I am still in a holding pattern, waiting to land in a place of better breathing, better endurance. Now is my time for patience and for hope.

It will take several weeks to two months to see if my new extremely expensive medicine will have any effect. While I’m waiting, I’m frustrated, a slacker. Breathing is a chore if I’m doing anything else. So I sit a lot, at the computer, at the kitchen table, counting “one, two, three, go…” I’ve only been taking these pills for one week.

The bronchitis that plagued me at the beginning of the month unmasked a new diagnosis: pulmonary hypertension. It is an expected consequence of the many chemotherapy and radiation treatments that cured my cancer so many years ago. That’s the bad news. The good news: there is a new medication for this condition. I start it today. I am buoyed by hope.

Over a decade ago, five women rabbinic students began to tap into the energy of healing first voiced by Moses when he prayed for his sister, Miriam. Moses’ prayer was simple but efficacious: “Oh God, please heal her!” Now there are over 20 Jewish Healing Centers throughout the United States and Canada doing this ancient and modern work of healing and comforting. Next Sunday and Monday, the Jewish Healing Network of Chicago is presenting programs for the community and for healthcare professionals and clergy. How wonderful to have this new center in my hometown.

My health has been so stable recently that a bad case of bronchitis surprised me last week. Still a bit under the weather, I send you an old psalm. It is one of the first I wrote, as you can tell from the number, from the time when the melodies were beginning to stir in my head and send my fingers to the computer keyboard

My wonderful friend, Rabbi Simkha Weintraub, rabbinic director of the National Center for Jewish Healing was having a “Jewish parent” moment last week when he told me about the bustle of preparations for his son, Adin’s bar mitzvah this Shabbat, when he will be called to the Torah and read from Parashat Noach - the story of Noah. This special passage in the life of a Jewish child reflects the generational span. In many synagogues, a Torah scroll is passed from grandparent to parent to child as the Torah service begins.

The inspiration for my writing comes from many places, but I was especially pleased when my friend, Laura mentioned that her brothers and their families were coming to town this week to help celebrate their parent’s fiftieth anniversary. A pleasant opportunity to honor two lovely, gentle people and to thank them for the gift of their daughter.

I met Carol on-line in December 1998 when she wrote to HealingPsalm.com, asking for prayers for her husband who was battling pancreatic cancer. Over the years, I have been her correspondent as she buried her husband (Sitting Shiva), dedicated his headstone (Unveiling), dealt with a grieving daughter and sent a son off to college. An instant message was waiting for me the other day: after graduating with her MSW, Carol was starting her first job as a social worker. Was there a psalm for that?

Sometimes I think that my husband Reid and I have complimentary callings. I am a psalmist, trying to write words of healing and comfort; a physician, Reid has an extraordinary ability to explain medical findings. By doing so, he creates his own words of consolation and empowerment. He is a nuclear radiologist and so is in a separate space from his primary care colleagues. No matter their skill, he helps make their words comprehensible. Unfortunately, the people he speaks with are almost always family and friends. When he is given permission to share their news, I get to work.

The memorials commemorating last year’s terror attacks included the reading of the names of those killed, much as we hear the names each Shabbat of the people whose yartzeit has occurred during that week. Some television stations ran banners with the names, some with photos and brief bios, reminding me of the Yiskor books distributed on the afternoon of Yom Kippur. I thought of the memorial candles I light every year before Kol Nidre that recall the loved ones I have lost and how each of us is a flame awaiting God’s spark.