The day had arrived that we had anticipated for so long. We loaded our new canary yellow Fisher mountain bikes in the back of a borrowed pickup truck and mom drove us to the outskirts of Austin. She parked under a shade tree in front of a little country church and waited with us while Bill and I (but mostly Bill) began the arduous task of loading our back packs and pannier bags onto the bikes. Mom and I made nervous conversation and I chewed on my cuticles.

It was my favorite kind of Central Texas evening. Early April, the oppressive summer heat hadn’t yet descended upon us and the air was warm, the breeze gentle. It was just right for shorts and bare feet. The kind of evening that invites a slowing down, a deeper breath. I stepped out onto my mom’s front porch to listen to the mockingbirds sing, wiggle my toes in the cool, green grass and reflect upon the life-changing adventure Bill and I were about to embark upon.

Several months before my father died everything began to go wrong with his body. First one thing and then another. Even though, at that point in my life, I had spent some time as a chaplain intern for a large trauma center and had been around people as they were dying, I was too close to my own situation to be able to see what was actually happening.

“Excuse me,” the nurse said politely. I looked up from my paperwork.

“The patient in room five is actively dying, and the family is requesting the chaplain.”

I put down my pen, pushed my chair away from the desk in the cozy office I shared with the Social Worker at Hospice Austin’s Christopher House, and made my way to room five. Pausing at the door to quiet myself, I knocked softly, then entered.