronger and stronger as I got closer to them. But, aside from the wind, there was no other noise. It seemed like the birds and bugs had taken shelter from its strong gusts, or at least their noises were drowned out by the wind as it whistled past my ears. 

At the crest of the hogback, I was stopped mid-stride, not just by the breathtaking views from up there. But, for the second time in a week, I felt His awesome presence. However, along with the presence of God, I also felt the presences of my grandparents. On one side, I was convinced my grandma Shirley was stood there. On the other side stood my grandpa Bob. I was completely frozen in awe, overwhelmed by the strong and loving presences of both the Lord and my paternal grandparents. 

In my mind's eye, I could perfectly picture my grandparents standing on either side of me, just admiring God's creation with me. It was so vivid it was almost scary. A part of me wondered if I was going crazy. But, as soon as I had that little thought, in my mind's eye, I saw my grandpa point to a little spot on the opposite hogback, just below a small Red Cedar growing among some white sandstone boulders. For a moment, I couldn't see what my grandpa saw. But, then it moved its head. 

A huge mule deer buck was bedded down exactly where I saw my grandpa Bob point to in my mind's eye, instantly dispelling my worries that I was actually losing my mind. My heartrate instantly sky-rocketed and I huffed like I'd just sprinted a mile. The emotions and physical sensations I felt at that moment remain indescribable. It was as though God had brought my soul up to heaven, or perhaps brought heaven down to me. But, as soon as heaven touched my soul, it was gone, along with the souls of my grandparents. Yet, the buck remained. 

My emotions remained intense. I couldn't believe what was going on. All I could do to help myself remember that moment was try to get a couple pictures of that buck bedded down on the hogback, his reddish-brown body barely visible to my eyes, let alone my phone's. But, I did get those pictures, and I will forever hold those grainy, barely-comprehensible photos of that buck on the hogback, near and dear to my heart. I will hold them as a reminder of the evening I got to show my grandma Shirley and grandpa Bob just a fraction of the place I come to connect to God and keep my body healthy. 

But, God wasn't quite done with me just yet. As I hiked (or more accurately, staggered) back to the Xterra, I knew in my heart that I, and my father, were both ready to rekindle our relationship. To heal our wounds. To bury our hatchets. To reconnect as all fathers and daughters should. 

While I'm not sure what lies ahead in terms of how Dad and I will go about reconciling with each other, I'm no longer afraid or even hesitant to do so. And, that's fucking huge! It's something I never would've entertained the thought of just six months ago. Yet, thanks to God, the impossible is, indeed, possible.

Also, I think I can comfortably answer the question, "Is there life after death?", with, "Yes, there is, in fact, life after death."

 

Note: While I may consider this piece done by the previous page, the story continues still. 

 

This time last year, I boarded a plane to say my final goodbyes to my dying grandma Shirley. My heart still clearly aches from that day. I didn't really realize I still harbored so much pain in my soul until I was scrolling through my old laptop looking for pictures to use in my travel presentation, and ran into the pictures and videos I took in December of last year. The last pictures of my grandma and the farm as it was. The farm I remember it being my entire life. 

Things have since radically changed, though I haven't yet gone back to Minnesota to check for myself. However, I have been kept in-the-loop through my family, which has been helpful and nice to hear, though still damn-near impossible for me to fully imagine. I hope that makes sense.

A few months after grandma passed away, most of my family and some of the neighbors came together to clean out the farmhouse of all the junk that's accumulated in that place for God-knows-how-long. After sifting through everything to find antiques that could be auctioned off, as well as items that ought to be saved and kept within the family, everything else was literally thrown out the windows into giant piles of junk around the house. Once the entire upstairs was completely empty, one of my cousins used a front-end loader tractor to scoop up all the piles of junk into a large bin, which was then hauled away to the landfill. 

After this massive cleanup, I got a large plastic bin full of stuff that my family figured I'd want, including a pair of whitetail deer antlers my grandpa Bob had hunted, to a portfolio of antique horse paintings my grandma Shirley willed to me. There were other things too: photo albums, keepsakes, a deer painting that hung in the dining room, a drawing of a couple hereford steers, an old quilt.

It took me a couple of months to garner the strength to go through that bin of stuff once I received it. When I lifted the lid and began to pull things out one-by-one, I sobbed. That sting of death is just... there are no words to describe how powerful it is. But in a way, going through those special items, smelling the scent of the old farm wafting out of that plastic bin, feeling the softness of the quilt and the solid beams of the antlers from my grandpa's buck. It was very much healing and comforting. 

Now, a few months after going through that bin full of items specifically willed to me by my paternal grandparents, I'm feeling that horrible sting of death again. Not just because of the pictures I came across on my laptop, but because of my dog, Hunter. My sixteen-year-old Cocker Spaniel Poodle who has been by my side for the last eleven years of my life, is really showing severe signs of slowing down. He's skinny and weak. Even with pain medication, he struggles to climb the stairs and go outside. He won't eat unless I hand-feed him spoonfulls of wet kibble slathered in peanut-butter, or cook him special chicken and beef dishes. His nose is too tender for him to push open the doggy-door, so I have to let him in and out. 

Overall, it's clear to me that it's time to schedule an appointment with a vet who can come to my home and help my beloved old dude go on to the next life. I also have access to a 24 hour emergency vet who can be at my house in less than two minutes, just in case things go south really fast. However, picking up the phone to schedule an appointment with the at-home vet is almost harder than picking up a hundred-pound dumbbell with my pinky finger. Even though I don't want Hunter to suffer more than he already has (and is). 

Hunter was a Craigslist rescue, hours away from ending up at the local kill shelter, when Mom and I found him and picked him up. 

His previous owners didn't treat him very well. He was extremely skittish of people and would flinch at the slightest sudden movement or noise. He also didn't know how to go outside to go to the bathroom, as his previous owners never trained him (they just let him go in his crate). He was also matted when we first got him, and needed an emergency trip to the nearest groomer to make him clean and comfortable again. Once home, Hunter ran and hid under the bed for the rest of the night, refusing to leave. 

A few weeks later, however, Hunter was a completely different dog. Well... to the extent that he could "dog". He wasn't interested in toys or walks or other dogs. We bought him all sorts of toys and balls, but he couldn't care less about them. All he wanted was food and to be as close to his humans as possible, 24/7. He didn't have his own bed, because the couch and our beds were his. While we waited for his fur coat to grow back after we rescued and shaved him, we bought him a winter coat and little boots. He didn't mind the winter coat, but he hated the boots so much that he just flopped over like a fainting goat with them on. 

Hunter quite literally went everywhere with me. While I was still going to my dad's for the weekends, I'd bring Hunter along. Whenever I hung out with my grandparents, Hunter was right there with me. Hunter even came to dinners and birthday parties with me, where he learned how to trust more and more people, and beg for human food. He was never too fond of other dogs, but he wasn't ever aggressive towards them either. He was just... indifferent... to other dogs. 

Even now, as he sleeps at my feet and next to Penny, he couldn't care less about Penny. He simply ignores her, even if she tries to get him to play or cuddle.

All Hunter has ever wanted was to be close to me. That's been even more true for the last several months or so. I can't even take a shower without Hunter demanding to be let into the bathroom with me. And, when I leave for class, Hunter sleeps under my bed, or will even knock over my dirty laundry hamper to sleep in my dirty clothes till I come home. In the evenings, while Mom has been home and I've been at writer's, Hunter will pace around the house like a shark from the moment I leave till the moment I come back. Once I'm home, he'll follow me wherever I go, and lay down wherever I sit. 

Also, since Hunter's stopped eating his kibble, I've been sharing meals with him, literally. Earlier this evening, I cooked a couple steaks, steamed some rice and carrots, and reheated some turkey for the two of us to enjoy. While I ate from the big plate, Hunter sat beside me and slowly ate his portion from the little plate. Once we were both done, I washed our dishes and helped Hunter go outside in the windstorm (Hunter, for as long as I've had him, has hated wind and cold. The only way he'll go outside in such weather is if I go out there with him and stand right next to him). Then, I picked him up and carried him to my bed, where he is now fast asleep. 

So long as he's standing, eating, drinking, and going outside, I feel okay(ish) about keeping him around. But I don't want to wait till he's no longer eating, drinking, going outside, and/or standing on his own. I want to show him some compassion and mercy, instead of keeping him around till the very, very end, when he can't even move on his own. I know people who have waited till the very last second to let go of their dogs. I don't judge those people for keeping their dogs around like that, but it's not something that I can do and not feel immense guilt about. 

From the day I first got him, I promised Hunter that I'd do my best to make sure he left this earth as painlessly as possible when it was his time. Over the years, I've kept that promise close to my heart. And now... as hard as it is, as heartbreaking as it is... I will have to make that call to the vet very soon. And let Hunter go in the peace and comfort of our own home. 

I never wanted Hunter to die at the vet's. Going to the vet with Hunter has always been a horrible experience for the both of us. He knows exactly where the vet's office is and will freak the fuck out whenever he merely thinks we're going there. So, no. Hunter will not die on a cold, stainless-steel table at the vet's office. He will die at home, surrounded by loved ones and familiar sights and smells. And I will likely have him cremated and brought back home, too. 

Death is tough with any loved one, regardless of if it's a close family member, a close friend, or a close pet. I grieve all of their losses the same way. The pain feels just as profound losing Hunter, as it felt when I lost my grandma Shirley, my grandpa Bob, several of my great-grandparents, the list goes on. I wouldn't wish this pain on my worst enemy, yet everyone feels it in some way or another. 

However, as excruciating as it always is to let loved ones move on from this life to the next, I say it's worth every tear. 

I'd rather lose a loved one, than never have a loved one to lose. The unconditional love, joy, comfort, and comical chaos Hunter brought to me and my family, was/is worth the grief I now feel. Even though Hunter is still alive as I type this, snoring away at my feet, I'm still grieving his loss just as much as I will when he's gone. But, it's worth it. The bond Hunter and I have shared for over eleven years is worth every tear I now shed. 

When Hunter passes, I will immediately start looking for a new rescue to bring home with me. This new rescue will not replace Hunter at all. Rather, it will be my way of continuing my own personal mission to give as many mutts a loving home and family as I can, one little misfit at a time. Indeed, Hunter was/is a misfit. I don't know for sure where he came from, or even if he's a cockapoo at all (he was advertised as a Wheaten Terrier on Craigslist, even though he neither looks nor sounds like a Wheaten Terrier. The first vet we took him to told us he was a cockapoo). But, I do know that he came into our home a little matted ball of depression and anxiety. And he will be leaving it having been the one of the most spoiled and loved dogs the world has ever seen. 

I can only hope and believe that Christ will be right there to help Hunter along after the vet puts him to sleep. 

Prayers for myself, my family, and Hunter are very much appreciated, now and forever. 

 

Today, after several tries, I finally got in contact with a hospice vet. It wasn't that I couldn't get a hold of a vet at first, in the sense that they weren't picking up or calling me back. I just couldn't get myself to press "send" in my email, or "call" on my phone. Once I did, however, I cried and held Hunter closer to me as I discussed his current quality of life with the person on the other end of the line.  

I couldn't garner the strength to set up a date, though it was nice to hear a compassionate, experienced voice on the line. It's hard. It's so damn fucking hard! Words can't even begin to convey how hard it is to lose those you love so much. 

Hunter is still here, at the moment. He is laying on my feet, snoring away as usual. But, he didn't want to eat this morning, and he refused to eat entirely this evening. He only ate when I began to pick and eat bits of turkey and steak off his plate this morning, but wouldn't even touch the steak in my hands this evening.

Hunter's always gone crazy for food. Just a few weeks ago, I caught him on one of the dining chairs trying to get to a slice of pizza my brother left on his plate. And, up until today, I couldn't even pull open a plastic bag without Hunter perking up. But now, as he sleeps at my feet and I snack on some gummy bears, he is ignoring the crinkling of the gummy bear bag, just like he ignored tonight's steak. 

My chest literally hurts as I type this and watch his visible ribcage rise and fall. And it literally hurt earlier too, especially when he woke me up at 4:30 AM pacing around my bedroom whining, only to hack up another "present" for me in the middle of my bedroom floor.  I raced to get him out of my bedroom and outside before he had another accident, but he refused to go outside due to the wind. He literally turned and tried to bite my hands as I was trying to pick him up.  I was going to bring him out anyway (to a sheltered part of the yard where there was no wind) when a huge widowmaker crashed down from my Cottonwood tree, right where I wanted to bring him. 

After that, Hunter let me pick him up without any issues, but I brought him into the bathroom instead, so he could do whatever he needed to do on tile instead of on carpet. I can't help but think there was some sort of Divine Intervention in that moment. Hunter has saved my life before. He brought me joy and comfort when I was at my sickest. He gave me a reason to get out of bed in the mornings when I was at my lowest. I can't help but think God gave Hunter one last chance to protect me very early Friday morning, when the wind was at its worst, and he was at his sickest. 

Unfortunately, in the bathroom, he got sick a third time. Though, after that, he seemed to be feeling a little better. Still not great, but well enough to follow me back down into my bedroom, where I picked him up and put him on the bed. He spun around a few times to move the blankets around, then laid down in the crook of my legs, resting his head on my knees.  

 

 

Due to the severity and the speed of his progression, I finally forced myself to call the vet this Friday afternoon and have them do a home visit tomorrow morning, a Saturday. Hunter has stopped eating and drinking entirely. His breathing is growing more labored. He doesn't walk well, and his back cracks each time I pick him up and carry him. 

As hard as it was to call, and as hard as it is to watch my beloved old dog succumb to his old age, euthanasia is the right thing to do, given his age and condition. I have trimmed his fur and saved a few clumps of it. I also have numerous pictures I've taken of him over the years that will help me remember him. Of course, I will also keep his collar; the same collar and tag he's had since we first got him. The same collar that used to fit snuggly around his neck, to hanging off his neck by several inches due to his weight loss. 

I will also have him cremated and his ashes returned to me. After all, he's never been an outdoorsy dog. He's always been a cuddly couch potato. So, I think the best way to honor Hunter is to keep his remains with me in my bedroom. Probably in an urn right on my nightstand. 

As heartbroken as I am, I am still so thankful that Hunter's euthanasia can happen at home, with me right there with him. The vet will give him a pill to sedate him first, before injecting him with the medication that will stop his heart. He will be fast asleep before he dies, so he won't get scared of the needle. Better yet, he will be at home, surrounded by his family, Penny included. 

What happens then? I don't know. I want to believe that like humans, animals also have souls that will go to be with the Lord. I want to believe that this isn't The End of my journey with Hunter. I want to believe that when Hunter dies, he will not just be in the presence of the Lord, but he will also become the companion of my paternal grandparents, and my great-grandparents, perhaps even my great-great grandparents. And, when I die, Hunter will be with me once again. 

At least, that's what I want to happen. That's what I pray will happen. That's what my faith has led me to believe will happen. 

Because... well... I now believe that there is life after death. And, I don't believe the ability to live on beyond our bodies is something only humans get to enjoy. I believe if there is life after death, it is something that all sentient creatures are granted. Hunter included. Penny included. All animals included. 

I realize that brings a new, interesting question to explore: what about the animals I've hunted and eaten? Do they also have souls? Will they also meet me in heaven? Well... I think so. What that means, however, I don't have a clue. Right now, my heart's way too damn sore to really think about that. Not because I'm afraid of what might happen when I am confronted by the pronghorn I've taken the lives of (I'm not afraid). But, because... right now, as I type this, I am less than several hours away from giving my beloved dog the good, peaceful, painless death he deserves. Just like I gave those pronghorn, and I hope to give every other animal I ever hunt, fish, and adopt into my family. 

Sure, the methods may be different. Hunter will be sent off to the Lord with a relaxation pill and a silent injection that he won't feel. The pronghorn I've hunted were both taken by a .243 round traveling twice as fast as the speed of sound, and their souls left this realm before their bodies hit the ground. But, the sentiment is very much the same. Every living creature deserves to live and die with dignity, faith, and love. 

In my living room where Hunter will be put down, our faith is displayed everywhere. Mom and I are both Christians, but she and I approach Christianity pretty differently. Mom's faith is a lot more overt and... Orthodox... than mine. Which, is perfectly okay. Her faith is just as powerful and valid as mine. 

In the living room, there are several crosses displayed on the walls and on the built-in bookshelves by and above the mantle. Above the mantle is a canvas with the words, "It is well with my soul..." calligraphied on it in big, bold letters. There are well over a dozen well-worn bibles on that bookshelf, alongside theology books, books about individuals' faiths, self-help-style books about trusting and believing in God, etc. There are also a handful of statues of saints on those shelves, one of them being of Saint Francis of Allisi, who was famous for loving animals and talking/preaching the Gospels to them. 

Mom also has a few bottles of holy water, as well as large collection of Catholic prayer candles, most of which she got from her trips to Mexico. Perhaps, in Hunter's honor, we'll light one. Of course, Mom has a lot of Jesus stuff, too: art, statues, Bible verses written in red, crosses. And, we can't forget about the growing number of biblically-inaccurate angels she's collected on those shelves, too. 

In short, Hunter will be dying in the most sacred room in our house, with Mom, Jack, Penny, and myself with him as he transitions from this realm to the next. 

Oh, how blessed are we to provide Hunter such a peaceful, loving passing. 

Hours ago, I held Hunter in my arms as he took his last breaths. The vet who came was an angel. She was right there with me as Hunter passed. He died in the living room, right where I wanted him to. I even had a CS Lewis lecture playing quietly on the TV. Right as Hunter took his final breaths, Lewis was talking about the passing of his wife.

"...And what a gift..." Lewis sighed just as Hunter took his final breath. 

I couldn't have asked for a better, more peaceful, poetic passing. Hunter died listening to the words of one of the few Christian theologians who managed to drag me out of the pit of nihilistic atheism. I hope, now, that Hunter is enjoying the Paradise Christ talked about. And one day, I believe we will meet again.    

Still, the pain is immense. I haven't stopped sobbing for over a day now. I can't eat. I can't sleep. Physically, pain shoots throughout my body from my heart with each beat. It's hard to breathe. I'm nauseous and dizzy. I am just... broken. 

No matter how many times I'm confronted with death, it never gets easier to deal with when it actually happens. Especially when your loved one literally dies in your arms, as Hunter did. 

I know I gave him the best damn life and death anyone could ask for. This morning, when I reluctantly got out of bed after holding Hunter all night long, it was like we both knew. Hunter didn't even try to move or get out of bed. He just laid there, staring at me as I got dressed. Then, I swaddled him in a favorite blanket of his and carried him into the living room, where Mom had laid down another blanket for him to die on. 

Hunter was absolutely ready to go today. He wouldn't eat. He wouldn't drink. He could hardly stand anymore. He slept in my arms as I went through the paperwork with the vet on my living room floor. He didn't even flinch when the vet injected him with anesthesia (he refused to eat the pill, even when it was slathered in peanut butter and wrapped in cheese). Then, as the wind comes and goes, so did Hunter. I felt him take his final breath. I closed his eyes as his soul faded into the next life. Then, together, the vet and I folded him up in his blanket, and I carried him to the car. 

In two weeks, I will pick up his ashes, which will be kept in a wood and glass case with his picture on it. I also have a large plastic baggie full of his fur, along with his collar. Still, the pain remains. There are no words to describe how utterly excruciating it is to lose those you love so dearly.

Hunter passed away almost exactly a year after my grandma Shirley passed away. I remember sobbing like this while on the farm in Minnesota. I refused to sob around my grandma. I refused to let her see this side of me. But, damn. Did I cry. Damn, am I sobbing now. 

To make things harder than they already are, my grandma Connie has come down with covid. It's only day one, but it's already severe enough for her to go to the hospital. She's vaccinated, and I know there are treatments now that can help her. But, I can't help but fear the worst for her as well. 

I'm trying so hard to remain hopeful and strong. But, I can only do so much. In fact, the only thing I can do at the moment is write. 

This time last year, I remember standing in the middle of barren cornfields on my family's land, halfway between my uncle Wes' and the farm. I remember sobbing loud and hard, shoulders heaving from the grief. I remember having so much to shout at God. I remember how it felt to rage against the Lord, shouting obscenities and insults at the slate grey skies. I'm surprised that nobody heard me. If they did, they haven't told me they did. Regardless, all I could do in that moment was fall completely apart, because I saw what the cancer was doing to my grandma, and it broke me. 

And, how did God respond? Once I'd stopped shouting for a moment, I heard a laughing screech from above. When I glanced upward, a huge bald eagle soared just above me, not even ten feet in the air. It circled me once, then landed gracefully in a small grove of nearby oak and ash trees, where he then continued to call. At that moment, I remember my rage disappearing as I was filled with awe. I still cried, though, for I was overwhelmed with so many emotions at once. 

"Th...Thank... You..." I stuttered aloud as I bowed my head and limped back to Wes', feeling the presence of the Lord walk beside me. 

I am certain Hunter also had some form of cancer, as all old dogs tend to have. His symptoms mirrored my grandma's almost to a T. And, that's part of what's made these last few months of his life so fucking hard. 

But, I'm glad that I was there for him in his final days. I truly believe God gave me Hunter to help me survive my childhood. Now that I have reached the "wise old age" of twenty-one, Hunter was allowed to go back to where he came from. He'd done his duty as my companion, up until his very last day. Now, he's somewhere within those pearly gates, waiting with my passed loved ones for me to return. I miss him so much already, but I hope that he doesn't miss me. I'm probably gonna be stuck on earth for at least another fifty years. I don't want Hunter to spend the next 350+ dog years waiting for me like he'd wait for me to come home each day. 

Thankfully, I believe that time works very differently beyond the veil. Perhaps, the moment he took his final breath, his paws landed on the soil of the new heaven and new earth, with me right there with him. Indeed, it feels as though a chunk of my soul was ripped from me the moment he died, and is now serving as a placeholder of sorts in the presence of God... If that makes sense. 

Hunter and I were inseparable from the day I first got him. I am led to believe that if I didn't have a dog to take care of during my childhood days, I wouldn't have survived. Hunter gave me an immediate purpose each and every day. I couldn't stay in bed forever, for I had a dog to feed. When I was at my saddest, most depressed and anxious, Hunter was there, snuggled up against me. I can't tell you how many times I've sobbed into his fur, and how many times he's pressed his entire body against mine, begging for my undivided love and attention. Or how often he's sat in my lap while I've played video games, or eaten meals, or worked on schoolwork, or simply chatted with loved ones. 

In 2018, just as I was regaining my physical strength after my long fight with Pseudomonas, Hunter walked right alongside me. With his help, I slowly but surely worked up the strength to be able to walk to and from the library for school. Then, as he aged, my mom and I went to every damn vet in the state to get him the best care he could ever have. At home, he napped with me. He ate with me. He shared my bed and meals with me. He followed me literally everywhere I went, and would scratch and cry at the door if I closed it before he could get into the same room as me. Not a day went by where Hunter wasn't with me. 

For that, I am forever grateful to have been his chosen human. 

Now, he is no longer here. But, my God... he was so ready to go today. Had the vet taken an hour longer to arrive, I am almost certain that Hunter would've gone on his own. 

These are the days I dreaded the most when Trikafta came along. But still, I am glad that I was there for Hunter right as he died. I feel so tremendously honored to have been holding onto his frail little body as his soul left it, in the comfort of my own home, with Bibles at our side, crosses on our walls, effigies of saints and angels and Christ on the mantle and shelves above us, listening to CS Lewis on the TV talk about what it was like to lose the love of his life. 

Because... in a way... Hunter was the love of my life, too.

A true gift from God.

May we meet again, my little old man. 

 

 

 

 CS Lewis: My Life's Journey: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96uT-BvRi-k&t=4703s

Finally, I will be putting this video on loop for as long as I have to. I first discovered it when I was fourteen years old and struggling with the reality of Cystic Fibrosis and my dad's relationship with his wife. I listened to it constantly when I effectively lost my faith in 10th grade, because I longed for God but couldn't yet believe in Him. I listened to it often again as I lay awake in a hotel suite in Canon Beach, Oregon, staring down a vial of Pseudomonas-destroying phages. Again, I listened to it when my grandpa Bob died, and as my health deteriorated again shortly thereafter, and again when the pandemic began, and again when my grandpa Lyle almost died of a heart attack, and again when I heard the news of my grandma Shirley's cancer. And, again... as I prepared my beloved old dog for his journey to the other side, and held him in my arms as he died. 

 

Also, I don't know how I found this article, but it has been helpful to read, and often closely mirrors my personal views on life at the moment (though I don't necessarily agree with all of this professor's positions). I've probably read it about five times now:

https://theotherjournal.com/2006/10/theology-from-the-pet-side-up-a-christian-agenda-for-not-saving-the-world/

 

 

Note: But wait... there's more!

Mom and I share a bit of an open secret: at home, we have what we affectionately call a “ghost dog”, and it’s been around for as long as we’ve lived in this house (so it’s not Hunter, sadly). 

We call it a "ghost dog" because, the first time it made its presence known, it took a ring that belonged to my great grandma, hid it for two weeks, then put it right in the center of Hunter’s dog bed (which he never used). Since then, random things have often gone missing, but have always been found in weird places: inside Penny’s kennel (which we no longer use), the top shelf of the towel closet upstairs, my bathroom sink, hung up on a low tree branch outside, on top of the box freezer in the garage, in a drawer in the fridge, etc. 

Whatever this “ghost dog” is, it isn’t malicious. It’s just… weird… and I don’t have any explanations for it. Nor does my mom. And yes, we’ve checked for basically every problem we could possibly think of, from possible Carbon Monoxide poisoning, to some weird form of Psychosis or Sleep Walking, to someone playing pranks on us, to Penny being a naughty little jerk, etc, etc. But, we’ve come up with no natural explanations, even though we experience this weird phenomenon (among others) in our house pretty regularly. And we’ve experienced it for years. 

For some reason, when this “ghost dog” messes with me, it goes after my keys. The first time my keys went missing, it was only the ignition key to my Xterra (the key somehow got removed from the metal keyring). I looked everywhere for that key: in the house, in the car, in my bags, in the washer and dryer, on the driveway, on the sidewalk, on every shelf in the house. I even knocked on my neighbors’ doors and asked if they’d seen a Nissan key anywhere. Finally, after two hours of tearing up the house in search of it, I decided the best thing to do was use the spare key to go to Ace Hardware to spend $200 on a new key. 

However, because my Xterra had an aftermarket remote start installed, the workers at Ace suggested I go to the Nissan dealer to get a new key, because they weren’t confident that they could properly program the new key to the Xterra. But, for reasons I can’t recall, I decided to go home instead and planned to get a new key the next day. At home, Mom suggested that I check every nook and cranny one last time before going to bed. So I did, and guess what I found right smack dab in the middle of the driver’s seat in my Xterra?

The missing ignition key. 

Yeah… I can’t even begin to explain that shit.  

Since then, my keys have gone missing several times, each time ending up in places I wouldn’t have ever put them. Most notably, I once found my entire lanyard of keys strung up on the Ponderosa tree in my backyard, just swaying in the wind. And this was in the morning when I was home alone, as Mom and Jack had gone to Seattle a few days before. I didn’t tell anyone, because I knew nobody had been in my house to take the keys and put them on a low-hanging bough (I checked the cameras), and I didn’t want to freak my mom out. 

However, a few months later (or about a month ago), Mom found the window in the guest bedroom was open and the screen had been removed. Just a few hours before, she’d been in that room putting clean covers on the bed, and the window was closed. Plus, it was cold outside, so there was no reason to leave a window open. Understandably freaked out, she bolted downstairs and made me investigate the situation with her. She was worried that someone had broke in through the window and was hiding in our attic (the attic entrance is also in that same guest room). But, there were no signs that anyone had clambered into the attic (there would’ve been insulation and bits of popcorn ceiling on the floor had someone crawled up there), and I was way too chickenshit to check out the attic for myself. 

Instead of shoving me into the attic with a tactical flashlight against my will, Mom checked our outdoor security cameras, as they would’ve activated and recorded any unwanted intruders. They had activated several times that day, but only because either one of us or the dogs had triggered them. There was, however, a recording from the night before at exactly 5:00 AM. Nervously, Mom watched the footage on her phone. Thankfully, instead of a masked intruder, we captured a very cute video of two foxes playing with my brother’s whiffle balls on the back porch. 

Needless to say, we had no explanation for how the window opened and the screen popped out of it, when nobody had been in that room or had climbed up onto the roof to do it. So, we pinned the blame on the “ghost dog” and left it at that. I mean… who or what else could it have been (especially since Jack had been at a friend’s house all that day)?

These events, as weird as they are, don’t usually freak me out anymore. I’ve just come to accept that there are things in this world that are inexplicable, and there’s an apparent “ghost dog” in my house that likes to play hide-and-seek with our stuff. 

The only time I ever get freaked out by this stuff, is when Penny randomly growls and barks at empty spots in the house. She’s a rather loud and sensitive creature. A squirrel can’t bound across the lawn without her noticing it, so I usually ignore Penny’s barks and growls during the day. But, it’s much harder to brush her off when she’s standing stiffly at the bottom of the stair or staring into a random empty corner of a room, her tail between her legs as she barks at literally nothing. 

I’ve tried to come up with a logical explanation for her eerie behavior many, many times. I’ve listened for mice in the walls, checked outside for people, animals, and/or noisy vehicles, moved things such as pillows and chairs from those empty spaces thinking Penny was just scared of them (she has a lot of weird phobias). But I’ve never been able to figure out what she gets so freaked out about. And rarely does she simply stop barking and growling in these instances. She’ll just stand there, her tail low, her lips and hackles raised, barking and growling at something I can’t see or hear until I physically pick her up and carry her away. 

Maybe Penny just has doggy Schizophrenia, or thinks an outside noise is coming from a random empty corner due to the weird ways sound can travel. Or maybe my house is actually haunted, as ludicrous as that felt (and feels) to admit. It would be much easier for me to blame doggy Schizophrenia for Penny’s weird behavior if Hunter didn’t do similar things while he was around. 

Of course, Hunter was a lot less anxious and attentive than Penny, so he didn’t care as much when something seemed off. I guess that made things much scarier when gentle, old Hunter would suddenly perk up and growl and bark at empty places with a vicious look in his eyes, just like Penny now does (only with a lot less viciousness and a lot more fear in her eyes). 

What makes things weirder is the fact that neither of my dogs acted like this at any of the Airbnbs we stayed at during the pandemic. And the only time they ever acted weirdly at our Gig Harbor house was when there actually was an animal rummaging around in our trashcans outside. But never once did I catch either of them barking at empty spaces in the house for no apparent reason. That, and my keys never went missing, either. 

Needless to say, I have no idea what the hell’s going on. To be honest, I don’t really want to know. If you couldn’t tell, “paranormal” shit like this makes me very uncomfortable. I’m only writing about it now because I’ve been a little more open to talking about it since Hunter passed away, as death and dying, in my eyes, are spiritual matters. And, just like how I now believe that humans are immortal beings (our souls go on to live for eternity after our bodies die), I also believe that animals are immortal beings. 

But that also begs questions such as “Where does the soul go when the body dies?”, and “What else, besides God and previously-living souls, exist?”, and “What the fuck is my ‘ghost dog’ really?” 

Science can only answer so much. It can tell me what happens to the body after it dies, but science can’t yet explain why dying people are often visited by dead loved ones, who come to them as vividly as though they were still alive. Nor can it explain why my keys ended up on the Ponderosa tree in my backyard, when my cameras would’ve captured anyone moving in or out of the house and yard. Nor can science explain why my Pulmonary Atresia literally cured itself when I was in kindergarten, or how I just knew when my grandpa Bob passed away at the very moment he did. And, that really freaks me out, because I don’t like it when I can’t logically or scientifically explain something I’ve experienced or encountered. It makes me question my own sanity, as well as how much (or how little) I actually know about the world around me. 

Some people are perfectly comfortable with the mysteries and uncertainties of life. They even embrace it. But, to me, uncertainty is synonymous with anxiety. The unknown is terrifying to me. Yet, the only thing in life that is certain is uncertainty. Something, something, the more you know, the more you don’t know. 

Perhaps, it’s not the paranormal itself that scares me, but rather it’s not knowing that scares me. I don’t get scared when my keys go missing and I find them on the bookshelf behind the TV, because I’ve come to accept that it just happens in this house sometimes. But I definitely shit enough bricks to build a castle whenever Penny cowers, barks, and growls at something I can’t see or hear, no matter how hard I look for it. 

Keys going missing and ending up in weird places is one thing. My dog going apeshit over something I can’t detect is something completely different. 

But, what scares me even more than Penny’s freaky behavior, is when I get the sinking sense that I’m being watched when I know there’s nothing around to watch me. Thankfully, I’ve almost never felt that way at my house. But, damn did I feel that constantly whenever I stayed at my grandparents’ farmhouse in Minnesota. Everyone who visited that house felt that way, at some point or another. And, I can’t explain why. It seems like the more I try to scientifically rationalize it, the less rational it becomes because I can’t scientifically debunk the weird goings-on in that house. However, if I look at it from a spiritual lens, it makes perfect sense as to why that old farmhouse was (and is) so damn strange, and I don't know what to think of that. 

Same goes for the house I now live in. Scientifically speaking, I can’t explain why Penny sometimes acts the way she does, or why our things go missing and end up in the weirdest places. Scientifically speaking, I can’t explain why or how I felt Hunter’s presence leave his body when he passed away. Spiritually, however, I can make perfect sense out of all of it (which, depending on what it is, it’s either really freaky or really comforting). 

In Hunter’s case, I did, indeed, feel his soul leave his body and our house when it did. Thinking about it brings tears to my eyes and chills to my spine, as it was an intensely powerful experience I am both blessed and heartbroken to have felt. When he died, in my mind’s eye, I could literally see him get up out of his body, shake off his old age and pain, and trot off into the presence of the Lord with his little stubby tail wagging towards the sky. Several days after he died, I dreamt that he was he was asleep in the lap of someone I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a vivid dream, but it was enough of a dream to bring me peace-of-mind that Hunter’s safe, loved, and pampered wherever he now is. Most importantly, he isn’t spending his eternity waiting for me at the door like he did in life. 

In the case of my “ghost dog”, I don’t like to think about it that much because A) I can’t explain it in a way that gives me peace-of-mind, and B) the only other spiritual beings I’ve ever heard about were described as either angels or demons. And I don’t think angels are the ones balancing our tubes of toothpaste on the trim above the door leading to the laundry room. Seems like something a more mischievous entity would do. 

Plus, whenever I bring it up to people who don’t believe in this weird shit, at best they look at me like I have three heads, at worst they accuse me of bullshiting and/or of needing a comprehensive psychiatric assessment. Hell, if I bring it up to people who do believe in this weird shit, either they ask if they can come to my house to interact with it, or tell me that I ought to do something about it (as though I know what to do). 

So, for the most part, I keep it to myself, until either someone else brings it up, or something significant happens (like the death of a loved one) that brings these topics to the forefront of my mind, where they become something I think and write about until life finds something else to catch my attention with (such as college). 

But, since I turned in my final papers for the semester last week (and passed both classes with solid A's), all I'm left with is my "ghost dog", as well as the sting of death that is making this Christmas season a particularly hard one for me. I know it's natural (and, in a way, good) to grieve my passed loved ones, as well as reflect on my faith as the Holy Days come up. But, it's neither easy nor very fun. It's painful beyond words, and spookier than Halloween, and all I can do to deal with it is to write about it.