“Maybe death is not the worst thing?” So a friend asked Quinn, a thought that led her to ponder what might be worse—or better. Diagnosed with glioblastoma, a once-rare but increasingly common form of brain cancer, the author places her illness in the context of 2020, when bad news on the pandemic, the economy, and politics filled the newspapers. “I guess none of us have been living in ‘normal’ times,” she writes, with what proves to be characteristic generosity. Her life (she died in 2022 at age 42) had been one of service: founding food-relief organizations to serve the poor, including the Nashville Food Project; volunteering to aid poor communities in Nicaragua; and, as a one-time seminarian, trying to reconcile a view of theology too broad for any single faith to embrace. Quinn’s thoughts as her disease progresses are seldom self-centered, though, as she writes, “I’m not trying to gild the lily here—I hate this cancer.” Her concerns are mostly with her family and the grief they will experience, grief that she was forced to navigate as she drew closer to debilitation and death: “It’s becoming harder and harder for me to think and write.” Even at the end, having given the gift of food for so long—and having carefully distinguished things done for others and done with others—Quinn praises her young daughter for making dinner for her husband and son, noting “how lucky the boys are—and will be—to have her cooking amazing food for them and with them.” There are moments of pathos, but far fewer than the author deserves to air. Instead, the narrative becomes a prayer to life, with a conclusion comforting anyone on the path to death—which is to say, all of us—that imagines what she might become in the afterlife.