In September of 2023, Bob and I moved to Friends House. It all happened quickly, a mere five months after getting word a place here was available. We were still suffering the after-shocks of buying this place and clearing out and selling our old Victorian farmhouse where we’d lived for 39 years.

Over those years, we had restored the home, room by room. And we had planted and tended gardens, put in maple, oak, and holly trees, established a goldfish pond, raised our son here from babyhood to adulthood. We knew by heart practically every blade of grass, hillock, and stone on this 1½ acres of sacred ground. To leave it all behind was heartbreaking.

But in the midst of grieving what we’d given up and struggling to adapt to our new home, moments of astonishing grace happened. For instance, one day that first Fall, I took Annie, our golden retriever, for her early morning walk, along the path through the dark woods by the Friends School pond. Suddenly, we found ourselves literally blinded by the light in the midst of a sunny field. Off to the left, stood a majestic white oak tree. Its mighty branches reached out as if in supplication, dropping toward the ground and then up toward the heavens. As Annie and I stood, awed by this sight, a flock of bluebirds swooped low overhead. When we started to walk again, a few birds flew before us, then perched on the saplings lining the trail as if waiting for us to catch up. I had always seen bluebirds as omens of happiness. At this moment, I sensed some mystical force leading us on, affirming that all is—and would be—well.