The first time I could have died was on the morning of August 23, 2021. It would probably have occurred somewhere on the greenway trail in my hometown. I parked in the parking lot of the church my parents helped start, which is about five minutes from my house, and started my usual five minute walk to warm up and stretch before taking off on a three to five mile run. The initial trail is an abandoned tree-lined road that winds between a golf course and a gated community before a short and steep bridge over a railroad track and then connecting with the greenway, which parallels the tracks, and then runs beside a beautiful stream. The greenway also runs behind our city library and if I was going to die, I cannot imagine a lovelier place than in close proximity to thousands of books. However, after walking about a tenth of a mile, I decided to pay attention to the dull numb pain in the back of the top half of my left arm, and the tightness in my upper chest that felt like heartburn, but I knew wasn’t heartburn. I turned around, walked back to the car and drove home.

The second time I could have died might have been if my wife, Leann, had already left for her own morning walk, as was her normal routine. Instead, I caught her before she left and told her I thought I needed her to take me to the ER because “I may be having a heart attack.” “Oh sure!” was her laughing response. I had lost 50 pounds over a ten month period beginning with my time of Sabbatical in the summer and fall of 2018, and not only kept it off, but had been faithful in almost daily runs of three to five miles, and on occasion even taking on a six miler without much trouble. With no real history of heart disease in my family, and being in top shape, I was the least likely person to be having a heart attack…she thought. I didn’t feel my condition urgent enough to go to the hospital for what might be an overnight or even a few days without taking a shower. In spite of Leann’s protest, I showered, and she drove the seven minutes to our community hospital where she let me off at the door to the Emergency Room and went to park the car.

The last thing I remember, until being brought out of a medically induced coma twenty four hours later, was walking to the ER reception desk, being COVID screened, and the young lady asking “what is going on with you?” When I described the pain in the back of my arm and my upper chest, she stood up, commanded: “Come with me,” and we walked down a hall. Everything else until my coming to consciousness in another hospital in downtown Nashville on the next day, I only know by listening to Leann tell others the story.

The third time I could have died was after Leann returned from parking the car and was escorted to my ER bed. The doctors had already done an EKG and they reported: “Mr. Steinhauer, you are not having a heart attack. The EKG is pretty normal. Your blood pressure is high, so we are going to come back to do some tests,” and they left the room. Leann reports that about five minutes later I told her: “I feel faint…” and my eyes were dilated as much as possible–she described my eyes as looking “black”–and then I started convulsing with a cardiac arrest. Had she decided she needed to go to the ladies room (which is life-long-pretty-regular-occurrence for her), and had she not been in the room when I went into cardiac arrest, there would have been no one there to know it was even happening. There had been no need to put me on any sort of monitor.

It took a bit of yelling on Leann’s part to get any response as she called for help, as the just-conducted testing hadn’t shown I was in much danger, and maybe they were thinking I had used the “chest pain” claims as a rouse to get fast-tracked to the ER for an examination for some other reason. I’ve heard of people doing that. I wish I’d thought of it myself three years before when I sat in the same ER waiting room about 45 minutes with the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life–which turned out to be kidney stones. Nonetheless, after a fair amount of “you’ve got to get back in here! Something is happening to him!” they did come running. And then they ushered her out of the room

From the small room off the ER, there for a doctor to consult with a family member of a patient, and report on the outcome of procedures, Leann was alone–by her own choosing–until two friends and my brother showed up. She heard them quickly call “Code–ER…Code–ER,” and since there were only two other patients in the ER at the time she figured it had to be me. She texted her friends: “Pray. Matt is in the ER having a heart attack. I don’t know whether he is alive or dead.” She called our daughter, Kerra, in Columbia, Missouri, and Leann reported she was quite calm and helpful and talked her mother out of going down the hysterical route with a solid: “God has this and if it’s his time to go it’s his time to go.” I’m grateful for both my daughters’ close relationship with God and deep prayer lives. But I’m going to have to talk to Kerra about next time she might think about diving headlong into the most fervent prayer she has ever prayed for healing and saving and all that…instead of just trusting that “God has this…and if it’s his time to go….” 🙂 It wasn’t long before Leann heard another “Code–ER…Code–ER,” and not long after that: “Respiratory–ER…Respiratory–ER,” which she later found out was when I was intubated–put on a respirator. It took three attempts to complete that procedure as I was still conscious enough to fight it.

The fourth time I could have died was reported to me a couple weeks later by my cardiologist, after I was discharged and had returned for a followup visit. An arteriogram was performed soon after my cardiac arrest, and there was a blockage showing in my left anterior descending artery. This is the same symptom of the “Widow Maker” heart attack, and one of the most common ways to address that blockage is running a wire through the artery and placing a stint to open up the blockage. One of the attending doctors thought there was something else going on. His sister-in-law had died of a rare SCAD (Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection) heart attack, that happens in women 90% of the time, and because I was exhibiting the same symptoms he suggested they not attempt the stint. Because an artery dissection is a tearing of the artery–not a blockage–my cardiologist informed me if they had tried to run a wire through, it would have just torn the artery and I would have died on the operating table. Gulp.

Because the great irony of an arterial dissection is that it will–in most cases–heal on its own, the most important thing in my case was to just keep me alive long enough for that to happen. And so that is what they did. A heart balloon to supplement the natural pumping of my heat took some of the workload off the heart itself, and a mind boggling list of medicines and IV fluids did the trick.

Leann said the longer it was before anyone came in to talk to her the better she felt. “At least they weren’t telling me you were dead.” And within a couple hours the doctor came in and told them I was in critical but stable condition, and that I was a very sick man. At least I was still alive. Within a few hours the decision was made to transport me to a major heart center in Nashville, Centennial Medical Center, and because I was on so much life-support equipment the decision was made to life-flight me there; not because I was in eminent danger, but because it was more practical than an ambulance. So I took a sunset helicopter ride over the beautiful downtown Nashville….and didn’t even know it.

Leann recounts the only other “drama” occurred after being admitted to Centennial, when I started coming out of my sedated state, and began fighting the ventilator, and so she and another nurse had to lay across my legs while they restrained me and got a shot to put be back out. She also said the doctors at Centennial at first discounted it could possibly be a SCAD heart attack, but after more testing and an MRI decided that was a correct diagnosis, so from there my recovery and recuperation began. By 11:30am the next day the ventilator was removed. There was some discomfort from all that being jammed down my windpipe, and there was discomfort from the chest compressions when the CPR happened after I coded two times (but no ribs were broken). It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but I must say, I was able to walk around the Coronary ICU by the third day, and the fourth day I was transferred to a regular room. On the fifth day a defibrillator/pacemaker/heart monitor was surgically implanted in my chest, and on the sixth day–Saturday, August 28th, about noon, I walked from my room to the elevator, out the door to Leann waiting in the car to take me home.

I missed the next day (Sunday) and the next Sunday of preaching and presiding at worship, but was back fifteen days later and within a month or so was feeling pretty close to normal (physically). But I discovered there is much more to a critical health event like I experienced than the physical aspects. I wasn’t supposed to have a heart attack. I was supposed to live until I was at least 90 years old. My father died at almost 91, my mother is 90 and still doing fine. I have taken pretty good care of myself over the years. Maybe I would even make it to 95. In actuality, I might not have made it to 66 years old had any one of four or more circumstances been different on the morning of August 23, 2021.

I was strong enough within 24 hours of the heart attack to write on a pad (I was still on the ventilator, so I couldn’t speak. After being taken off the ventilator I was able to text and even talk a little bit (with a very raspy voice), and so I had brief conversations with a few friends and family. In a response to a text to my two dearest friends, about 24 hours after arriving at the hospital in Nashville, one of them responded with this question: “I’ve been wondering what kind of inspiration does a storytelling songwriter get from a near death experience?” I responded about my favorite singer songwriter, Beth Nielsen Chapman, teaching in songwriting workshops I have attended with her as teacher, sharing the experience of writing songs–not from personal experience, but writing for something you don’t even know will happen. I replied to him: “I wrote that song when I was in Italy three years ago, but I’m sure another (at least) will come out of it.” (You can listen to the prophetic song here).

These are the first things I thought, and some really important reflections from facing my own mortality.

First, Leann saved my life. Had she not gotten me to the hospital, and then, not gotten the attention of the medical staff when I went into cardiac arrest, I would not be here to tell this story. She may have made an extra effort because she may have thought I really did not have any life insurance. On more than one occasion I have told people (in front of her): “I don’t have any life insurance. I don’t want Leann to be more attractive when I’m dead than she already is!” I do have life insurance.

Second–and this may be the most profound experience–is that Hendersonville Medical Center was there. Hendersonville, my hometown, is a city of almost 60,000 residents. It is not surprising there would be a hospital in a community that size. But there was a hospital there when there were a whole lot less people in Hendersonville. The hospital opened in 1979 when there were closer to 25,000 people living there. It was opened in large part due to the tireless legislative effort of my father, John Steinhauer, Jr. In 1967, my 22 month old sister, Julie, drowned in Old Hickory Lake. After she was pulled from the lake she was taken to the nearest hospital, which was in Nashville, about 20 minutes away. Of course no one knows if she might have lived had there been a hospital in Hendersonville, but my dad went to work to be sure no other family ever had to wonder the same if they were facing a critical life event. As an elected State Representative from Sumner County, TN, he appealed to a State committee to get approval for the Hendersonville Hospital. Having been told that it took three committees to approve the request, and being assured that it would not get passed the third committee, his plea was accepted unanimously and the new hospital was constructed. The hospital was not there to save his daughter. But it was there to save his son.

Of course I spent much time thinking about the time I would have missed with my children and my grandchildren, and now, being ever so grateful I might still have more time with them. My daughters, Kerra and Lindsay are capable young women, married to fine husbands. I do not worry about their futures or how they would make it without their dad. I know they would miss me. But they would be fine. With my son, Matt, almost 27 and with Down syndrome, it is a different story. I have often wondered what would be worse: me dying before him–and him having to live the rest of his life without me? Or him dying before me–and what deep sorrow that would be for me? Even now I do not know the answer to that question. Even now it haunts me.

I guess the final commentary comes from the pastor and theologian which is my vocation and call. Where was God in all this? I don’t guess “coding” is the same as “dying.” So maybe I don’t need to worry about whether I experienced actual death, and whether I can describe what it is like to die and come back from death. I know that between walking into Hendersonville Hospital on Monday morning about 9am, and waking up in Centennial Medical Center the next day about 9am, I have no memory, no feelings, no visions. Someone asked if I saw a long hallway with a light at the end? I laughingly told them I didn’t see a light…I didn’t see a devil or burning flames…maybe the medieval Roman Catholics had it right with the notion of the waiting room of Purgatory and that my hero, Martin Luther was wrong! I do know this. There is a long list of life events that I have experienced that involved a great deal of pain and loss, sorrow and surprise. This one was no different. There was never a second in my recollection that I questioned whether or not God was fully present with me, and no matter what the outcome had been, I was and would have been and still am, in the arms of the faithful loving God who breathed me into being–knit me in my mother’s womb–and will hold me when the time comes that I really do take my last breath. “Miracle” is a word I’ve heard a lot since my heart attack and recovery. “Lucky man” is a description I’ve heard from many. I know there were many, many prayers on my behalf and for that I am thankful. But I flinch a little when I hear people remark: “You must have more work here to do,” or “It’s a God thing that you made it through that.” I have no doubt God was with me. I have no doubt God was with the doctors and nurses and technicians and helicopter pilot–whether any of them knew it or not, or recognized God or not. If it is true that: “…neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord,” (Rom. 8:38-39 NRSV) then I think someone’s lack of prayer or doubt or even lack of belief will also not separate them. It is more important to me that God is here in all the places I am–joys and sorrows–than to need to know God is pulling strings so that people line up in the right place at the right time just so Matt Steinhauer could be saved from a freak heart attack. Because, in the end, whether I live or whether I die, I am the Lord’s. (Romans 14:8 NRSV).

Since Tennessee’s Governor, Bill Lee, made the decision to allow refugees to continue to be settled in Tennessee, several counties and municipalities in the state have started working to pass local laws to prohibit giving these people a chance at freedom and opportunity. (Isn’t that sort of what America was founded on?)

This information was provided by Lutheran Services of Georgia–an organization which has settled refugees for decades.

The U.S. Refugee Admissions Program is secure:

• Resettlement is the most difficult way to enter the U.S., and refugees are the most thoroughly vetted individuals in the U.S., going through all screenings before they arrive.

• Vetting includes biometric and biographic checks; interagency intelligence sharing; screenings against multiple domestic and international terrorist and criminal databases; background investigations by the FBI, Department of Defense, State Department, and National Counterterrorism Center; and in-person interviews by Homeland Security officers.

• Refugees receive an interest free travel loan to pay for the cost of their transportation to the US. Refugees give back to their new communities.

Economic Contributions

• Refugees start working as soon as possible, pay taxes, start businesses, purchase homes, and become U.S. citizens.

• While refugees receive initial assistance upon arriving in the United States, they see particularly sharp income increases in subsequent years. While refugees here five years or less have a median household income of roughly $22,000, that figure more than triples in the following decades, growing far faster than other foreign-born groups. By the time a refugee has been in the country at least 25 years, their median household income reaches $67,000—a full $14,000 more than the median income of U.S. households overall

• Over a 20-year-period, refugees contribute, on average, $21,000 more in taxes than the initial investment to resettle them. In 2015, refugees contributed $21 billion in U.S. taxes.

• The average workforce participation rate of refugees is 81.8%, above the national 62%.

• 13% of refugees were entrepreneurs in 2015, compared to 9% percent of the U.S.-born.

• 40% of all Fortune 500 companies were founded by refugees, immigrants or their children.

• Many industries, like hospitality and meatpacking rely on refugee workers. Across the U.S., the low number of refugee arrivals is putting a strain on businesses, especially in rural areas.

• For the state of TN, a snapshot of the demographic and economic contributions of refugees shows that in 2015, refugee population household income was $649.9M with total spending power of $497.5M. Total taxes paid was $152.3M

Is there a Link Between Refugees and U.S. Crime Rates? To examine this issue, New American Economy used refugee resettlement data from the U.S. Department of State’s Worldwide Refugee Processing System to calculate the 10 cities in the US that received the most refugees relative to the size of their population between 2006 and 2015. This revealed a telling pattern: Rather than crime increasing, nine out of 10 of the communities actually became considerably more safe, both in terms of their levels of violent and property crime.

Here is new analysis on the economic cost of opting out of refugee resettlement for a few key states. TN stands to loose $4.1 million.

Here is a link to the Congressional Budget Office Score on the latest Senate proposed Better Reconciliation Act of 2017.

Click to access 52941-hr1628bcra.pdf

If you don’t have time to read all 22 pages, here are some highlights (This is simply copied and pasted. My own editorial comments are in bold type.):

1) Compared with the June 26 cost estimate for a previous version of the legislation, this cost estimate shows savings [to the federal deficit] over the next 10 years that are larger—as well as estimated effects on health insurance coverage and on premiums for health insurance that are similar.

2) enacting this legislation would reduce federal deficits by $420 billion over the 2017–2026 period. This is about $100 Billion more than the previous version. Good news for the deficit.

(Bad news for the disabled [like my son, Matt], the elderly in nursing homes, and children born into or living in poverty through no fault of their own who will be subsidizing this deficit reduction plan by the cuts to their Medicaid health care and services.  Very brave of the Republican Senate to do that. Very brave.)

3) The largest savings would come from a reduction in total federal spending for Medicaid resulting both from provisions affecting health insurance coverage and from other provisions. By 2026, spending for that program would be reduced by 26 percent.

4) In 2026, for people who are made newly eligible under the ACA (certain adults under the age of 65 whose income is less than or equal to 138 percent of the federal poverty level [FPL]), Medicaid spending would be reduced by 87 percent, from $134 billion to $17 billion

5) This one is my personal evaluation, and I am sourcing a bar chart in the report.  The June 26 version shows a cut of $772 Billion in Medicaid.  The July 20 version shows a $756 cut in Medicaid.  PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT LISTEN TO SENATOR LAMAR ALEXANDER WHEN HE WILL MOST LIKELY SUGGEST THESE NUMBERS MEAN “THE NEW PROPOSAL INCREASES MEDICAID SPENDING BY $16 BILLION”)

6) The increase in the number of uninsured people relative to the number under current law would reach 19 million in 2020 and 22 million in 2026

7) Under this legislation, in 2018, average premiums for benchmark plans for single policyholders would be about 20 percent higher than under current law,

8) under this legislation, 64- year-olds could be charged five times as much as 21-year-olds, CBO and JCT expect, compared with three times as much under current law—resulting in higher premiums for most older people.

9) For many lower-income people, the net premiums paid in the nongroup market under this legislation would be lower than those under current law if they purchased benchmark plans, but the plans would require them to pay a greater share of their health care costs.

“We will lower your premiums” the Republican Senators told us.  What they didn’t tell us: “The deductibles and copays will be much higher for all of you.”

10) For older people not eligible for premium tax credits, net premiums (after taking into account the tax savings from paying premiums from a health savings account) could be more than five times larger than those for younger people in many states, rather than only three times larger under current law.

11) Under this legislation, for a single policyholder purchasing an illustrative benchmark plan (with an actuarial value of 58 percent) in 2026, the deductible for medical and drug expenses combined would be roughly $13,000, the agencies estimate.

12) Because a deductible of $13,000 would be a large share of their income, many people with low income would not purchase any plan even if it had very low premiums.

If you are an “older American” – say, just a few years shy of being eligible for Medicare; if you are a family member of a person with Developmental Disabilities; if you are poor or working poor, or if you are a Christian, and simply aware of Jesus’ cry for the poor and a Christian’s call to be for the same thing Jesus is for, then you might want to call your United States Senator and let them know you oppose this legislation.  Offer a word of encouragement to them. One hundred bright Americans elected to deliberate and write legislation that builds up our great nation should really be able to come up with something better than this. (202) 224-3121

On a crisp November afternoon I found myself between the light and the darkness.

There is an official name for the celestial version of that condition: “dusk.” I needed to be there as I installed outdoor Christmas lights. In that place between light and dark, I would be able to see what I was doing, as well as being able to see the lights themselves.

Alone with the silence, I found myself quiet and still enough to reflect on the great empty space that had come upon me over the Thanksgiving Holiday, due to the absence of my sweet father after his death in the late spring.  Standing in the shadows of my house that blocked a setting sun, holding a tangled wad of Christmas lights, I was surprised to catch myself not fretting over having to spend extra time getting the green-wired-mess straight.  Instead, I was fretting to myself over my friends and family who have made this journey before me.  “Why didn’t you tell me it would hurt like this?” I asked all the faces I could think of who had experienced a “first Thanksgiving” (or Christmas) without Mom or Dad.  In the same instant I was asking myself: “Why did you not know it would be this way – you who have prayed for, and walked with, people on this same journey as their pastor?”

Shaking my head seemed more appropriate than shaking my fist.  And I quickly remembered having the same feeling after my first grandchild, Emaline, was born – that feeling when I understood there are some life experiences for which words fall short of showing the way for another to know the truth.

In the almost six months of having to go through all those hard “first-time-without-Daddy” annually occurring events, this had been the hardest yet.  After his death on June 5^th, Father’s Day came around exactly two weeks later, and soon on the heels of that sad reckoning was what would have been his 91^st Birthday on July 23^rd.  Maybe I was still so numb from his death that I was somewhat protected from the deep sorrow in those first “first-time” experiences. When my birthday rolled around in early November, I was quite sad that I didn’t get my annual birthday lunch at Nashville’s German restaurant, The Gerst Haus.  My dad always took me and his dear lifelong friend, Lucien Swint, for lunch (our birthdays were close together).  Afterwards we would explore their boyhood stomping grounds, by driving slowly through East Nashville, with the two of them narrating a play-by-play of who lived in every house, and the memories that resided on what seemed like every street corner and old building.  It was an annual tradition rich with meaning for me.

Dictionary.com defines the adjective “dusk” as “tending to darkness.”  I understand the thinking behind that being the possible description of an adjective, but I really think “tending to darkness” should be a verb. It adequately describes my feelings on that afternoon of hanging lights.  I was indeed “tending to darkness” – the darkness of my own soul and spirit.  But because “dusk” is that liminal place between daylight and dark, while I might have been “tending to darkness,” I seemed to be “leaning to light.”

I thought about some other “firsts.”  I thought about what my dad might have felt like the first time he got to hold me after I was born.  I thought of the first time he went to one of my school plays, and the first time he heard me sing and play my guitar in public.  I thought of the first time he got to see me hold my own child for the first time.  I thought of the first time he got to see me lead worship as an ordained Lutheran pastor.  The sun kept going down and the coming of dark could not be avoided. But maybe because I had spent that day in the reality of Advent hope, my spirit was no longer tracking step-for-step with the declining sun.

Advent is a four Sunday season of the church that begins the liturgical year.  Some people think about it as a “countdown to Christmas,” but in reality, it is a season to reflect on the expectant waiting and preparation Christians  are called to do until the return of Jesus Christ at the end of the age.  In churches that observe the liturgy, one will see altars and pulpits draped with blue fabric, and the clergy vestments will include blue stoles.  There will be a wreath of four blue candles, and in some churches perhaps one might see banners and other decorations bearing the blue of Advent.  It is a “blue” season, and as it turns out,  it seems that description could be taken literally and figuratively.

Advent occurs over the very days that the daylight hours grow to their shortest and darkest.  There is scientific evidence that a lack of sunlight can impact and magnify feelings of depression. Like my own experience, this is the time of year when many people experience the exact opposite emotion of all that is being advertised, talked about, and promoted in the malls and TV commercials: joy, happiness, celebration.  It is a time when, for some people, it is very easy to find one’s self in a “blue” mood.

The color “blue” is used for Advent because it is known as a color that represents “hope.” Perhaps there is no better reason to hope, in this season of Advent, than to reflect on the promise of Christ’s return and what that will mean for all who find themselves in darkness this time of year.

There are two passages from the book of Revelation that offer great hope:

“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them;  he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away” (Rev. 21:3b-4 NRSV).

And,

I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. Its gates will never be shut by day—and there will be no night there (Rev. 21:22-25).

No tears, no darkness.  That’s enough for me to hope for on a crisp November afternoon.

Matt’s 21st birthday is January 12.  I wrote the following in the summer of 2014 on a day of his own choosing – his own “coming of age.”  I posted it on Facebook then, but thought on this, his 21st birthday, would be an appropriate way to celebrate his very special day.  He has been talking about this birthday for about three months!

For as long as I can remember, I have put Matt to bed.  Leann would gladly do this I know.  It has just, for some reason, become a special time for me and Matt, and so Matt protects it from outsiders (including MOM).

The ritual goes like this: Matt lays down in his bed, I brush his teeth and then cover him up and lay beside him and tell him a story: “Once upon a time there was a SWEEET little boy named Matt Steinhauer – He was the SWEEETEST Little boy! He had a Mom and a dad, and a sister named Kerra and a sister named Lindsay. EVERYBODY loved him! Mom loved him, Dad loved him, Kerra loved him, Lindsay loved him, EVERYBODY loved him.

“One day, Matt woke up – it was a Tuesday…..”

The story has always simply been a recap of what I know about what he did that day. On June 22, 2014, I was waiting on Matt to get in his bed.  So I knew this day would come…when Matt would, in his self-awareness, “grow up.” With about an hour and a half left on the day of the Summer Solstice, Matt walked into his room at bedtime and said: “I’m not Little Matt anymore.”

Having spent the previous couple of hours looking at pictures of Lindsay across the years, as I constructed the video for her wedding reception that would happen in a few days, I was already what one might call “on the emotional edge.”

He said again, “I’m a guy, I’m not Little Matt.” I’m “tall Matt.” I confirmed that he was indeed getting tall, and that we really called him “Little Matt” to help people tell the two of us apart. But really it was that I am “Old Matt,” and he is “Young Matt.” “Would that be okay?”

This is Matt with his sisters, Kerra and Lindsay. If you look closely you can see him standing on his tip-toes because he is “big!”

“Yes!” was his immediate reply. Holding my breath I asked him, “Now that you are “young Matt” and not “little Matt,” do you still want me to tell you a story?

“Yes!”

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Julian of Norwich