I'm a cradle Roman Catholic who married into the Episcopal Church when the 1928 Prayer Book was still a pew staple. I remained in the Episcopal Church for 40+ years through political upheavals and several new versions of worship.

When I moved to Sewanee, it would've seemed solidly logical that I'd arrived at the vortex of Episcopalian worship because of the School of Theology and the 500 (only time I'll exaggerate here) Episcopal churches that dot the Cumberland Plateau. Well, that didn't happen and the reasons aren't necessary, but I have a checklist of wants and needs which determine my destination for worship. I'm just going to focus on one requirement.

I like Potluck Churches. Now surely, you realize I'm not just talking about food here. For me, Potluck Churches represent warmth, nurturing, variety, delicious surprises, hugs, classes that guide me to a better understanding of faith and self, a clarion voice from the pulpit, and so much more. I'm drawn to a community with women who gather to make prayer shawls, or dresses for beautiful children around the globe, or quilts for our hospitalized military, and so many other good causes that keep their fingers flying with loving purpose. I also do like those monthly potlucks a lot. My kind of church is the family room of my heart. And that's why I attend Morton Memorial Methodist in Monteagle, TN.

Like so many of us (um, maybe I should take full responsibility here) I sometimes get distracted during a sermon. Billy Graham or Martin Luther King could be at the pulpit and I'd still be vulnerable to wandering thoughts about my children or a grocery list or whatever minutia might race into my head. Mind you, and let me clarify, that my brain isn't totally absent during sermons and that was especially true this past Sunday. I actually took notes that I'm about to refer to.

This past Sunday our pastor, Amanda Diamond, sat beside the pulpit with a leg wrapped in a cast because of a nasty sprain and break. She wasn't feeling well at all. She was in a great deal of pain. But none of us knew. Amanda was born with a preacher's voice. She was born to teach. Last Sunday I was her grateful student. Her words were riveting and resonating and real.

The scripture was Mark 10:46-52. It's about the man who wants to see again.

Since my diagnosis, a newfound peace has entered my life and I haven't been able to explain it. I've even accepted the comfort of gratitude which is so counterintuitive to most thinking when one is handed a diagnosis that has no cure or treatment. This past Sunday, Amanda handed me words which sang through her own pain to succor me. (Amanda might at this moment be wanting to tell me to stop using such churchy words, but I like the word *succor*.)

This is how I can now explain my peace, my gratitude: I asked God for new sight and was given IPF. I've been blessed with a new perspective and that's how I embrace my illness with gratitude. It's all as easy as that - well, that and trust. Do I have a death wish? No! For goodness sakes, I've rented a place 5 blocks from Vanderbilt Medical to pursue the best care/solutions possible. But I do own an acceptance regarding whatever direction my health and life and essence flow.

Thanks for listening. Oh, and thanks, Amanda.