Kuhlman’s Corner: Prayers for Morgan Love

The late morning sun glints off the Atlantic as a brisk breeze curls around the granite bench at Kuhlman’s Corner, which sits in the 90-degree bend of US Highway 80 on this easternmost Georgia coastal island.

I press my hand to the frosty seat—always colder here, even under a Georgia blue sky. I sit and reflect here often. Sometimes I pray.

I see a woman walking towards me. She wears a rigid orthopedic boot—one of those molded plastic and Velcro affairs—adorned with a miniature Santa in a red toboggan, puffing on a tiny embroidered cigar. At the same time, a green tassel bobs at the top.

She is tall and slim—falco, she’d tell me in Spanish—her dark hair pulled back to reveal a delicate rose tattoo curling along the nape of her neck. Her name is Sarita, meaning Little Princess.

On her knuckles are tattooed the letters LOVE and LIFE. They stand out in neat black script. A thread of warmth spread through me as she offered a shy smile, the sort that made the corners of her eyes sparkle.

“Mind if I join you?” she says, patting the bench beside me.

“Please do,” I answered, settling into the cold metal. She winces slightly as she shifts her weight off her injured ankle. Her free foot carried a simple canvas sneaker.

“Walked the beach this morning?” I asked, eyeing the sand beyond the dune.

“Not today,” she said, her voice soft. “I dragged myself across from the corner store. That’s enough trekking for one day.”

I nodded. “Foot trouble?”

“A nasty twist,” she explained, lifting her booted foot. “You come here often?” she countered.

“Sometimes. Best place on Tybee to think.” A police cruiser skidded past, tires squealing as it took the curve too fast. Sarita laughed, half-smile brightening her face.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

“In fact, you did me a favor.” I unrolled my pipe pouch, the tobacco’s earthy scent already curling forward. “Mind if I smoke?”

She leaned in, inhaling the aroma. “My Poppy smoked a pipe. I love that smell.”

I nestled the pipe between my teeth, struck a match, and asked, “Sarita, what do you think about prayer and miracles?”

Her dark brown eyes widened. She drew in a measured breath. “I pray—daily—my family’s Catholic. We pray rosaries, novenas… Sometimes, we see miracles and are blessed by them.”

Her confidence and warmth radiated more light than the sun. I studied her gentle curve of jaw, the way her shoulders relaxed. “I know someone who could use a miracle,” I said quietly.

Sarita tilted her head, curious. I released a thin stream of smoke toward the sky. “My friend Sean—he’s a writer, Sean of the South—he asked for prayers today. Not for himself, but for his niece, Morgan Love.”

Her eyebrows rose. I described Sean’s column: the way his words laced humor with heartbreak, how he introduced readers to his “niece,” Morgan. “She’s a twenty-year-old medical student from Locust Fork, Alabama—a town of just over a thousand souls along the Black Warrior River. Right now, she’s in the ICU at UAB.”

I watched Sarita’s gaze drift to the ocean. “Morgan’s fiery red hair, her laugh—you’d never guess the struggles she’s endured. Paralysis on her left side, vision issues, and diabetes. She learned to walk twice. Epilepsy. She carries a feeding tube in a backpack. One year, she spent 230 days in the hospital. The nurses know her by name. Doctors have given up on her more than once—and she’s bounced back every time. Miracles, they say.”

Sarita wrapped her arms around herself against the ocean breeze. In the distance, a cargo ship navigates south towards Brunswick. I continued, voice low. “She’s asked God to take her when the pain was too sharp. But she never gave in to bitterness. Morgan’s the kind of person God sends to remind us who we’re meant to be. And, so far, God’s keeping her with us.”

Her nails tapped LOVE-LIFE on my shoulder. “I believe in miracles,” she said softly.

I exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled.

“Then would you pray for her? And for Sean—because he’s poured out so much hope for others. I’ve got adopted daughters, and nieces of my own, who have had their medical issues—so I understand what he’s feeling right now.”

Sarita closed her eyes, a gentle prayer forming on her lips as the wind carried her whispered words out over the glittering water.

I smiled and added my own.

“I’ll ask my family tonight to add their prayers,” Sarita said.

“Thanks, Sarita. Feliz Navidad.”

-30-

(For further details, please go to Sean of the South: Morgan’s Prayer) https://seandietrich.substack.com/p/morgans-prayer