Each of us is the only one who can express the Divine in our own unique way. We matter. We are important. We can begin today—giving what we have—and continue even when it feels like we have less to offer. It is never too late to begin again.

Over the past week, I thought of you—the Light on the Mountains community—often. I felt your love and support on Sunday as I came to a quiet realization that life can feel overwhelming for every one of us at times. I felt that same presence as I sat in a hospital waiting room while my husband was in surgery, and during the two and a half days I stayed with him afterward.

It wasn’t just the Practitioners, or Leadership Council members, or the friends I’ve come to know so well. It was everyone—those in the room on Sunday, those watching online, and even those who weren’t there at all. You are the soul of this community, each and every one of you. I felt the camaraderie and loving intention you hold for Light on the Mountains, whether spoken aloud or carried quietly in your hearts.

That is community.

I feel deeply blessed to have each of you as part of the foundation supporting Paul and me as we move through this experience together.

Paul was in surgery for three hours. During that time, his appendix—attached to the wall of his stomach—his cecum, eighteen inches of colon, and the mass were removed. I even have a photo of what was taken out, though I’m still undecided about whether I’ll ever look at a slab of meat the same way again.

Alongside your virtual support, I was also held in very tangible ways—by Paul’s sister and her husband, my two best friends, and a colleague who has become family. What we know right now is incomplete. The surgeon strongly believes the mass was cancerous, based on his experience, but we won’t know for certain until the pathology report comes back.

And this is where the soul of Light on the Mountains shines so clearly.

You know how to hold space without rushing to answers. You know how to set intention without needing certainty. You know how to stand with love—for Paul’s highest and best, and for mine—without needing to fix or explain what is unfolding.

Perhaps this is what soul truly looks like—not perfection or certainty, but presence. I invite you to notice where you are being asked simply to stay present, to hold love steady, and to trust that even now, something meaningful is unfolding.

When it feels right, take a moment, place a hand on your heart and without asking for answers, silently affirm: “I am held. We are held. Love is at work here.” Let that be enough for now.

I truly love and appreciate you all!