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h ttps://gofund.me/4a0909c57  I have been writing for years. began with diaries that went to the lake with me then to school, then the web came along and I blogged on wordpress back in the day. I had a sheep farm, Black Ram Farm, and would write about life, farming, fleece. I joined the Vermont Writer’s Guild and I wrote a bunch of Ariticles for Livin’ the Vermont Way. I interview people and I wrote about who they were as people, becuase they were already known for what they did. sometimes this would throw them off a bit. My blog got traction and a relationship started with a friend who came from Texas, over to Boston to witness my baptism. My blog was sloppy, by fun. A space where I could put it out there instead of put it back on the shelf. In March I had a surgery and and then 5 DMSO’s. 2 infections, then came home to rest on Christmas Eve day so I could return to “work” by January 5th. I have learned that when you make plans, God laughs. On Jan 2nd, I was hit, broadsided, by a guy backing out of his driveway. When he saw the snow plow coming down on him, he did a 175 in the road, trying to get into my lane, which he did with me heading for snow bank to buffer the blow. I hit the snow, he hit me. We avoided a 5 car pile up as there was a car behind me, the guy that hit me, a town plow and a truck behind him. The hardwick resque squad came and off we went to CVMC, Copley ED would be too crowded with ski injuries. I though a strained neck. But no, I had a concussion. Had not had one of those since highschool when I was tryingto show off how I could do a back bend and landed on my head in the darkroom. Non digitial people will know that a dark room is where you learn to take the film out of the camera read the negeatives and develope a black and white photo. I developed stars from that event. This time I knew I had to get checked out, but pushed the ED doc to let me go back to work on Monday. I was concussed and was not making good decisions, so I went anyhow and was able to “work” two days before I had to stay home until I was cleared by the Dr. on the 15th. Got that clearence, but my body didn’t get the note and typical, a frare up will happen 2-6 weeks after an event. A Bladder flair up, Lichen flaire up, tight pelvis and a couple more UTI’s. I finally got back to what I felt was ok March 4th. I had a productive by exhausing week, then on the 9th and 10th on the patients’ bedsides blessing as they passed. the 11th. I tendered my resignation. I have writing these several months, and now have the spine of the book completed. It has become me full time job. I have a deadline of May 1st to get the book to my editior Chelsey. I started a go fund me because editing is not my strong suit. I am so dyslexic. To have it edited it is going to run betwee 4-5 thousand, then I need to publish. I am working, just not getting paid. Anything you could do woudl be helpful, sharing the post, donating, or telling someone that I have the audacity to ask.

Holy Wednesday It is the middle of Holy Week. I did not choose this. I woke inside it. Wednesday is the day the Gospels go quiet. Monday, Jesus cleared the Temple. Tuesday, the confrontations — Pharisees, Sadducees, the Olivet Discourse, the long teaching about what is coming and what is ending and what cannot be saved by the people who most need saving. Then Wednesday: nothing. No recorded event. The text simply moves on to Thursday as if Wednesday had no content worth naming. Most scholars believe he withdrew to Bethany. Mary, Martha, Lazarus. He had been walking the two miles into Jerusalem each day and returning to them at night — the rhythm of the week held by that household, that table, those people who did not require him to perform. Wednesday he rested. Taught privately. Prayed. Gathered himself before what he knew was coming and what nobody around him could hear, no matter how plainly he said it. Some traditions call it Spy Wednesday. It is the day Judas made his arrangement — thirty pieces of silver, the agreement to deliver Jesus when the crowds were not watching. So while Jesus rested in Bethany, the machinery of his death was being set in motion across the valley in Jerusalem. He did not know the hour. He knew the shape. I know the shape. Low spirit generally happens before significant change. That has been true in my body and my life long enough that I have learned to read it as information rather than verdict. The warrior goes inside before the next battle. The spirit drops before it lifts. This is not failure. This is preparation the body knows before the mind has caught up. But knowing that does not make Wednesday easier. Wednesday is the day you have told your friends something they cannot hear, cannot hold, refuse to receive. Wednesday is the day the people who love you most are busy with their own traversing and the house is quiet and the grandchildren are not coming and the tea goes cold. Wednesday is the day Judas is making his deal in a room you are not in. And Jesus went to Bethany and rested. I went to the laundry. This is not a diminishment. This is the same act. The ordinary task that says: I am still here, I am still inhabiting this body, I am not going to the cross today and I know the difference. The sheets need washing. There is yogurt in the refrigerator. PK is pacing because she knows something is off and she is not wrong and she is also not able to fix it, which is the condition of love in a house where someone is in the window.  I am not Jesus. That is not my assignment and not my role and I have enough theology to know the difference between witness and sacrifice. But I am also not separate from the story. None of us who live near the threshold are. We feel the Silent Day in our bodies before we know what day it is. The low spirit is its own kind of holy.

Something Holy Is Happening Mornings start with PK deciding it is time for me to rise — she begins to cry, then walks over me until I surrender. Even though it was bitterly cold last night, snow still on the ground, I keep the bedroom curtains open so I can see the stars at night and the sunrise in the morning. This is what I woke to: a sun pillar. Ice crystals aligning with the rising sun — or, in a spiritual context, a touch point of the Holy. In Jewish, Christian, Indigenous, Muslim, and Hindu faiths, it is a sacred sign. Something Holy is Happening. It is Palm Sunday. Hosanna — from the Hebrew Hoshia-na, meaning literally: Save us, we pray. Save us now. Hosanna in the Highest has become almost a song of celebration, its meaning misconstrued over centuries. But today, the word lands exactly as it was meant. Please. Help us. Now. How timely that on Palm Sunday — the day after people all over the country rose up to march against NO KINGS — we find ourselves crying out that ancient plea. This is a week of transition. TSA workers not being paid. A war that is not called what it is. Gas prices rising. Trump putting his name on everything he can get away with, tearing apart the East Wing of our White House and funding a gilded ballroom with our tax dollars. Now a call for troops on the ground. Our former allies, who have stood on the side of reason, do not come to our aid — because we are the ones who have supported Benjamin Netanyahu’s deranged revenge for the death of his brother Yoni in Operation Entebbe. The war crimes in Gaza and Palestine are hypocritical and evil. This is not Jewish versus Muslim. This is Benny carrying his deep wound and killing, cloaked under the banner of a nation attacked — as though grief justifies genocide. We are transitioning, as former allies have noted suspicious movement in financial markets twenty minutes before Trump announces another plan. We are transitioning, as a president obsessed with his legacy is clearly losing his mind. He called the Strait of Hormuz the Strait of Tru… — then caught himself and joked that the media would make it a talking point. That he called it the Strait of Trump. Or that his memory is fading. He knew. We knew. And then this morning: Israeli police prevented the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem, Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa — the head of the Catholic Church in the Holy Land — along with the Custos of the Holy Land, Fr. Francesco Ielpo, the official Guardian of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, from entering the church to celebrate Palm Sunday Mass. The joint statement from the Latin Patriarchate called it “a manifestly unreasonable and grossly disproportionate measure” — “a hasty and fundamentally flawed decision, tainted by improper considerations” and “an extreme departure from basic principles of reasonableness, freedom of worship, and respect for the Status Quo.” (Vatican News) For the first time in centuries, the heads of the Church were prevented from celebrating Palm Sunday Mass at the holiest site in Christianity. Perhaps the Christian Nationalists who support Trump will finally see it — reflected in a locked door on Palm Sunday morning: what is being done in the name of power is unholy. It is tainted with greed. And the ancient cry still stands. Hoshia-na. Save us. Now. 

I have never been a fan of pink. I like deeper tones, but pink seems to be the color for this time in my life. You don’t get to choose how G-D presents or connects to you. Your job is to be aware when the Divine does. I ended the year taking care of this body that holds my spirit and apparently I was not done healing yet, physically, emotionally, or spiritually. In November I had the surgery, then 5 of 6 infusions in December — 2 infections — so I thought it best to get back to VT Christmas Eve day. Which I did, and rested up to get back to work by 1/5/26. 

Sometimes I keep trying to open a door that is locked, or blocked, or stuck. I forget to look to see if there is another door to go through because I am stubborn and feel like I can keep trying, even though it is a total waste of my time. I get signs — weird but true. Crows chasing an eagle and then seeing a second eagle in the same day. Pink spots in my vision after a highly spiritual moment with one who is transitioning from life to the divine. I get tingly feelings up my legs, arms, or back when praying with another, or when people are thinking about me right before they call or text. I don’t think it is unusual, and I am not a “medium” — but I am a chaplain and a highly tuned-in spiritual person. I can feel the room and often know what is behind the curtain. I believe that we all have a sixth sense, or intuition, or a gut feeling about things. Sometimes we just have to slow down to feel or to sense it. Before I chose to work for a hospice company, I was pretty independent and had a few things going. I was asked in the initial interview how I was going to be able to do all the things listed on my CV. I said I would cut back, and I did. I pulled away from positions and from Jump Intuit. I have been going in and out of a door that has grown more and more stuck, until yesterday, when I closed it and locked it behind me. Locked — because when I make plans, God laughs and then gives me signs that things are going to change. And change they did. Within 24 hours I went from pushing the door open to understanding the door needed to be shut. Once I figured that out, it was easy. The physical stress of pushing open the door was getting to be too much, but closing it, locking it, and walking away gave me a sense of freedom and relief that I had not felt in a long while.  I talked with friends who were proud of me for my actions. My mother was pleased as well, and that is no small thing for her to say. I slept well and woke with a feeling of excitement about what is to come — the door that is wide open. Revelation 3:7-8 — “What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open… I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut.” As I write this, I feel the tingling wave throughout my body. I call this a God wink — and I am blessed.

I am working on a project concerning MAID, medical assistance in dying, commonly called Death With Dignity. “MAID is authorized in 14 jurisdictions as of early 2026 — 13 states plus Washington, D.C. Oregon was first in 1997. New York became the most recent jurisdiction when Governor Hochul signed the Medical Aid in Dying Act on February 6, 2026. Illinois authorized MAID in December 2025 (effective September 2026). The legal landscape is expanding rapidly“ . A. Jump Early Saturday morning Trump spoke to the country (2am) and basically declared war. Wait up bucky… don’t you need the US Congress to at least meet and have a discussion? You, the one who claimed in your ridiculously long stump ramble formally known as the Presidential Address to the Nation, claimed you had stopped 8 wars? There might be American loss of life….. he said… well he was right CBS is reporting that 2 Americans were killed 5 injured. And here is the really feck’d up thing, you are who you are Trump. Nothing has changed. What I am dumbfounded about is the lack of accountability of Trump. Where is the backbone of our elected representatives? (outside of Vermont of course) As I write about the ethics of Death with Dignity, I am gob smacked at the lack of Dignity giving to other countries. We might not agree or like leaders in other countries, but “Love your Neighbor”( Leviticus 19:18) and then Jesus in Matthew 5:43-45 commands “to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you”. I am tired of the false prophets, the talking heads, that claim being Christian and yet don’t hold the teachings up, but use the “faith” as a method of claiming riotousness. Death with Dignity; you need two doctors to sign off so you can choses this method. You also need to be clear of mind, no dimensia or TBI. Does it not make sense that Trump needs 2 as well, the House and the Senate and a cognitive assessment?  No matter what the faith or spiriual belief you may hold, the moral compass needs to have a declination to point us in the right direction.

Chris Norris interviewed me for a placement at Proctor. I was a freshman at Milton Academy and considered somewhat of a fac-brat. My father had been and English teacher, but had died when I was 8. My grandfather Arthur Perry had been headmaster, and my Uncle Phil Perry taught math. I was a bit too dyslexic but of luck or frustration, I got to go to Proctor’s wilderness challenge for the summer between 8 th and 9 th grade. Come freshman year at Milton, having failed Spanish 2 years and now failing Latin with a 40, the only thing I was good for was feeling shame in an academic family. I was simply miserable and still lost without a father. Then somewhere came the idea of going up to Proctor. I remember the drive up, going into Chris’s office and being interviewed. This guy seemed to know me, understand me right off the bat. I was offered a place that semester but thought I would finish up my freshman year, then come as a sophomore. I was already feeling the odd one out, why make it worst? Sophomore year I arrived like all other newbies, ready for Proctor’s wilderness challenge. My dorm was Thoreau house, and I joined the field hockey team. I had Chris, whom we called “C Bud” as one on of my teachers. But he was more then that. He was like a father figure that accepted me with all of my flaws. He knew where the culture of which I was coming from and greeted me warmly. He opened my mind to Victor Frankle’s Man’s Search for Meaning and Farley Mowat’s The Boat Who Would not Float and Never Cry Wolf. We journaled and he introduced me to the field of psychology. He had a Smilie jar on his desk filled with candy, and I would come to his office with the pretense of getting a sweet. But the reality was that I was coming for acceptance, which was given freely. My Junior year at Proctor I continued to go to his office. Once summoned because I had to after breaking a rule that was a Major offence. Although it was not in the Green Book, it fell under “right action infraction”. There was a boy that I liked and had his home phone number and back in the 80’s you could make a collect call from the pay phones in the dorm and charge it to another number. I did, but to somebody else. It was traced and came back to me. I could not lie to C-Bud, told him why I did what I did and then I had to call my mother and tell her- I wasn’t kicked out- but pretty darn close. Chris walked me throught that. That call was like going over a cliff when rock climbing and you have to count on the person holding the safety line as you traversed down. Chris did that for me. Take responsibility for your actions, whatever the outcome. Back then the outcome was getting a new name that had “major” in it. Mando (mandatory study hall) and grounded to the dorm other than classes and sports. You also had to serve meals in the cafeteria, so everybody knew you had done something. Senior year I was the photo editor of the Green Lantern Yearbook and we dedicated the book of ‘83 to Kit and Chris. I climbed the roof of the gym to take the inside photo and then when it was a potential “situation” I outed myself to Chris and took his photo for dedication. On my senior page I stated I had grown so much and thanked him first in a list that looks like alphabet soup. Hearing the news today that he passed the threshold of the vail, I hope he will hold the side door open for me when it is my turn. When I made a fool of myself Holderness weekend in ’82 and was “in the presence of” another major infraction, it was at his and Kit’s home. I learned the true meaning of Grace, unmerited forgiveness from Chris. Live to Learn and Learn to Live was what he encouraged. I felt that he saw something in me that was real. At graduation I got some sort of award for tenacity, but more importantly, I got the gift of knowing that I had a purpose to serve others. First as a Special Ed teacher, next as a mental health worker, a shepherd, and now as a Hospice Chaplain. All of it comes from having one person in your life believe in you and see the potential. I know I am but one of many he influenced, but to me his was one of the most influential people in my formation. From that messed up dyslexic kid, to now a confident soul. To Kit and the rest of the family, my deepest sympathies and appreciation for you all sharing Chris with us. Alexandra (Perry) Jump ‘83

Our country is unraveling. My high school buddy Alise bought yarn wanted to knit this hat, but realized she doesn’t know how to knit, so I got a text last night, could I knit this. I looked at the patter and frankly it is poorly written ( sorry Paul) but the picture is good enough to for me to know what to do.