A Spring of Joy

This week has been quiet. The children are on Christmas break. I went into the office Monday morning for a couple hours with Bella to get a couple things I needed to do before taking the whole week off to be with my loves. Bella sat at my desk and colored, chatting with me while I organized and put together last minute touches for our Christmas Eve service. She snacked on Christmas goodies and visited and laughed with my co-workers, and I found myself watching her with that parental wonder I tend to have when my children are doing something so ordinary to others but so grown up to me.

Parental wonder.

I think that’s what defines me this week as I have shared days with my loves. They are growing up so quickly and are such fun to be around.

My children are in what I like to call that in-between stage. They are mostly self-sufficient, needing little of my energy to care for them, but they aren’t independent yet and Ash can’t grab car keys (like he will in two years!) and drive off to friends’ homes. Instead we are home and quiet and cozy. They fix their breakfasts (or lunches if they wake too late for breakfast), clean up after themselves, help with chores and all the extras of life at home.

I did do a grocery store run early on Tuesday, and after an hour of wandering aisles and packing up groceries, I headed to the parking lot where I almost passed out from exhaustion, shaking the whole drive home and crying over how limited I still feel. While Brian carried my bags in from the car, I lamented this weakness. I just want to feel whole again! But at the same time, I am thankful for no chemo treatment until January which means a little more strength each day.

The days here have been lazy and lovely. Sleeping in means something different for each of us, but we are all enjoying it. Bella-girl and I wake earlier than the others and curl up together in the quiet of the morning with coffee and soft blankets and Cooper.

We’ve filled our days with games of Life and Monopoly Deal and Two-handed Spades, wholesome snacks, reading books, organizing the playroom and culling out old toys to donate to others. I’ve worked bit by bit each day to prepare for our traditional Christmas Eve Italian stew and Christmas morning breakfast, and Bri has run last minute errands for stocking gifts.

We have watched Christmas movies and Ash, who doesn’t really enjoy them but humors me and watches, is catching the jokes that used to go over his head and laughs out loud. I love his laugh. How is he so grown up? Parental wonder.

Bella has been baking and cooking and spending hours in the kitchen. She made a meal for a family in our church, baked our Christmas morning cheese braid, and a couple apple pies. I love watching her putter around the kitchen, tossing cinnamon and sugar over apples without measuring, rolling out dough, pinching salt into muffins. She is a fabulous cook! How is she baking almost completely on her own? Parental wonder.

Bear has been crafting and drawing and helped me with all our Christmas letters, stuffing and stamping and chattering away with me late into the evening last night. “I just like being with you, Mom.” he says. How is he staying up late and having everyday, normal conversations full of wit and wisdom? Parental wonder.

It is so life-giving for me to be home with them, to be feeling marginally well, and to have no agenda except for quiet days.

Life at home.

Quiet days.

Parental wonder.

Yes.

This truly is a season of gratitude and joy.

It was the night after chemo, and my Bear had something creative due the next day that he needed a hand with. Ever since my treatment began last year, I have had a hard time keeping up with life and details and helping the children with their homework. I completely fell apart.

“I’m so done.” I cried to Brian. “How am I supposed to do this? All this? Feel this horrible and help my kiddos with all the million things that school requires? Help you with parenting? All I do is fail.”

Yes. I was overreacting (I’m good at that), ingesting the self-pity that often accompanies pain, and it tasted good to vent.

My Bear overheard and came running into the room. Diving onto the bed, he crashed into my arms.

“Oh, Mom!” he nestled into me, “You’re not a failure. You’re the last thing from a failure. You’re the Queen. You’re the Queen of Cancer. Who else has beaten it four times and is beating it again? AND you love us. You’re the best mom ever.”

I wept in the arms of my boy, even as tears blur the screen while I am writing this.

Chemo and cancer are so hard, y’all. I have been mostly flat on my back since treatment last week and the things I am able to do require careful planning and lots of help. I’ve missed work and sobbed in the arms of one of my co-workers when I showed up but had to leave. My parents have been up to help three times, once at the last minute when I was dizzy and curled up in pain. Brian has been single parenting most nights, remodeling our bathroom and just looks so tired. A friend had to drive me home from church after I had been there 20 minutes this past Sunday.

Instead of raging in anger at this as I sometimes do, I find myself discouraged and despairing and the tears flow easily. This is not the life I wanted and I struggle to see the beauty in this.

Tonight I sat reading our friend, Zach’s, blog and wept some more. He wrote, “…hope for my circumstances to change has become hope for his glory regardless of them.” I was undone. I ache for my circumstances to change, to get all the balls I’ve dropped back in the air and juggling seamlessly again, for cancer to disappear forever, for energy to reenter my body… but that’s not the ultimate goal. Even more I ache for Jesus. I want to see Him in this. But even as I long to see Him, the beauty is that He sees me in this. He loves me for who I am. His child.

And He uses beautiful boys with dimpled grins and strong arms to show me… my children don’t care what I do, they care about who I am. They don’t love me for how organized I keep my home or how creative I am with homework or lunches or Christmas decorating. They love me because I’m Mom… They see me for me. Just like their Father does (well, both Brian and their Father in Heaven).

I’m Mom.

I’m here. I’m with them.

And that’s enough.

And besides… apparently, I’m a queen.

“It is Advent right now, and this year especially, I’m really thankful for Advent. Advent is about waiting, anticipating, yearning. Advent is the question, the pleading, and Christmas is the answer to that question, the response to the howl. There are moments in this season when I don’t feel a lot like Christmas, but I do feel like Advent.” (~Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet)

Waiting.

I don’t like waiting.

Our culture has taught us that waiting is a bad thing, and we do everything we can to avoid it.

I keep being thrust into situations where I must wait, and these last few weeks have been agonizing at times. I’ve felt the howl of Advent. This waiting for chemo side effects to subside, for the headache to pass, for answers to come. I’ve waited just as those people in history waited (since the fall of mankind in the Garden of Eden) for Jesus, the answer to sin’s problem to come.

I long to wait well. I long and ache and pray that I would welcome waiting as an opportunity to worship. But so often I turn waiting into fear and an opportunity to take life into my own hands rather than opening them up and offering my life as a sacrifice.

I must wait until Monday to have my scan. Then I will wait a day for results.

I. must. wait. And I am not the only one. I have friends this week who also face physical limitations, frustrations, recoveries, and treatment. I am aching to be in Ohio and Pennsylvania and with my hurting friends to wait with them.

My sweet friend, Kristin, once pointed me to a sermon preached at her church in Nashville on waiting, and I sobbed through the whole 45 minutes.

My favorite quote?

“Rather than an inconvenience, waiting is to faith what breathing is to life.”

How I long for the faith that views God’s promises as a place to stand firm knowing that He is in control, that my waiting is part of the larger story and that larger story is one of redemption and salvation and hope and glory.

My God… the God Who waited thousands of years for the fullness of time to send His Son as part of His plan of redemption… He is the God Who holds every breath of my life in His hand. He is the God who fulfills every promise. He is the God Who has never failed me. He will not fail me now. He is the God Who sits on His throne as Almighty King, yet bends to me as Abba Father. He makes waiting worth it.

Henri Nouwen said, “It impresses me; therefore, that all the figures which appear on the first pages of Luke’s Gospel are waiting.”

How I long to wait like Zechariah and Elizabeth, like Simeon and Anna, like Joseph and Mary.

In my Advent crying, I feel the longing.

As I struggle with the longing, I wait.

And in my waiting, I will worship.

“Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has come to his people and redeemed them.” (Luke 1:68)

This summer I sat with Brian’s sister, Sam, whose heart is so full of love it would make the oceans overflow, and we talked about children. She is the mom of three and waiting to hopefully foster to adopt two more. She told me how she recently sat with a new mom at her church and listened to her share how hard it was, this being a new mom thing. The new mom shamefully laughed at herself mentioning how silly Sam must think she was as Sam wrangled three boys under the age of seven and hoped for more. “I just have one,” the mom had said, “I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t ever want to forget,” she told me. “I don’t ever want to look a new mom in the face and have forgotten how very hard all that adjusting is.”

Right now I’m in a season of life where I’m watching several of my dear, wonderful college and youth group girls who are full grown women now having their first children. I’ve been to baby showers and am watching my phone and newsfeed, hoping to see it blow up with the news of babies born. I can’t wait to visit and hold and rock and laugh and cry with these women some of whom I remember from when they were my own children’s age.

And, like Sam, I don’t want to ever forget. I don’t want to forget the physical pain of childbirth and recovery. I don’t want to forget feeling like I had no idea what I was doing with the nursing and the diapering and the scheduling or not scheduling or baby-wearing or not baby-wearing or co-sleeping or starting them in a crib right away. I don’t want to forget the exhaustion of lack of sleep and the cringing when I took my little one out into public and everyone pawed at him right in the middle of flu season! I don’t want to forget the umpteen tissues I used wiping noses and the teething and the figuring it all out (or at least hoping I was.) I don’t want to forget walking around like a zombie and how heavy that car seat felt when I was swinging it back and forth and back and forth just begging him to go to sleep. Just sleep. Please, child?

I fell in love immediately with being a mom and honestly, mothering came very naturally to me. My children all settled in to schedules and slept through the night early on. But it was still hard, and I watched friends on whom it was even harder. We cried together and laughed together and shared our frustrations and failures together. I don’t want to forget that either. How necessary those friendships were, with those going through the same thing… but also with those older and experienced who could talk me down from the ledge… and with those who didn’t have children yet who loved on mine when I needed a break. I don’t want to forget those times.

And I don’t want to forget the wonder of it all. The beauty of it all. I don’t want to forget what it was like to nurse my boy to sleep and to sit in the darkness of his nursery rocking and rocking and rocking and not caring if I went to bed or not, because he was in my arms. I don’t want to forget watching Bri hold him and diaper him and play with him and feeling my heart grow so large it almost exploded. I don’t want to forget the scent of him, that baby warmth and sweet softness. I don’t want to forget his first smile, first bath, first laugh, first tooth, first everything. It’s easy to forget those things while I’m focused on all the firsts (and lasts!) my eighth grader is experiencing now.

So this is for you, my new mom girls. You’ll hear a lot of people tell you to hold onto every moment, savor each second, don’t wish time away. I’m here to tell you that’s impossible. Even if every second were amazing, you wouldn’t be able to hold on to it all. And truth of the matter is, when that diaper explodes all over the car seat, you’re not going to be savoring the moment. But that little one you will soon hold in your arms, is going to turn your world upside down in the most astonishing, remarkable and dying-to-self ways. The days will seem long sometimes, but the years are short. That much is true.

You have been given a treasure from God–a soul to raise for His Kingdom, a heart to engage, a hand to hold, and a life to love and shape and mold and share. Marvel at this little one, dear girls, and hold him or her with open hands, for they ultimately belong to the One Who chose them for you. And while you hold your treasure out to your Jesus, cling to Him. He is faithful and loving and kind and He knew this gift was exactly designed for you. And when the days are calm, hold them out to Him and cling. And when the days are long, hold them out to Him and cling. And when you drink in that cozy baby softness or snicker at their milk-drunk sleepiness or hold your breath during the umpteenth diaper change or fall asleep with them in your arms or belly laugh at their silly faces or gaze at your lover holding your beloved, remember.

Remember as you hold it all with open hands, your Jesus is holding you.

(And remember there are many of us who haven’t forgotten what it was like… and we have open arms to hold those babies for you, too!)

As I write this, it is Saturday morning, and I hear banging and sawing and the noise of demolition on the floor below me. In April we tore the floor up in our downstairs bathroom with the plan to just put new floors in. Instead we found rotting boards and part of a wall with soft wood because, unknown to us, our shower had been leaking. New shower needed. New wall needed. New floor needed. This was no small task. We decided that we’d just do a complete bathroom overhaul which included redoing our library nook connected to the other side of the bathroom… but when? How? With our crazy life?

Over the summer we boxed up books and emptied cabinets to prepare, and this morning we started. Or rather Bri started. I hear him now with two buddies from our church home group, ripping out paneling and sledge hammering holes and grunting and yelling with manly shouts.

But what I hear above all of that is the laughter. They are thoroughly enjoying time together.

Laughter.

Friendship.

Last night, we went to dinner at our friends’ home. It was a spur of the moment afternoon invitation… if Ang is feeling up to it, come on out and we’ll make pizza together. I figured I could sit with the comfort of friends and feel rough, or I could sit in the comfort of my home and feel rough. So we chose our friends, and it couldn’t have been a better choice.

We feasted on a variety of cheeses and veggie appetizers and caught up on life, little girls playing upstairs, older kids sitting with us and joining in conversation. Bri brought along his pizza stone and the guys cooked some pizzas outside while Amy and I baked a few inside and then we ate some more. After our late supper, we went outside, curled under Woolrich blankets and entangled ourselves in our spouses’ arms to sit by the fire while the kids played card games inside. We reminisced about life together before kids and adventures we had lived together. We shared stories of vacations and churches and business and family and just… life. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed… long and hard.

Far past my “chemo” bedtime, I leaned over to Bri and mentioned we should be going home to which Amy responded, “But we haven’t had dessert yet.” So we unfolded ourselves from the warmth of each other and the patio and returned indoors to cheesecakes and red velvet cake rolls. Savoring every bite, we mentioned how this needs to happen more often. We just need to get together with our friends. No phones. No agendas.

Just love…

…and friendship…

…and laughter.

“She thought of Joseph and how love can start with something as simple as the gift of a peanut.

She thought of Cornelius and Lafayette, and as she offered a berry to Violet, she thought how good it was to have friends.”
(~Henry Cole, A Nest for Celeste)

“Death be not proud…”

They stood, strong and tall (and how is it they look so old?!), my Ash-man with the other boys in his eighth grade class. I’ve known them all since before they were born, and they recited together…

Tears began to form.

Yes. Death. Be. NOT. Proud.

“…Though some have called thee
mighty and dreadful…”

The grief, the ache, the groaning you cause is dreadful. I will give you that.

I found a card Saturday that I bought for my Nanny’s birthday. It was all about the beauty of who she is and how wonderful it was to grow and have relationship with her. And I sat on my knees by my bed heaving those gut-wrenching sobs. I miss her. She died 19 days before her birthday. Yes, there is a mighty anguish that death brings.

“…for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not…”

It has been three years since I said goodbye to my dear friend, Kim. The wound is still deep. I swallowed that throbbing lump in my throat numerous times throughout the weekend. But death has not overthrown her. She lives today. So do my Nanny and Pappy. So do the husbands and fathers and mothers and daughters and babies and aunts and sisters and brothers of friends who are grieving today (I ache with so many of my friends these days). Death has not overthrown them.

“…poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”

And while I face every day with literal death in my body, death will not win. Every new ache and pain nags at me, “Has it spread? Is it exploding throughout my body? That spot by my liver, has it finally encroached?” It is easy to obsess over death’s icy tendrils as it fights to win. But y’all, even if one day this cancer take my life here; it won’t kill me.

For I carry hope in my earthen vessel. My expectation is from Him. My Savior died on the cross and had He stayed in the tomb, this sonnet could never have been written. But He conquered death and rose to life. He defeated the enemy.

Will I struggle? Yes. Will I fear? Yes. Will I grieve? Yes. But will I lose? No.

“One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more;”

Two days before she died, I curled up in Kim’s bed next to her. I stroked her hair and talked with her. My friend, Terri, and I sang hymns and shared memories. I watched her fade in and out of consciousness. And as I leaned in to kiss her cheek and say, “Goodbye,” she grabbed my arm, smiled softly and said, “I’ll see you soon.” One short sleep past. She has woken eternally. Death is no more for her.

I watched as the boys recited, and as they neared the end of the sonnet, my Ash-man straightened, he pushed up his chin with full assurance, and he stated forcefully.

“Death, thou shalt die.”

The enemy doesn’t win, y’all. No matter what heartbreak we go through, the enemy doesn’t win!

Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
(~John Donne)
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

(Many of you have seen and rejoiced with us on Facebook, but I wanted to share here, too. My oncologist shared the wonderful news that my tumor markers have dropped in half! The chemo and diet changes appear to be doing their job in the fight. We still have a long battle, but this makes it easier. Thank you for your love and prayers.)

Yesterday was one of those days where although I was tired, I felt relatively well and was able to be out and about and do stuff–mom stuff and work stuff and carpool stuff and friends stuff. Then last night I got about two hours of sleep because the side effects of this chemo are still alive and kicking. I forget sometimes on my good days that this body is so broken, and I tossed and turned with a neuropathy in my arms and hands that was unpleasant to say the least. (Neuropathy is tingling, pain, numbness, or weakness in the feet and hands. It’s a side effect that just started with this round of chemo.)

So I woke up grumpy and angry. Bear had a friend for a sleepover, so I trudged downstairs and made them pumpkin pancakes and scrambled eggs, because I love cooking and I wanted to cook for them because I love cooking and I’m tired of not cooking because I love cooking and I was miserable the entire time. I lamented all that is on my to-do list today–good things, necessary things, fun things. How am I going to do this? How do I grocery shop and go to Costco when standing in my kitchen for 20 minutes seems too much? How do I pay bills and write checks and reconcile our accounts when it hurts to hold a pen? How do I pick up the necessary clutter and organize a messy home when lifting my arms seems a monumental task?

And I pitched my internal hissy-fit. Really, Lord? I was doing so well. This is supposed to be my upswing weekend where I’m feeling well and getting stronger so I can get blasted again with chemo on Tuesday. This isn’t going according to my plan, my schedule, my desires. Really? And I’m supposed to believe you’re in this, too?

I grabbed my cup of coffee and sat in the living room listening to the boys chatter as they raced their cars in Need for Speed on the Wii. Coop curled up at the front door and barked at our neighbor’s seven (yes, seven) cats. Bella sang a new song she’s composed in her head. I picked up my Bible and my devotional book, because I needed it. I needed truth, because my heart wasn’t speaking truth. Oh, y’all…

“He keeps His promise a thousand times and yet the next trial makes us doubt Him. He never fails; He is never a dry well; He is never a setting sun, a passing meteor, or a melting vapor…Heaven and earth may well be astonished that rebels should obtain so great a nearness to the heart of infinite love as to be written upon the palms of His hands. “I have graven you.” It does not say, “Your name.” The name is there, but that is not all: “I have graven you.” See the fullness of this! I have graven your person, your image, your case, your circumstances, your sins, your temptations, your weaknesses, your wants, your works; I have graven you, everything about you, all that concerns you; I have put you altogether there.” (~C. H. Spurgeon)

It’s all there. Every stray cell is there. Every nerve that’s firing pain is there. Every ache, every pain, every fear, every hope. It’s all there.

The lives of all of God’s children are there. Not just our names, our lives. Every good day full of song and life, every tedious day full of struggle and monotony, every agonizing day full of lament and doubt.

It’s easy when it life is flourishing to believe He holds us. But when life has annihilated us, how do we believe?

Every broken heart, every grief-stricken cry, every choked out whisper of uncertainty. It’s there. Every empty womb, every ringless finger aching to be wed, every abandoned heart, every parent’s cry over a straying child, every widow’s scream in the night, every person longing for just one more moment with a loved one who’s gone, every despairing and desolate mind, every failure, every broken body, every crushed dream. It’s all there.

That hands that hold the universe hold us. No. It’s more than being held. We are graven there… we can never fall out. His promises are as true today as they were yesterday and as they will be tomorrow.

Every second of every day of every part of us. It’s there.

Oh, y’all… how I needed this to break through the struggle. I needed my focus to be lifted upward to Him, to Who He is, and I needed the reminder that even if today all I do is curl on a couch in a fog of pain medication, even this is there.

It’s held in love etched in His hands. Altogether there.

“Behold, I have engraved you in the palms of my hands…” (Isaiah 49:16)<