On the eighth floor of the cardiac wing at the Toronto Western Hospital a man sits on a bench near the elevators.

This man has his shoes and socks off, his winter coat on. His feet, which are both resting lightly upon one of his wet shoes that he had turned on its side and covered with a sock, look swollen and cracked. Painful. He sits like this, his eyes closed, the palms of his hands facing upward, his lips moving gently. He has been called to prayer. His feet must not touch the ground. Behind him, there is a window through which you can see a huge, blue sky. The sky looks like it goes on forever. It looks like it’s everywhere. Sunlight takes seven minutes to reach the earth, and at the end of the journey it falls through this hospital window, illuminating a praying man. It’s all such a mystery. And all the people streaming in and out of the elevator give him a hard look when they first catch a glimpse of his exposed, wounded feet, but after a moment the looks become softer, much softer– each one of us there, now in the midst of prayer, too.

The morning is all freezing rain.

I have to wear a big blue poncho over my oxygen concentrator so that the moisture doesn’t damage the machine, and the tiny ice pellets coming into contact with it sound like kernels of corn popping, like flames crackling. Jones and I are happy enough. The rain, neither liquid nor solid at this point, is sparking freshly off our faces, it’s chemistry in the process of revision as it tumbles from one form to another.

Ted, who works for our landlord, is outside. He seems ancient, like he was born from the earth rather than flesh. His exterior more bark than skin. And he is reaching into a bucket of salt and bare-handing it onto the sidewalks. Like he’s feeding chicken. Like he’s scattering seeds. Up and down the street he wanders.

Jones and I make our way slowly and carefully toward daycare. Jones stopping for every fallen thing.

Jones climbing every mound of snow. Jones stomping every plate of ice. Before us are men shovelling the snow and slush from their part of the sidewalk. Maybe four or five of them stretching up the street. Each one feeling useful and alive in the elements, each one happy to have a weight to carry. A need to fill. Each one smiles and waves as we pass. My oxygen concentrator venting beneath the poncho so that it billows at regular intervals, pulsing– puffing out and then receding, again and again. Jones small and wild beside me, we’re anime characters now, passing through the ghost clouds of the day and into the great and mysterious universe waiting beyond our sight.

A cold morning.

The wind down the empty street invigorating, almost inspiring– a reminder that we are of this world, and not the other. Such deep in the bones gratitude in these moments. The day still brand new, still a kind of wilderness. A field of potential stretching endlessly before us. Jones sucks on a green lollipop. His favourite colour on account of the Hulk, the creature his three year old body most yearns for, and above us the sky is changing. The clouds tumbling. The blue of the sky often indistinguishable from the overcast grey, and all around us the stripped trees and withered vegetation. Jones wants to know where all the leaves have gone, and as I am explaining he sees a tree in a yard that’s been decorated for Christmas. He points and shouts, describing the colours and shapes like the miracles they are. And as we look up and through the tree, a cloudbank rolls away from the sun and for a moment we are struck blind by the radiance, and for the rest of our journey ghost lights flicker before us like answered prayers.

*******************************

It was almost three in the morning when she walked home after her shift at the bar.

This time, this twenty minutes, was a pause in her life that was always her favourite part of her day. It was like a clearing in the woods, an opportunity to slow things down and start the process of cleansing herself of all the want that filled the pub each night, clinging like smoke in her hair.  All the solitary men who needed drinks, who needed her to pay attention and make them feel valued as they sat there at the bar, searching each night for some unlikely route to love. And there were the needs of her coworkers, always wanting her to cover shifts so that they could either go to a party or recover from one, always needing her encouragement or complicity, and then simply the need to have a job, to get somewhere on time and serve the needs of others, always dressed in a prescribed, deadening uniform that made her feel like a stranger in her own life. All of this, all of this started to fall away when she walked toward home.

And one night she came upon a pigeon lying on the sidewalk.

She barely saw it, but she did, and as she leaned in toward it, the bird spasmed and flapped about in useless, frenzied circles. And then exhausted, collapsed and looked up at her, it’s chest heaving. She did not know exactly what she saw in those eyes, but she could not deny whatever it was that was calling her. It was her burning bush.

She picked the bird up, held it tight to her chest, and took it home. And as she delicately cleaned it in her kitchen sink, it struck her that she had never before felt so whole. Over weeks she nurtured this bird, restoring it to health and flight– and then other birds followed, and then others, and without any conscious intent her life began to organize and cohere around these lost and wounded creatures, and the person who inhabited the body she had travelled within for 37 years was finally discovered.

A dead calm.

Existing just outside of time, lives hang suspended there as people wait to discover the toll they must pay to continue their passage.

Sitting across from me an older, Indian woman reclined in her chair, drifting. Beautiful in sleep, her third eye combed unknown realms before she returned to her mortal body and woke into the hospital lights, tired and disappointed.

A man, his eyes closed, breathed carefully while listening to his iPhone. He was so concentrated, so brittle and alone, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly as he repeated the words he was listening to.

An incantation.

A mantra.

A prayer.

And as if in response, a tired nurse coming off shift– her jacket already on– approached him and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. His eyes flashed open in alarm, and she smiled, asking if there was anything she could do for him. He quickly, reflexively, shook his head no, but she stayed, and growing more beautiful by the word, she spoke with him until something inside the man softly dissolved and the rigidity passed from his body.

Later, a cab pulled up at one of the hospital’s entranceways and a man on oxygen support and his wife got out of the car. They were excited, moving quickly, as if on a game show or late for their vacation cruise of a lifetime. I got inside the car they just left and the cabbie was a happy and talkative. He told me that the guy who just got out, after years of waiting, after countless false starts and failed matches, had just received the phone call that he was going to get a lung transplant and to come in NOW! The man, the driver said, was going to be able to breath again, he was going to be able to go to the family cottage and once again, just like when he was a boy, go swimming in the lake at night.

And as we pulled away from the hospital we passed by a couple of petite Asian women in vividly coloured bubble jackets waiting at the crosswalk. Smiling, they leaned in toward the traffic, swaying slightly, like brightly-lit balloons just about to lift off into the sky.

is married to Heidi Cruz, an investment manager at Goldman Sachs. She was recently threatened by Donald Trump.

The story goes like this:

An ad designed to target Mormons shows a photo of Trump’s wife, Melania, in one of those sort-of nude poses that only exists in magazines.

Trump, furious, blamed Ted Cruz for this assault on decency and took to the attack on Twitter, posting:

“Lyin’ Ted Cruz just used a picture of Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his ad. Be careful, Lyin’ Ted, or I will spill the beans on your wife!”

Now, everybody is curious to know what’s in those beans Trump is threatening to spill.

I may know.

Heidi Cruz and I have been confidantes to one another for thirty years.

She is an absolutely lovely person, a shining example of what America, at her best, can be.

Heidi and I met at a Christian youth camp one summer when we were both teenagers. Heidi was the best prayer partner I have ever had. Such soft hands. Anyway, it was a magical summer, and though some might say what happened between us was a sin, I cannot believe that God would frown upon such love.

Although Heidi and I have not seen one another in a long time and we have chosen very different life paths, we have remained faithful pen pals over the years. Here are some of the more recent emails that she has sent me:

Michael, my Morningstar:

Ted’s appetites disgust me.

Wednesday was Star Wars night.

Again.

As always, I dressed up as a Storm Trooper and Ted as Padme Amidala.

Ted’s rape fantasies can be quite elaborate, but this night was mercifully straightforward. I took him with force, but as I was still mad about a comment he made about the “tone” of my grace over dinner, I was perhaps a little rougher than normal, and his shrieks and crying were so loud and authentic that the secret service burst into the room. This has happened four times now. We are getting a soundproof dungeon made for this activity now.

In Christ,

Heidi
xo

Michael, my port in a storm:

I have to say, I really love the work I do at Goldman Sachs. I just feel that I’m doing God’s work, that I can really help people by creating wealth and then letting some of that wealth trickle down.

Today I caught Ted putting on my lipstick while he was shaving.

I actually threw up.

You Michael, are my endless summer,

Heidi
xo

Michael, my child of God:

I cannot believe that Sarah Palin is going to be a judge on a reality TV show. Gag. I have met her, several times, and let me tell you, she is no Judge Judy. She really is a moron. Still, she has really, really lovely hair.

I touched it once at a fundraiser and it was beautiful, like God and America.

Complete in Him,

Heidi
xo
Michael, my little lamb of Christ:

I had a variation on the dream again last night.

In it, Ted was putting on his makeup and rattling on about something gross, as usual, when Sarah Palin walked into the bedroom and looked right at me. She motioned that I should follow her, which I immediately did. I was curious, attracted– sexually attracted. She led me to another room where she let me stroke her gorgeous hair and then we began to kiss. She told me it was okay, that God would love me no matter what I did, and that she knew about the homeless man Ted and I picked-up and killed on Terrorist Sex Fantasy night, but that she didn’t care. And I was so relieved, and then Donald Trump appeared, laughing, his hands so tiny, so terrible! And then I woke up screaming and crying, which of course aroused Ted AND made the dog bark.

I was almost late for work!

We killed that man so many years ago, and outside of the USA! Do you think God really notices what happens in Africa? Why does he keep sending me these dreams?

Also, Goldman Sachs is very bullish on any company heavily invested in ethanol plants.

Didn’t hear it here, though.

Walk in light,

Heidi
xo

Rachelle, my wife, had to work and was unable to make it. These are the text messages that she sent me over the course of the evening:

*************************************

Rachelle: Pickle, tell me, how’s dinner going?

Rachelle: Really? You’re giving it a C minus, maybe a D?

Rachelle: That’s strange.

Rachelle: Really? You’ve lost a lot of respect for the family?

Rachelle: Did they call you out for bringing half a bottle of wine again?

Rachelle: You have to stop doing that. It’s embarrassing!

Rachelle: It is.

Rachelle: No, I’m not embarrassing, you’re embarrassing.

Rachelle: Oh, I think I know what happened.

Rachelle: What did you wear out?

Rachelle: You wore your black turtleneck and that jacket, didn’t you?

Rachelle: I know you think it makes you look like Carl Sagan.

Rachelle: I know.

Rachelle: But I still don’t understand why you think that’s a good thing.

Rachelle: Look, I don’t hate the cosmos.

Rachelle: Or space exploration.

Rachelle: Just bad clothes.

Rachelle: Now come on, just tell me what happened.

Rachelle: Oh, sweet Jesus that’s hilarious!!

Rachelle: So, just before everybody was about to start dinner, Marston said, “Edgy Pastor, would you please lead us in grace?”

Rachelle: I love that girl.

Rachelle: No, she’s not full of herself.

Rachelle: She’s so clever, and she’s right, when you wear that outfit you do look like an edgy Pastor.

Rachelle: Yes, you do.

Rachelle: Yes, like some white dad who’s going to rap Genesis or something.

Rachelle: Oh honey, I would never get in the way of your relationship with God!!

Rachelle: There’s more?

Rachelle: Hannah said, “It looks like a jacket you mother might have bought you.”

Rachelle: It’s like that girl is my daughter.

Rachelle: And then she added, “At a store called For Your Son.”

Rachelle: “For Your Adult Son.”

Rachelle: Oh Lord!!! Tears are streaming out of my eyes I am laughing so hard!

Rachelle: And then Marston said, “And she paid for it with a coupon she clipped from a newspaper?”

Rachelle: Oh Pickle, you really are defenceless in the face of those girls!

Rachelle: So what did you do?

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: Do you think that was a good idea?

Rachelle: Well, it’s just if you’re always pretending to have an asthma attack, people might not be very responsive when you actually do, that’s all.

Rachelle: See? I told you!

Rachelle: That is just too funny, I love that they all held hands and prayed for the edgy Pastor during your fake asthma attack!

Rachelle: Did you end up saying grace?

Rachelle: Well, I think you should have embraced the persona and rapped it!

Rachelle: Yes, your life is nothing but a series of missed opportunities.

Rachelle: Oh, I’ve got to go, work calls!

Rachelle: Well, my edgy, little Pastor, I’ll see you in two hours, may you walk with the Lord!

A moment later I passed a man of around 70. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and wrap-around sunglasses, the sort of look a suburban 50 year-old dad with a rock n’ roll heart might sport at a concert. He sat alone on a patio eating an omelette and drinking a half-liter of white wine–somehow anachronistic, as if a postcard from another era. It was a perfect autumn day and he was unhurried, inhaling the sunlight and pretty girls walking by as if they were oxygen– the leaves turning purple and orange around him.

And from not far off, the sound of opera drifted unexpectedly through traffic. In a language imagined rather than understood, a woman’s voice, clear and controlled, rose and fell to a piano keeping pace. The music was coming through a church window, and upon hearing something so perfect in its accidental trajectory, I had to close my eyes and let the world become just that one thing.