My friend Pam used to talk about how miracles exist everywhere you look; all you have to do is pay attention.

At first, that sounded like something you’d see painted on a piece of living room art from a discount store. But when Pam died in 2018 after a long struggle with cancer, and that reminder landed inside one of the many tremendous eulogies shared at her funeral, it took root in me in a new way.

Pam was one of those people who really saw you. When you were in conversation with her, you felt special and elevated. She was funny and practical. She didn’t suffer fools, and she didn’t pass up a chance to dance. She earned her wisdom by living with intention and bravery in the face of a terminal diagnosis that followed her for decades.

I still love her, and I still miss her every day. But from the moment we lost her, I’ve felt she was still with me and always would be.

I think of her every time a blessing that could have gone unnoticed catches my attention.

I think of her when I have the chance to dance, remembering how she swore she never missed one.

I think of her when I’m bored by someone droning on too long, remembering how she once described a dull person as a frozen gray crayon. I laugh out loud when I notice new wrinkles or sagging skin and then remember how she once described someone older as looking like a melted candle.

But also, I bring her to mind when my thoughts start racing and hear her instruction to be where your feet are.

People come and go in our lives, and some stay in our hearts forever. When we’re lucky, their words keep shaping us long after they’re gone.

Throughout this semester in divinity school, Pam’s reminder to pay attention has followed me closely. Again and again, I’ve noticed connections linking my life, my coursework, and my inner life in ways that feel surprising and affirming. Recurring words, themes, and images have surfaced across classes and readings, weaving together parts of my past I hadn’t revisited in years.

Early in the semester, I was overwhelmed by a communion ritual that stirred grief from my religious history. That moment opened a door to deeper questions about faith formation and religious trauma. Later, I was challenged by a professor around my pessimism about certain faith traditions. Months after that, I found myself immersed again for a solid 48 hours in the religious community and rituals of my youth, an experience that helped me see more clearly what I both loved and needed to stay separate from.

Even after identifying the deep and unshakable love I still have for the faith of my childhood, I still didn’t have the words to articulate exactly what I loved about it. Then, later in the semester, only days ago, actually, I opened a book on mysticism and recognized it immediately: what I loved most about the faith tradition of my youth was its mysticism, the embodied ways it offers the opportunity to encounter the divine.

I never would have made these emotional and spiritual connections if I hadn’t been paying attention. And though there is still much to sort out, I’m thankful that Pam was right. These miracles along with the questions, and the insights that follow, only become real when we notice them.

A few months ago, I recalled a scene from one of my favorite movies, Joe Versus the Volcano, where Tom Hanks’s character, stranded on a raft, wakes to see a giant moon filling the sky. Trembling, he rises to his knees and whispers, “My God, whose name I do not know, I forgot how big. Thank you for my life.”

That scene still undoes me. Every day, I forget how big everything is. How connected it all is. And then, when I remember, I am grateful all over again for my life and for the multitude of miracles that remind me of what I so easily forget.

Here’s to paying attention, and to the knowledge that our stories keep unfolding as long as we do.

I look forward to sharing what I notice next.