“Do you feel up to lunch, or would you rather visit at Fieldstone?” Anne asked from the front seat.

From the backseat, I couldn’t hear Eric’s reply.

“Okay, dear,” Anne said. “I’ll call you when we exit the highway.” She ended the conversation and turned to Randy. “He’ll join us for lunch.”

“Oh, good,” Randy replied, eyes fixed on the road.

It was my final day in Maine—Sunday, December 7, 2025, the day after the Millinocket Marathon and Half. The trip had blessed me in countless ways. Staying with Randy and Anne in my childhood home was one of them. We would conclude the visit with my final blessing: time with my fast-lane friend, Eric—their son.

My heart beat erratically, palms clammy. I clutched my book and stared out the window, trying to focus on the passing landscape. Eric and I had reconnected a year earlier and stayed in intermittent touch. Easygoing and kind, he often encouraged me through thoughtful texts. I was deeply grateful for our renewed friendship. So why the apprehension?

Eric wasn’t living life in the fast lane anymore. “Parked” felt more accurate. He’d spent the entire fall hospitalized for mania and psychosis. Bipolar disorder can be a beast—swinging its victims between euphoric highs and debilitating lows without mercy. The mania had passed, but now the pendulum had swung hard in the opposite direction. Low time.

I whispered a prayer. “God, bless our afternoon. Give Eric strength for today.” I wiped my hands on my pants and flipped through my book, hoping the pages would quiet my racing thoughts. They didn’t. So I prayed some more.

I pray for Eric every day. I often think of the persistent widow in Luke 18—crying out day and night, refusing to lose heart. I’ve mastered persistence. Losing heart, though? That still sneaks in—especially when it comes to Eric.

During his hospitalization, I’d finally voiced my frustration. “God, do my prayers even matter? I’m seeking. I’m knocking. I’m believing. Where are the good gifts You promise?”

Eric was discharged just in time for Thanksgiving. I reached out about visiting. Days passed with no response. Then, just before I left for Maine, a brief text arrived: I will be here. Given his depression, I took it as confirmation—thin, but real. Still, I wondered if he wanted to see me. Or if he even could.

We exited the highway in Bangor. Anne called Eric as Randy navigated familiar streets. We pulled into the parking lot at 87 Fieldstone Drive. I expected to see Eric outside, cigar in hand. The lot was empty.

“I can go get him,” I offered, my voice calm despite the coiled spring inside me.

“That’s okay,” Anne said gently. “I’ll go.”

Randy and I waited. Then suddenly, Eric was there. He lumbered into the backseat beside me, turned, and offered his hand.

“Hello, Liz.”

Despite the formality of the handshake, warmth shone from his blue-green eyes. Relief washed over me. He does want to see me. My throat tightened.

He fumbled with his seatbelt. Anne and Randy had installed a protective barrier for their new dog, Yodi, which made the buckles hard to reach. The effort seemed almost too much for him.

“Here—let me help,” I said, gently taking the buckle.

“Thank you,” he replied as it clicked into place. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply—as if waking from a long sleep.

The restaurant buzzed with activity. A pastry case beckoned, rich smells filling the air. My stomach churned. The hostess led us to a booth. Eric sat down, and panic fluttered in my chest. Where should I sit? Next to him? Across from him?

“I need the restroom,” I blurted, pivoting away.

Inside the empty bathroom, I dissolved into tears—gratitude tangled with grief. Grateful for this time. Grieving the weight he carried.

“Help him, Jesus,” I prayed. “Help me, too.” I laughed softly through tears, dabbed my eyes, and thanked God for waterproof mascara.

When I returned, the seating was settled. Eric sat beside Randy; Anne sat across from them. I slid in next to Anne. We ordered. Eric stared at the table, answering in fragments.

Mountain Dew. Fried clams. Onion rings. Side salad. Ranch dressing. Thank you.

Memories surfaced. Sundays long ago. A dark living room. Eric asleep on the couch. Are you coming to church? No. I need sleep. Driving away, praying for him anyway.

He glanced up briefly, then away. I saw the effort it took just to be there—to say yes. What a gift.

When the food arrived, Eric shifted restlessly. “Can Liz say grace?” he asked quietly.

Emotion surged. My prayers matter to him? I prayed briefly, thanking God for our food and time with these people I loved — all I could manage while keeping tears at bay.

Eric drank two Mountain Dews and finished his meal. I barely ate, sipping tea and swallowing emotion instead.

We finished lunch and exited the restaurant. Outside, the sunshine eased the awkwardness. “Can I have a hug?” I asked.

Eric stepped forward and pulled me close. You know the kind of hugs that make you feel at home, safe, and cherished all in one? It was one of those hugs. Another gift.

“It’s foggy, Liz,” he explained. “So much medication.”

Back in the car, he gazed out the window, then suddenly sang, “Wake up, Lizzie, I think I got something to say to you…” His voice faded, but I smiled. Thirty years earlier, he’d sung the same song on a broken-down bus during a youth group ski trip to Sunday River. Another gift.

At Fieldstone, Christmas lights twinkled. Paper snowflakes hung from vaulted ceilings. The house felt peaceful. Anne and Randy rested on the couch. Eric set up the keyboard while I chatted with Deanna, a caregiver I’d come to know.

“Your visit will make his day,” she said.

I smiled, knowing his willingness to see me had already made mine.

Another caregiver introduced herself. “I’m Ginger.” She shook my hand firmly. “Eric shared your book with me. I finished it—I really liked it.”

Surprised, I asked what stood out.

“I’m a recovered addict—twelve years,” she said. “What you wrote about grace and compassion…” Her eyes filled as she gestured toward the other room.

Eric’s quiet sharing was touching lives—even here. Another gift.

I played a few gentle melodies. Peace settled in my chest. Later, I suggested a walk. Anne and Randy stayed behind, but Eric came.

The fresh air revived us both. Conversation flowed easily.

“Do you need a smoke?” I asked.

“Nope. I quit.”

“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you.”

A small answered prayer.

“I loved staying in my old house,” I said.

“Did you ever pray for me in the room across from the guest room?” he asked.

I laughed softly. I had shared that room with my sister. “All the time.”

“It’s hard to believe sometimes,” he admitted.

“I know.” Tears slipped down my face as we walked, the vulnerable moment another gift.

I had asked God for healing, for clarity, for answers. Instead, He gave me gifts—small ones, quiet ones, easy to overlook if I wasn’t paying attention. A handshake. A request for prayer. A song from thirty years ago. A hug that felt like home. It made me think of Christmas — its gifts and how many overlooked the greatest gift of all. A Baby. Delivered quite unexpectedly to a nondescript teenage couple. Born in a quiet barn of all places.

That’s when I understood. God was answering my prayers, just not in the way I had scripted. Instead he showed up in unexpected ways. Ways that were easy to overlook. Just like 2000 years before, He was giving the gift of Himself—present, near, faithful — to me and to Eric.

Emmanuel. God with us. In the big moments and the small.

And for that afternoon, the small gifts were enough.