Buzzer beaters

(originally inspired on 4/11/26)

There are many things I'm grateful for (I hope they find their way into these reflections, in all sorts of unexpected places).

One of them includes having spent many years working in healthcare.

My clinical career began in an oncology hospital, and I couldn't have imagined a more profound teacher. I learned about people, illness, loss, resilience, and the ways we make meaning when life changes without our permission.

Most of all, I learned from patients.

Years spent sitting with people navigating serious illness changed the way I understand the body. Things I might once have regarded as ordinary began to feel worthy of wonder—the intricate dance of countless systems quietly working together, moment after moment, without asking for our attention.

I was reminded of this (unexpectedly) at a college basketball game.

Some friends and I had taken our daughters to a game at my alma mater. There was so much to enjoy: being in downtown Chicago, eating good food, singing and dancing along with the school band—and, for me, swimming happily in nostalgia.

Sitting in the stands brought me immediately back to my undergraduate years.

Our basketball teams were among the best in the league back then, and the games were exhilarating. I remembered sitting with friends, completely absorbed in the action. The lead changing hands. Timeouts. Regrouping. Impossible-looking shots.

And then, occasionally, the ultimate finish:

A buzzer beater!  The arena would erupt!

We would scream, jump, celebrate and, after an especially breathtaking win, sometimes run onto the court with everyone else.

At the time, none of this seemed remarkable.

It was just what our bodies did.

Decades later, sitting beside my daughter in that same atmosphere, I suddenly experienced those memories differently.

I thought about the patients I'd known.

And I felt profoundly grateful.

Grateful that all that excitement hadn't sent our hearts into distress.

Grateful that our bladders held up.

Grateful for legs that carried us down the stairs and onto the court.

For lungs that let us yell.

For bodies that jumped and danced and celebrated, without requiring us to think about everything happening beneath the surface to make any of it possible.

There was a time when all of that simply felt normal.

Now, I see something sacred in it.

So much of wellbeing is quiet.

We notice our bodies when something hurts, changes, falters, or demands our attention. But there are also countless moments when our bodies quietly carry us through our lives—allowing us to work, embrace someone we love, laugh until our stomachs hurt, dance to a familiar song, or run onto a basketball court after an impossible last-second shot.

Perhaps some of life's miracles announce themselves with a roar.

Others simply keep our hearts beating while we're busy cheering.

A Gentle Offering

May we occasionally notice what asks so little for our attention—the breath that arrives, the heart that beats, the body that carries us through another ordinary day. And may what once seemed merely normal become, every now and then, a quiet source of wonder.