A Spring of Joy

Glimpses of our world…

  • The Pause

    “After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” (~L.M. Montgomery)

    It seems this keyboard can only write about cancer these days. Believe me, I’ve wanted to write of more than cancer. My brain sometimes thinks in essays full of vibrant color and ebullient words, but when I open to write, it’s as if my fingers are paralyzed by my heart. Words. Stolen from me.

    Movie outing with my college bestie

    My childhood friend, Monica, who knows a physically painful suffering far deeper than I, once shared a nugget with me as we talked for hours over phone lines. “Oh, friend,” she sighed, “Don’t forget, sometimes the pause is just as important as the note.”  

    The pause in writing, like in music, carries a weight of its own, and without it, the piece doesn’t carry the same wonder and beauty.

    I’ve needed a pause. I’ve needed quiet space in my heart for my family and close friends and me to grapple together. And frankly, to just live together, seeing the simple pleasures in each day and holding them close.

    Along the way our family has been given gifts, pleasures, too… JMU games and tailgating, movie nights with my girl, double dates with friends, etc. our pastors coming to serve communion because I miss church so often. Such a gift.

    Pause. Breathe deep. Exhale. Move forward to the next thing.

    We just adjust our sails every few weeks knowing I will be out of commission. I cry over missed meetings, canceled friend dates, Brian’s travels, and I delight in events I can attend. But I delight mostly in being here, a welcoming face for my children when they walk in the door or when Micah or Audrey surprise me and stop by with a friend. The smiles on their faces when our eyes meet… simple pleasures.

    Honestly, the past year and a half, I’ve wrestled through a darkness that is terrifying, an anxiety that is paralyzing as I’ve undergone brain surgery and testing that follows. And the cupped hands together in prayer, the bowing in worship tasting and seeing that He is good, the clinging to friends’ arms and weeping together, the sitting with my parents and working through the same fear after fear and struggle after struggle has been a necessary pause in the story I write

    And I’m learning what I already know as I frantically beg, “God, I need you.” or “Stay my mind, dear Jesus, stay my mind.” He is here. Even in the darkness, He hears. He never leaves. Never forsakes. 

    Right now I’m in the midst of tests and MRIs and procedures routinely run making for long, hard days… any one of them could mean our lives change all over again. But it could also mean it all stays the same. Chemo. Feel miserable. Feel okay. Push through. 

     Live the life God has given. 

    That is the choice we make every day. 

    To live.

    Today; lovely today

    Offers itself to us.

    Simple pleasures. 

    Following each other softly

    Notes and pauses held close.

    (I have heard from some of you, wondering if I am okay, how we really are. Thank you for asking, for checking in, for cards sent to remind us we are not forgotten, for meals on the hard weeks. Thank you for pausing with me. Your care for us resonates)

  • Big and Small Words and their Big and Small Feelings

    I hear the word and immediately feel numb. My brain fogs and my vision clouds with unshed tears. I shake my head to try and clear my mind so I can comprehend what my doctor is saying.

    He shows me my scan. See, this spot here and then another one here and here. He has a plan in place and talks us through what it will look like and what he believes will be the best option. Then we meet with my oncologist a day later. She is hopeful. I know this by her words and her kind smile. Brian’s grip on my hand tightens.

    We walk out of the cancer center together, my arm nestled into his. It’s how we’ve always walked. I talk through all she said in the car, making sure I’ve understood it all. I do.

    At home we curl into each other, and I feel the muscles of his arms encircle me, his breath on my cheek. A quiet settles over us. And then whispered, “How are you?” to each other. We are okay. We are sad.

     Sad. It seems like too small of a word to describe all the feelings, but our sad is just so big

    Progression.

    There are six new spots in my brain. All are small. None of them have any edema (swelling), they are hopeful we’ve caught it early enough to keep it from spreading more. I will start my new regimen next Monday and will go for infusions every three weeks. She says this chemo is well tolerated. She has patients who have been on this chemotherapy for years. We are hopeful.

     I recently studied our God who never changes. Oh, how I needed this… that He who loved me before time loves me still and His love is unchanging. His mercies and steadfastness and faithfulness and promises never change. He is the rock on which we stand when the storms rage all around us.

    And as I taste once again the bitterness of my mortality, it deepens the longing for the beautiful hope of my immortality. We are clinging. We are asking God for many more years here. We have not lost our hope.

    Thank y’all for your faithful prayers for us these long years. We know we are loved. By Him. By you.

  • Midnight Cancer

    Midnight Cancer is a bottomless pit

    where voices echo

    around and around

    endlessly repeating the same prayer:

    oh God…

    Sooner or later,

    midnight cancer changes to morning cancer,

    brighter, more hopeful.

    Somewhere in the sun

    rises warm and round.

    Birds are singing.

    After a while, morning cancer

    melts into afternoon cancer

    where it hides among chores:

    cut the grass clean the downspouts

    drain the noodles.

    Later, the house falls silent

    and even the dog is asleep.

    There might or might not be rain.

    Without a sound you are falling,

    arms wide and circling.

    It’s midnight

    You have cancer.

    ~Mary Braddish O’Connor from her collection “Say Yes Quickly.”

  • Chemo Days

    Thursday was a hard day. My body is adjusting to all the new meds I’m on with my chemo. Some of you have asked what it looks like. 

    Here’s the rundown: I’m on three treatments. Every three weeks I go to the hospital for a chemo treatment. At home I take a chemo orally for two weeks on and one week off. And at home I take an immunotherapy drug every day with no breaks. 

    I’ll have an MRI in a couple weeks to see if they’re working. Panic and anxiety have been constant companions as I’ve struggled to heal and return to any normalcy from the surgery. Y’all my brain isn’t working right, and I’m constantly struggling to put words and sentences together. I’ve cried and I’ve raged and l’ve sat quiet under His hand.

    A peaceful moment with a pup and a “Bear”

    Yet through it all my eyes are on Him, because ultimately it’s daily choosing to live to declare the works of the Lord even when i know that the words terminal mean my body will one day be decimated by disease. It’s scary to face, yet it’s still praying for healing and it’s a ruthless trust. It’s choosing the joy of the Lord and not my circumstances to be my strength. That no matter where I stand, He has stood there before.

    Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.

    Prayer needs for this week: eyes to see and a heart of trust as I prepare for upcoming MRI. The knowledge of what I’ll be going through brings up past trauma. And please pray for a good report. I don’t have an exact date yet but will let y’all know when I do. Thank you, friends, for your encouragement, prayers and support.

  • The Light Shines Through It

    I recently finished reading “The Horse and His Boy” from the Chronicles of Narnia series by CS Lewis. It got me thinking… When darkness surrounds me, some days it might even feel as if it defines me—although it doesn’t really—there is misery and desperation.

    And yet, when Aslan bounds into it?

    My world becomes light again. The light never was gone, I just was blinded by darkness.

    The darkness doesn’t go away, but the light shines in it, through it, and my way becomes clear and quiet, and I begin moving in my proper course rather than stumbling and tripping or just standing still.

    It is easy for me to let the darkness paralyze me, to let anxiety wreak its havoc on my soul and to lose all sense of direction, purpose… really, all sense of joy in this life.

    But when my eyes are on Christ and not on my circumstances, my worldview is very different—my life view is very different—my daily view is very different. And the journey becomes JOYFUL.

    “Tell Me Your Sorrows” by Amy Grimes (she is a fabulous artist. Check out her work; you won’t be disappointed.)

  • Beauty in the Ache

    In the midst of all the chaos I have days of beauty that make me ache.

    I ache with the sweetness of a simple day, curled up with my Audrey for a movie together. Talks with my Brian dreaming of things we want to do, places we want to go together. Texts with my boy excited about his day. Hugs from my eldest as he checks in on me before work begins.

    I ache with the struggle to even dream about the future. Next month is fifteen years of living with Stage IV metastatic breast cancer. At diagnosis, most MBC patients are given two to three years to live. Only 15% live more than five years. Only 10% live more than ten years. How do I dream about a future when these are my odds? 

    I can’t tell you how many times I am asked about when I will be done with treatment, when I will feel better, when it’s over, and I have to face my reality yet again and answer, “Never.” Treatment ends when we choose to stop or when I die. How do I dream when this monster threatens me every single day?

    I ache with the gratefulness for life. As of right now, treatment is keeping the tumors suppressed. They’re still there but not growing. We don’t know how long it will stay this way, but it’s suppressed today, and I am living life with my loves. I’m reading more and more articles about women who are beating the odds, of how MBC is still incurable, but it’s becoming more treatable. My oncologist told me of one of her patients who has been on my same oral chemo for over ten years now. I want to groan about ten years of feeling this way, but then my heart beats with thankfulness that this is even a possibility.

    I ache with the kindness of friends. Friends who bring warm pasta with fierce hugs. Long chats with friends who understand suffering and for the truths we speak into each others’ lives. Friends with whom I can dream and talk about our bucket list of things to do together, who aren’t afraid to plan with me and dream with me, even though they know my fear of dreaming, who make me feel normal. Friends who text just to see how I’m doing and to tell me how they are.

    I ache with the fear I have some days. The what if’s? I fear for my children as I watch their fragile strength. I want someone to tell me they’ll be okay. If I am gone in a year, they’ll be okay. I want to hear from someone who knows, and then I look at my own father who lost his father suddenly at a young age, and I know. I know they’ll be okay. My Brian will be okay. It would devastate but not destroy, but I fear for the devastation it could bring. 

    And I ache with the hope that conquers the fear and the struggle. The hope that is deeper than life here and points me to life eternal. The hope that has justified, and sanctifies and will one day glorify. The hope of “what is” instead of “what if?” The hope that isn’t about odds and is about soul healing (and sometimes body healing, too). The hope that anchors my soul, that points me to the blessings I have… a cup that overflows.

    And I ache with the tenderness of it all. The beauty of a simple life with a caring man. The beauty of watching my children grow and live. Oh y’all, when my last diagnosis came, a dear, dear friend, who has walked with me since the onslaught began, sat with me days ago and said to me, “Ang, we begged God for time for you, for time with you. Look how much time He’s given. We beg Him for more, but look what He gave.” And I wept with her over His wonderful goodness.

    I ache with the color of flowers on my porch, vases full of love from friends. I ache with the warmth of long evenings over glasses of wine laughing hysterically with friends over the antics of our children. I ache with the quiet nights curled under new fuzzy blankets with Bella girl’s head on my shoulder, arms intertwined with hers. I ache with the pride of a mom watching her boys work and work hard at the jobs they are called to do. I ache with the comfort of Jesus, how He has walked this way before me and never, ever turns His back on me. I ache with not just the truth that He won’t turn His back, but with the truth that He can’t, because He keeps His promises to hold me fast.

    Yes. 

    It’s days like this that make me ache. 

    There is so much in this life that makes me ache. 

    Some days the ache is deep and hard.

    But today, the ache is beautiful.

    “What makes the desert beautiful,” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well…”

  • Mustard Seeds and Mountains

    One Saturday for pizza and movie night, we watched “Fellowship of the Ring” yelling “Nerd!” laughingly at each other whenever one of us would quote the movie before the quote actually came. At one point, during a hard pass, Saruman’s voiceover speaks as the fellowship climbs, “If the mountain defeats you, will you risk more dangerous road?”

    Y’all, I feel defeated these days. The mountain of treatment is hard. My body is so broken and I’m in constant pain and my depression is crushing and my chemo brain is so bad. Some days I do wonder if this mountain will defeat me.

    But then I sit with my Ash and talk through life and questions and struggle and hear all about days. And I catch up with my Bear and hear all about his days and his girlfriend and his work and his Bible study. And I curl up to read with my girl and we share quotes from our books and she shares her days and dreams with me. And I sit with my Bri and we plan next steps for small facelifts we want to do inside our weathered farmhouse of a home. And, like every family, we work through hard things, and we fight and we forgive. And this looks nothing like defeat.

    My friend, Donna, mailed me a mustard seed a while ago. “One for you and one for me.” she wrote. So that we could remember faith as small as a mustard seed. She’s walking her own mountainous road these days.

    Faith as small as a mustard seed. Will the mountain defeat me? Perhaps. But that tiny seed sitting on my dresser for me to focus on every day reminds me the mountain can be moved. And I will, in the strength God gives me, fight even more dangerous road… I will fight for my life and my loves and I will, as the psalmist says, “live to declare the works of the Lord.”

    My faith has been shaken by cancer. Shaken hard. The effects of brain surgery are hard. And my new chemo is brutal. I have days where I just weep and beg God for mercy upon mercy. I had infusion treatment today and I just want to cry.

    In the waiting room… waiting… it’s such a miserable part of cancer

    For 28 years cancer has been part of my story. But y’all, the sureness of my Father God’s love for me cannot be shaken. And that has been far longer than 28 years. That has been from eternity past. The mountain cannot ultimately defeat me; neither can more dangerous road.

    And so, like I’ve said ever since I started this blog many years ago: we will live.

    We will live today for Jesus, caring for each other, for our family and friends and for our neighbors.

    God still owns tomorrow

    … and He owns the mountains we have to cross, too.

  • Goodness is Chasing

    One of my favorite parts of the Gideon story in the Bible is when God shows him the Midianite camp. With only an army of 300 men, God told Gideon to go down against the Midianites. Then he said, “But if you are afraid to go down, go down to the camp with Purah your servant. And you shall hear what they say, and afterward your hands shall be strengthened to go down against the camp.” 

    Gideon went down with Purah because he was afraid. He went down and heard two Midianites talking about a dream and saw how it meant that God was going to give Midian into Gideon’s hand.

    Do you see? Do you see the mercy and kindness of God? He didn’t lambast Gideon for his fear. He walked with Gideon in his fear and gave him the comfort he needed.

    I love how Gideon’s encounter down at the camp ends: he bowed low in worship.  This is where it MUST go. If I do not bow low in worship, I will sit in my fear and shrink under the weight of the impossible, and I will be unable to do battle against the lies of the enemy.

    He is kind. He is merciful. He is true. He is with us. I’m standing on the solid rock, even when all around me feels like shifting sands… clinging to His goodness—a goodness that is chasing after me all the days of my life in this fearfully and wonderfully made body. 

    Radiation treatment to my brain

  • Holding an Unsteady Glass

    “I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.”
    ― Sylvia Plath

    Many of you have asked how I am doing with another new chemo and how I’m recovering from brain surgery. The above quote describes my struggle well. I’ve been holding many things close these past months knowing that even my words cannot explain them or do them justice. There is much that has happened emotionally that has wrecked me in the past months. And there is much that is wrecking me physically, too. It wears on the spirit and the mind, and I am weary.

    I am still learning the ins and outs of my newest treatment and which side effects to call in about or which ones to jot down and discuss with my oncologist or palliative care specialist. There are side effects that mirror side effects of other diseases, so it’s an always wondering if it’s chemo or something else. And it is exhausting to live every day wondering if my cancer is progressing more because of the physical pain.

    I am relearning the withdrawals and deposits of life. Resting in the mornings. Napping in the afternoons. Hoping for energy to allow us to live life.

    But at the same time I am exhausted…

    In every way…

    And I realized along the way with this last scare, I flatlined like I’ve done before.

    And in the flatlining I found myself asking the same questions I’ve asked before, “How do I do this? How do I live and love? And how do I laugh?”

    And then the asking turned to God, “Where are You in this? What are You doing?”

    The last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time in bed because of my pain. I’ve treated the pain with medicine and movies, but I’ve also read good books and listened to great sermons online, because I know that even if I feel like I’ve flatlined, I can’t stop looking for life.

    I look at Thomas, the doubting disciple. He gets a bad rap being remembered as The Doubter, if you ask me. Because, yes, while he doubted, his doubts led him to ask questions, questions that led him back to God. Questions that led him to see Jesus for Who He is, and He cried, “My Lord and My God!” Thomas the Doubter is Thomas the Believer.

    And it was this week that God pulled out the paddles and jump started my heart, because I was struck with how I’m not really seeing or hearing. I’m not taking steps. I’m looking and asking, but I am blind to His works and my ears are deaf to His whispers. I’m asking, but I’m not reaching out and putting my hands into the scars and touching and seeing and hearing His voice.

    And I realized:

    If I’m so busy asking what God is doing, I tend to forget all God has done.

    So I stopped asking what He was doing and only asked for Him.

    He is working, friends.

    The tears still slosh. My heart still skips beats. But He is working.

    And in the working, there is life. 

    There is hope.

    We spent a week at the beach where I saw again how my sweet family holds me up and carries me faithfully to the cross. Long phone conversations with my Bear… long talks about theology with my Ash… not very long, but walks with my Brian feeling the strength of his hand in mine…and long talks with my Bella girl figuring out college life and how to love others well. Y’all they point me to Jesus and to hope and they jumpstart this flatlining heart of mine. 

    Your hope is not that you understand your past, present, and future, but that the Lord of all three holds you in the hollow of his hand. (~Paul David Tripp)

    And hope does not disappoint.

  • Broken Shards

    We are will hopefully soon be driving home over the mountains and valleys of life. Our 6 am wake-up call was rough. Arriving at UVA they immediately ushered me back for my MRI. She tried using my port for contrast dye but failed, twice. She and I were in tears by the time she was done. She eventually got an IV in my arm involving more tears from us both. It was a tough morning.

    We eventually got all the MRI finished and moved on to my next appointment. She is our surgeon’s PA and is amazing. We went over my MRI results which showed no change which is good. And I signed the consent clauses which was terrifying. Brain surgery is no joke! On to the lab for more bloodwork we learned they can’t use bloodwork taken from the same arm as contrast dye was put in (and I only have one arm they can use). So they couldn’t do the labs I needed. We are still waiting on the PA to figure out what to do and hopefully get me into the cancer center here for them to use my port. 

    We met with an anesthesiologist who is delightful and kind and helpful. I told Brian, all the people we meet here are so good and kind; all the situations we find ourselves in are just a jumbled mess. I’m weary. We’ve been at the hospital since 6:30 and all I want to do is go home and cry. I’m feeling so broken. Please pray for mercy? That God would open doors for me to get into the cancer center here for blood draws. And that these broken shards of my  heart would grow into something beautiful.

    Picture: Anonymous