Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

The holiday season arrives each year dressed in bright lights and confident cheer, announcing itself as a time when everyone is supposed to feel warm, grateful, and whole. Songs insist on joy. Social media posts glow with parties and matching sweaters. Calendars fill with gatherings and traditions. But sometimes this season quietly overlaps with something much heavier: reality—illness, exhaustion, and a sadness that feels out of place among all the celebration. Being sick during the holidays carries a particular loneliness. Sickness already narrows the world—your body asks you to slow down, to cancel plans, to listen closely to discomfort. When it coincides with a season that emphasizes togetherness and energy, that narrowing can feel like exclusion and loneliness. You may watch celebrations from a distance, physically or emotionally unable to participate. Even minor illnesses can feel larger in December, as if they are stealing something precious and irreplaceable. There is also the e...

Sometimes I find myself going quiet. When a thought hits me, I usually share it immediately—with my husband, my sister, my kids, or a friend. I’m an open book. I wear my emotions on my face. But every now and then, a thought comes that feels almost sacred, and instead of speaking, I grow quiet. Sometimes I worry that what I have to say will be too much for some people—offensive to others, misunderstood, disrespected, or simply falling on ears unwilling to listen. In my worry over what other people think, I pull inward, try to make myself small, and stop sharing. That happened to me the other day at church—a place where I should feel safe sharing something sacred. Instead, I swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat as I felt a quiet prompting, a solemn recognition of a promise I made two years ago. We were talking about the importance of seeking validation vertically instead of horizontally—language I knew Keelie, my 20-year-old daughter with autism, wouldn’t be able to decod...

This week, I celebrate two bonus years. Two more years granted to me through the generosity and foresight, during a time of grief, of a donor family; the discipline and hard work of healthcare professionals; the love and support of family, friends, and the most wonderful husband; and by the sheer goodness of a loving God. At my recent follow-up visit with my transplant team, one of my favorite doctors asked what words I had to offer after two years. I blurted out, without much thought, “Don’t take it for granted.” But then I really got to thinking: what do I really want to say after this last year? While 2025—year two after transplant—challenged me in ways I could not have foreseen, it also blessed me in ways I previously hoped and prayed for. Looking back on it all, what have I learned? In an episode of Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast  Revisionist History , he talked about well-known celebrities and personalities and their 12 rules for life—rules like “Always stand up straight,” “Alway...

My stepdad was a man of simple abundance—and by abundance, I mean  abundance . The man was a bit of a hoarder. He collected things. He loved tools, electronics, toys—anything anyone might possibly consider useful. If it existed, odds were it had a home somewhere in his collection. He was also a connoisseur of little joys. He found pleasure in the simplest things. From him, I learned the satisfaction of an uncomplicated, unpretentious snack plate, assembled without fuss and shared with loved ones on a quiet Sunday evening at home. He loved food—especially sharing it. He learned to cook at a young age and even taught cake-decorating classes for a time. He passed his collection (read: hoard) of cake pans along to me. Whenever I feel compelled to bake a cake shaped like, say, a rocking horse, I know I’ll find the perfect pan in his stash. One of his favorite foods to share was Chinese food. Growing up, he’d hunt down the best Chinese restaurants, form friendships with the owners, and s...

I've been pondering lately how most people love a victor's tale. And, if not, how they then are quick to root for the underdog. If you think about it, more often than not, what catches the attention of most is a story of triumph: of challenges faced, odds defied, and struggles overcome.  It’s true—some people genuinely  love  a good tragedy. No judgment there. After all, many of the greatest works in literature are tragic at their core—think  Romeo and Juliet  or  Macbeth . If tragedy didn’t strike a deep, strangely satisfying chord in us, Shakespeare’s works would never have endured with such popularity. But what we really want is a neat and tidy ending. We crave stories that, while compelling, follow a predictable pattern and end tied up with a bow. We want an engaging exposition, a captivating rise in tension, an electrifying climax, and a clear, fulfilling resolution. In short, we want to be entertained! Also, we're uncomfortable sitting in discomfort, ...