As a massage therapist for Hospice, I visit you in your daughter’s home; McMansion. $2M at least, plus the thousands spent at Home Goods for decorative wall art. You lie there, slowly succumbing to the cancer that invaded your breast last spring, while you and a friend toured Spain and Italy. Travels you’d put off for nearly too long. Now, you rest in the large sunroom that used to be for recreation, your wig, your nail polish, your bedazzled baseball cap on the covered billiards table. I work delicately. Massaging your hands, your feet, while a woman, not the one you gave birth to; she’s asleep on the family room sofa, sits and waits. Your aide. She has traveled all the way from her home in Uganda to tend to you: check your tubing, administer your meds, keep your mouth and tongue moistened. Last visit, you were engaged, chatty. But today, you sleep through the massage. While I work, your aide listens to a live church service via the internet from her congregation back home. Miracles are everywhere. In this too big room, in this too big house, the afternoon sun glares at us, bakes us. Not unlike, I imagine, the African sun she’s remembering. I watch: her hands reaching up into the air and waving. God is good! Her face beams with light from the song of her choir, 6,000 miles away. And across all that distance, for a moment, in this room, with your life nearing it’s end, we give praise.