A chaplain asked if she could pray with my mom and me. It was the last morning of my week-long Turner syndrome study at the National Institutes of Health. Her visit was not on my printed schedule, and hard edges and clinical elbows of the entire week had worn me down, so the whole thing felt miraculous. Like an angel arrived to carry me. Only two percent of us diagnosed with Turner syndrome survive pregnancy. The fact I was sitting there at almost 40 — about to hear a litany of tests results delivered by a team of researchers from all over the world — blew my mind. It still does.

Our door was cracked open and she asked to come in. I was weepy and scared, confronted by the weight of silence and sitting in fear of the unknown. Silence and fear do that. Her presence was an immediate balm for my soul. We learned she was ordained in the same liberal Christian denomination in which I grew up, my family’s denomination for generations. She sat and we talked about travel and faith and she did not ask me about Turner syndrome. Warmth and laughter and kindness embraced the sterile space. The breath I could not take for days began to return — story by story — thought by thought— blink by blink. My minister’s sermon had been about love that previous Sunday. He quoted scripture. “Thanks be to God for this unspeakable gift.” Love is our unspeakable gift. As our time together came to an end, we joined hands. She asked that the God of health watch over us and that the fullness of God’s grace surround us. That moment was love.

To read more about love and blessing, subscribe to the Wide-Awakeness Project.