I can’t be concerned about the logistics

of how God works things out,

or the trouble He goes to to bring me to a place free of distractions

so I can soak in His healing love.

It doesn’t matter that what I signed up for was not what I did,

nor can I dwell on the wonder of how I can travel 4,365 miles from home

and be at home…and part of a family.

It does no good to try to figure out how, in a Methodist church in Nikiski, Alaska –

on the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death – we would sing

the only song that was sung at her funeral.

There is no way that I could calculate the probability that clouds would roll in

when we started chopping down that cow parsnip,

and the sun would come out just as we finished.

No, I can’t be concerned about the logistics

of how God works things out.

I can only accept the miracle.