Purpose was the word from The Daily Word on February 5, 2026. One line stayed with me, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Frederick Buechner 

Those words steadied me. They met me mid-course, right as my flight plan changed. After a recent sleep study, I took trying to finally understand what might be behind a thirty-five-year run with insomnia, I learned that for about forty-seven minutes during the night, my oxygen level dips lower than it should. Not a crash. Not an emergency landing. Just enough of a drift for the doctor to say it could affect my heart over time. Given mild A-fib and SVT, conditions my cardiologist (I still can’t believe I have a cardiologist) isn’t concerned about, this quiet dip still mattered. 

I pushed back. This happens to other people. Not me. And yet, the adjustment arrived calmly and clearly from the doctor: nighttime oxygen. Like when I had to shift from my real eyes to prosthetics, this felt familiar—another moment when something I thought belonged to other people suddenly became mine. By evening, the equipment arrived. A machine about the size of a small carry-on suitcase. Functional. Loud. No poetry to it. Push a button. Breathe. Maintain altitude. 

Two oxygen tanks followed, which my inner child rejected outright. Tanks and balloons stir old memories and old alarms. For now, the tanks rest under my bed—grounded and still. The machine sits in a nearby closet with the door closed, humming like an engine idling through the night. 

Did it help me sleep? 

Hard to say. I woke often, listening to the steady mechanical rhythm; like flying with a new instrument onboard, one I hadn’t trained with yet. At 3:47 a.m., I was wide awake, aware of sound, air, and the quiet questions that show up when gravity loosens its grip. On one hand, I expect wholeness, harmony, and balance to be part of my life. And on the other, I’m learning how to claim them even when my body asks for accommodation. 

In an odd way, I deny being old. I feel alive. I feel present. I know myself as part of God. And as such, I claim wholeness. I trust good keeps meeting me, even when the route changes. I affirm, Divine wholeness is mine. I am whole in Spirit. And yes, I also take care of myself. 

This is where the transition happens. 

I have begun to think of my body as a spacesuit. The suit isn’t who I am. The suit is what carries me. It protects, supports, and adapts as my spirit moves through this atmosphere. The suit allows me to love, laugh, write, sing, stumble, rise, and keep going. And sometimes, I realize, the spacesuit needs recalibration; a new valve, a different setting for night flight. This doesn’t mean the explorer inside has failed. This means the mission continues.  

Then a line from Doris Hoskins surfaced, one I’ve seen her include often in her emails: 

“I live in harmony with my life’s unfolding.” 

Doris’ line felt like a course correction. Harmony with unfolding. Not fighting the current. Not forcing a return to a former altitude. Harmony with what’s emerging now. Harmony feels active to me; how I cooperate with what’s here. How I move with my body rather than against it. How I stay engaged with purpose while allowing adjustment. Harmony is learning how to move within present conditions. 

Even with a noisy machine by my bed. 

Even with a spacesuit that needs oxygen at night. 

Even when rest comes in segments. 

All is in divine order. I live my purpose. I write. I express. I show up as myself. 

The spacesuit may have a few evolving kinks, and the mission remains intact; to stay awake, stay willing, and keep navigating by inner vision. And maybe this isn’t mine alone. We each move through this life in our own version of a spacesuit; bodies that carry us, protect us, adapt with us, and sometimes ask for recalibration along the way. Accepting the adjustments doesn’t diminish the journey; it deepens it. When we stop resisting the updates and learn to live in harmony with what is unfolding, something shifts. Our perspective changes. And when we breathe into this change, we change the way we see, and we change the way we live.