This last Sunday brought back many memories of long lost family members and friends, some exceedingly beautiful, some heart wrenchingly sad.

A magnificent Flower Moon rose up from the trees and, beneath its tender glow, I pondered how fragile and fleeting life is —here one breath, gone the next.

Because someone dear to my heart – who a few months ago was a total stranger whom I met through a purely business transaction, but soon reached out to me with a gentle and comforting hand – suffered a life altering traumatic experience that very Sunday: a shattered backbone.

As I looked at that Flower Moon I realized how insignificant our own problems can be. How a freak accident alters the course of our lives and makes us stumble under fate’s cruel weight. Sometimes the pain we survive comes from a broken body. Other times, from a broken soul.

There’s not much I can do, other than provide encouragement and trivial support. I find prayer has always helped me cope, heal and recuperate.

Last year, when I found out someone was facing a major health downturn, I discovered that the patron saint of sick people and doctors and surgeons is St. Luke. Yes, the one who wrote one of the Gospels. I know, I know. Leave it to the Catholic Church to have a patron saint or two for anything that ails us or spooks us. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it.

However, I had forgotten that St. Luke had been the “beloved physician”. So he is not just an à-la-carte saint du jour. So, in the spirit of ecumenical brotherhood, since Luke was most likely a Jew and my friend is a Jew, I told my friend I would reach out to the patron saint of surgeons before the delicate operation. What do we have to lose, right? And as my friend said, at this juncture, we take all the help coming from any which way.

As I stared at my Flower Moon I reflected on how fleeting life is and on how we can navigate a moonlit maze of sorrows while dancing the eternal dance between life, love and death.