A Litany for Living

Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.

My friend is a hero of mine. Not because he wears a cape. Not because he speaks in lofty words or quotes Scripture from memory. Not because he’s got his life together. (He’d be the first to laugh at that idea.) But because he shows up. He shows up when people are hurting. He shows up when something needs fixing or someone needs lifting. He shows up with hugs, silence, stories—whatever the moment calls for. He serves without fanfare. He listens without judgment. He gives without needing to be noticed. And lately, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Soul-weary. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The other day, he read something I wrote about Old Fashioneds. I wanted him to read it—because he's in recovery, and I trusted him enough to be totally honest with me. He was. And that opened a deeper conversation. He told me he’s looking for something. A rhythm. A ritual. A way to keep going when everything feels heavy. He didn’t call it a prayer. He didn’t call it church. He just said he needed something. A breath. A pause. A bit of meaning to lean on. I think a lot of us are looking for that. Some people find it in Scripture or a sanctuary. Others find it in walking their dog, or washing dishes, or sitting on the porch and watching the world not ask anything of them for a while. We don’t always need big answers. Sometimes we just need one quiet moment that doesn’t ask anything of us—except to be exactly as we are. My friend isn’t big on organized religion—too many walls, too much noise, too many people talking about God while forgetting to be kind. And yet, the way he lives—his compassion, his presence, his stubborn hope—tells me his faith is real. Maybe more real than most sermons. So, today, this post is for him. And maybe for you, too. If you're feeling tired. If your body is worn and your soul feels bruised. If your faith is hanging by a thread. If you’re not sure what you believe, but you still want to believe in something. I see this kind of weariness everywhere lately. My manager is working fifteen-hour days, pushing himself beyond what feels human, trying to keep everything from falling apart. The weight she carries isn’t just in the hours—it’s in the constant pressure, the never-ending to-do list, the silent worry no one sees. I think of a woman I met who stayed by her husband’s side in the ICU for more than two weeks. There were no visiting hour limits for her—she hardly ever left. Day after day, night after night, her presence was the only comfort he had in a place where hope felt fragile and time slowed to a crawl. Others are grieving, burned out, holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside. And some can’t even name what’s wrong. They just know that everything feels heavier than it used to. This isn’t just the tired that comes from a long day or a short night of sleep. It’s the exhaustion that lives in your bones, in your spirit. It’s the kind of tired that accumulates over time—from caregiving, from chronic stress, from holding in emotions, from showing up for others while neglecting yourself. It doesn’t clock out when your shift ends. It follows you home. It wakes up with you. A nap won’t fix it. A weekend off won’t touch it. Even sleep can feel like it doesn’t reach the place that hurts. Because this kind of tired isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, even spiritual. It's weariness that comes from meaningful things: loving people through crisis, holding others’ pain, carrying grief, trying to be strong for too long. What helps isn’t always a fix. Sometimes what heals is simply being seen. It’s someone looking at you with quiet understanding and saying, “I know you’re carrying a lot.” It’s being allowed to stop pretending you’re okay. Sometimes the most sacred thing isn’t a solution—it’s someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you, just chooses to sit beside you and offer grace and peace. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is admit we’re tired. Not fix it. Not push through. Not pretend we’re fine. Just tell the truth. That’s what my friend did the night we talked. And thankfully, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I just listened. And as I ended the call, I was reminded how much we all need room to be human. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. Sometimes it looks like a car ride for someone who needs to get to the doctor. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like asking for a breath of meaning when you’re too worn out to pray. Sometimes, we’re all just tired. I know that I am. If that’s where you are, I hope these words help you breathe. I hope they remind you that even your weariness is seen. I hope you remember that your doubt is not disqualifying. And that silence and pauses are part of the prayer. May you find rest in unexpected places. And may the sacred sneak up on you— right where you are. Sometimes the altar isn’t built of stone. No candles. No hymns. Just this moment. Just this breath. Just this—your Unlikely Altar.