A Spring of Joy

It’s hard to believe that it has been seven years since that day… the day I learned that some monsters are real… that cancer had invaded my body, my breast, and then my lymph nodes. I read once that after seven years if you get breast cancer again, it’s not considered a recurrence, it’s considered a whole new cancer. Of course, in the world of cancer, so much changes that I don’t know if that’s even accurate anymore. And since I’ve had cancer twice since then, these anniversaries of sorts, impact so differently than they used to, but they hold no small degree of thankfulness.

Today was especially hard when it hit though, because I am waiting on blood work. It’s my third round of blood work this summer. My cancer markers for thyroid cancer are elevated. We have been waiting and sitting on this for eight weeks now… just waiting, then another round of blood work, an ultrasound, blood work again. It has been long and frustrating, and I’d like answers.

We were at the beach when my endocrinologist called for this third round. If the markers are still elevated, then I’ll have a radioactive iodine scan (that’s the one where I’m sequestered from my family for a few days), and if the scan shows activity, I’ll be facing surgery again and possibly treatment.

I am fighting other physical ailments–possibly silent reflux, possibly allergies, possibly looking into mold in our home, and whatever it is has turned asthmatic. They’ve been investigating this one for four months with little results, and I don’t really have any days where I feel well anymore.

I sigh a lot these days. To carry this weight along with the unspeakable ache of my grandparents’ absence is heavy and hard. (But even in the midst of it all, how we have enjoyed togetherness this summer! So much togetherness!)

We are walking through life with a whole lot of if’s… as are so many of our friends. It is a hard place to be, and it is hard to watch those I love be there, too.

The tears come quickly and easily these days, more so than normal, and they fell freely when one of my dearest friends wrote me–remembering what today held in the past and asking for Jesus’ intimate love to carry me.

Oh, my friends, this is what we cling to–Jesus’ intimate love. He carries us. He carries our friends. He knows our frame and is mindful of us. And when the sighs of grief heave deep and the cries of need fly high, the truth of His presence calms and the hope of our future stills.

Seven years ago we sat in fear wondering how many tomorrows I would have, and we are learning to “live our life of faith one day at a time,’ as Elisabeth Elliot writes.

He still owns tomorrow.

I wrote this post four years ago about my Pappy and Nanny… seems fitting to share it again. Friends for 83 years, married for over 70. I’ve since heard even more stories… what a gift God gave this world in them!

“It’s been a great life.”

He said it at least 4 times in the course of our conversation. My Pappy sat with his paralyzed leg and arm, oxygen tube in his nose, 85 years of age revealed on lines and spots and wrinkles in his face. My Nanny next to him, her once gorgeous complexion finally starting to show its age.

We sat with them for a few hours as they recounted stories of their life together.

They met in first grade. You do the math.

They’ve been friends for 79 years.

79 years.

What a life…

I heard so much brokenness.

–WWII, an injury and a capture and rescue.
–the loss of Pappy’s mother to bone cancer while he was in Italy for the war.
–the death of Pappy’s father years later who never recovered from losing his wife. He wandered off in a depression only for them to find his bones 11 months later in the mountains.
–the miscarriage and the stillbirth of children that still makes Nanny cry.
–Nanny finding her father face down in the bathroom, victim of a fatal heart attack.
–Pappy’s heart attacks and strokes and disabilities.
–the confusion of dementia and the fatigue of life in old age.

But I also heard beauty.

–the memories from childhood playing with siblings, first jobs, friendships.
–the lighting up of Nanny’s face as she described the blue chiffon dress she wore to their senior high dinner.
–the shaking of Pappy’s head as Nanny told how he ditched her to ride home on the bus with another girl.
–the joy of each child they bore into the world.. my mother and her brothers
–the strength of waiting and working during the war knowing her husband was a POW, but clinging to hope.
–their work…naval supply depot, barbershop, and postmistress of the town
–the descriptive beauty of their gardens full of flowers and vegetables.
–the holiday memories.
–the patting his Bible that sits next to his chair. “I read it every morning.”

I heard life.

Broken and beautiful.

I look at them and I know they are not long in this world. I know they do not long for this world. I know they dream about life together in the next whole and well and full of God.

He smiled and said again, “It’s been a great life. I’m ready to go but I’d like to stay here for a bit, too.”

I sat this morning and listened to this song and cried.

And all I could think about was them…

They lived it well.

Dream by Priscilla Ahn (click the red link to listen)

I was a little girl
Alone in my little world
Who dreamed of a little home for me
I played pretend between the trees
And fed my houseguests bark and leaves
And laughed in my pretty bed of green

I had a dream
That I could fly
From the highest swing
I had a dream

Long walks in the dark
Through woods grown behind the park
I asked God who I’m supposed to be
The stars smiled down at me
God answered in silent reverie
I said a prayer and fell asleep

I had a dream
That I could fly
From the highest tree
I had a dream

oooo….

Now I’m old and feeling gray
I don’t know what’s left to say
About this life I’m willing to leave
I lived it full, I lived it well
As many tales I live to tell
I’m ready now, I’m ready now
I’m ready now
To fly from the highest wing
I had a dream.

(Priscilla Ahn, “Dream”)

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and of unspeakable love.” ~Washington Irving

Her last words to me on Wednesday, “I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you next time.” Next time will be in heaven.

Yes, sweet Nanny has joined Pappy with Jesus. This pain is overwhelming. We have just started catching our breaths from Pappy’s funeral.

So much to say, pointless to try. Her life of faith and perseverance speaks of the hope we hold in our grief.

Always in my heart, dearest Nanny. Always.

“But I still didn’t know what to say. What do you say when it feels like you’ve come to the end of a really great book and there’s no more chapters, but you want it to go on forever?” (~Leonore Look)

Pappy’s chapter here on earth has ended, but the book… oh, the book he’s opening now? It goes on forever!

He was a good man… a good daddy… a good pappy.

The grief runs deep. The hope runs deeper still.

Always in my heart, dearest Pappy. Always.

January 28, 1925 – June 27, 2014

Not long before Pappy had to move into a nursing home, he told me this: “You know,” he smiled, “The good Lord has never let me down. I sit out there,” he pointed to the living room, “every morning and we meet together. I read and pray and He’s always there. He hasn’t let me down yet.” I looked at his leg braces and his hearing aid and his wrinkled skin. I looked at his lifeless hand and his crooked smile. I looked at his cane and his wheel chair.

“I don’t want to leave here,” he said again, “But if the good Lord leads me elsewhere, I’ll go. I go where he takes me. And one day He’ll take me home. Until then, I’ll just follow.”

Sitting at his feet,I cried, wetting his knee with my tears, but I don’t think he knew. I cried for all that he had endured in this life, for all he had lost–the wiffle ball games he could no longer play, the snowmen he could no longer build, the foods he could no longer enjoy, the beach trips he could no longer travel. And I cried for his love and his faith and his strength, and my grateful heart overflowed that I have a grandfather who is so beautiful and wise and strong.

Adding to our grief with my grandmother beginning hospice is the news we received today that Pappy is failing. He cannot eat or drink; he needs a breathing mask; he can’t stay hydrated; they think he is finally giving up. He asked for Nanny and they brought her to him. She sat with him and held his hand. They were together, and I know that lifted his heart.

It looks as though they will meet Jesus together (or close), and it calms my aching heart to think of how each will be spared the grief of life without their friend of 85 years and how they’ll get to enjoy eternity together with Jesus.

He has fought for so long. He has lost so much in life.

But he has never lost his faith. Or his love.

I want to be like my Pappy, too, when I grow old. I want a legacy of faith. I want to remember and smile. And I want to be real about life. And I want to be ready to go wherever God takes me.

I want to just follow.

“Now I’m old and feeling gray
I don’t know what’s left to say
About this life I’m willing to leave
I lived it full, I lived it well
As many tales I live to tell
I’m ready now, I’m ready now
I’m ready now
To fly from the highest wing
I had a dream.”
(~from Priscilla Ahn’s “Dream”)

On a visit not long before she had to live in a nursing home, I spent time sitting next to my Nanny on the couch and just catching up. I shared stories about the children and escapades around our home describing rooms and flowers and scenery in vivid detail. Then she shuddered deeply, sighed and wiped away tears, “I guess we’ll never get to see your new house.” I grasped her hand and looked at her. I wanted to grab her and drag her to my car and drive 3 hours just so she could see it in person, so she could know it and imagine it and feel us living there. (She has since seen my house… what a gift from God!)

Instead I sat next to her and mingled my tears with hers, and I marveled again at how much of me I see in her. She wears her heart on her sleeve and will cry at the drop of a hat. Every meal when we pray, every time I kiss her hello or goodbye, every time we talk about life, there are tears. She drinks deeply of her emotions and isn’t afraid to show them. She drinks deeply because she loves deeply.

But it’s her strength that blows me away. After my pappy’s first heart attack when I was less than a year old, Nanny took over, doing what she had to do to care for him and her family. Pap worked in his barber shop (side note: I think that’s awesome!) until his health stopped him, and she worked in the post office as postmistress of her little town. She worked until she retired and yet managed to cook and can and garden with Pap. So much of life revolved around their kitchen. They lived a lot of life together there.

And her love? Oh, her love. Her love drove her to care for him daily. She dealt with her own health issues, but she was always there for him. Always. And she rarely got a break. But it’s okay, because she was just doing what she needed to do.

While it was Pap who was busy playing with us as kids, she was the quiet comfort, cooking the food and helping Mom around the house. She was the prankster with my dad, joking constantly with her son-in-law who she took into her family as if he was one of her own. And then she became the prankster with my Bri, teasing him playfully and welcoming him as she welcomed my father years ago.

On beach vacations, she would bring gifts for us every day. Nan’s Glad Bag she called it, full of dollar store toys for us as special treats. And she would sit and cry during every family worship time, so thankful to be with her family and loving the Lord together.

Mom told us today that they are calling in hospice for her. She is not long for this world… not long at all. While I know her home is in Heaven, while I know she will no longer be suffering here, while I know she loves her Jesus and she will be made whole in so many ways, the thought of her loss to us is hard. There is a grief that settles as I think about life here without her in it.

She’s the one who made the decision to end her transfusions. She knows it’s time to go.

She has always been so beautiful to me. My Nanny. With her porcelain skin and snow white hair, I often tell her I want her complexion when I’m old. (Actually, I want her complexion now!)

But there is so much more to her beauty than that.

I want her spirit and her faith, her strength and her servant heart, her legacy and her love.

She’s ready now…

I love you, dear Nanny. Always and forever.

It has been here a week, and I chant our summer mantra…

The only option as I see it, is this delicate weaving of action and celebration, of intention and expectation. Let’s act, read, protest, protect, picket, learn, advocate for, fight against, but let’s be careful that in the midst of all that accomplishing and organizing, we don’t bulldoze over a world that’s teeming with beauty and hope and redemption all around us and in the meantime. Before the wars are over, before the cures are found, before the wrongs are righted, Today, humble Today, presents itself to us with all the ceremony and bling of a glittering diamond ring. “Wear me, ” it says, “Wear me out. Love me, dive into me, discover me,” it pleads with us.
(~from Shauna Niequist’s “Cold Tangerines”)

Late nights and sleeping in have started, sleepovers with friends are beginning, baseball games have ended, floors are staining brown from dirty bare feet dancing across them, piles of Legos cover the boys’ bedroomfloor, knees have been skinned, bugs have bitten, farmer’s tans have begun, the library books are being read, the pool has been dived into, Ash-man has even started his Summer Greek class… and it’s only been a week!

We are working hard to live and not be lazy yet to enjoy life and not work too much.

We are figuring out how to spend our days with necessary structure but not so much that we are stifled.

We are learning what love looks like in the every day moments together.

We are laughing and crying and hugging and fighting and forgiving and teaching and praying and reading and writing and baking and celebrating and living.

Each day beckons to dive in, discover, love and live!

School ended May 30, and by 5:00 that night we were camped out in Gimli ready for a weekend in Williamsburg. The kids rode bikes and swam in the pool. I loved working on meals together with Bri then cleaning up together listening to the kids playing in the distance. Each night we’d curl up inside and I’d read Redwall aloud to them, and they’d chant a chorus of “one more chapter” at each chapter’s end. We spent days pretending to be spies in Colonial Williamsburg and ate in taverns and picnicked on the lawn in front of the Governor’s Palace. We shared root beer floats, and Bella dressed in her best Colonial attire (borrowed from a friend–thanks Madeleine!).

We filled a bag this year with their “Summer Basket” surprise… it included a dog leash, a water bowl, and a couple dog toys.

Yes, our summer includes a puppy! And when they met their new little guy, their faces couldn’t have been more wonderful. (We bring him home next weekend!)

So here we are.

Our already full hearts are expanding to fill up with more of each other… more of us as we wear each day out.

Our summer list is ready.

And so are we!

“Mommy?” she asked as she skipped along beside me in the parking lot, “Will you get a small cart?”

I smiled, knowing why she was asking. We had dropped our Bear off at baseball practice and were grabbing a few items at the store. I nodded, “Yes, just a small cart.”

“May I push it?” she asked, clasping her hands to her chest and looking up at me hopefully. Those brown eyes slay me!

I smiled again, and nodded, “Sure, baby girl, just be careful.”

“Yahooo!” she exclaimed throwing her arms up in the air. She grabbed my hand and continued skipping into the store.

Oh, to have the sheer delight of this girl… to have the small things in life like getting to push the cart fill me with excitement… to not take the little things for granted.

She grabbed a cart and we began rolling through the produce section. I lay my hand on the edge of the cart helping her steer. She bore with my control patiently for a few minutes, then quietly called my name. “Mommy?”

“Yes, baby girl?”

“Will you take your hand off the cart and let me do it myself?”

I hesitated and then grinned again, slowly pulling my hand back, “Okay, Bella-Boo. Just be careful.”

She stopped the cart and peeked over the bars at me with a twinkle in her eye, “Mommy, will you trust me?” No sass. Just wondering.

I caught my breath as I traveled forward eight years (is it only eight more years?!) to when we’ll hand her car keys and she’ll say to this control freak mom, “Will you trust me?”

Trust.

The truth is, I probably won’t trust her every time she wants me to.

But the deeper truth is that I must trust that God has her in His hands.

That God has all of us in His hands.

It doesn’t come easily for me at all.

After my day today–I spent an hour at the hospital while they did an ultrasound of my neck, then they called me just as I had pulled into the driveway home to have me come back because they needed to see more. Another hour later as I lay quietly on the table and listened to the techs whisper and saw them point at the screen, my mind and body felt battered and bruised, and I still cannot shake the headache from the procedure. All the what ifs came crashing back. This could be an end… this could be a beginning… this could remain a holding pattern. Hurry up… and wait.

But what if?

What if all these plans Bri and I are making to vacation with our kids, our beach week, our RV trips… what if they never happen because this is bad? This could be very bad.

I’m tired of wondering. There’s no way to really describe what it’s like having this headline of cancer in my life. The headline will never go away, it will just move to different pages in my life’s newspaper.

At a relay for life, I heard a seven year survivor speak and she said, “I have been cancer free for seven years,” and the crowd roared. But then she said, “And there’s never been a day I haven’t thought about cancer since my diagnosis.” And the quiet “yeses” were more deafening than the roar before.

Yes. This.

This is what it’s like.

The darkness sits right over my shoulder, it’s creeping tendrils always ready to sneak its way into my mind, my heart, my life. It’s a daily battle, sometimes hourly, sometimes minute by minute. And the fight is exhausting.

Trust.

I lay on that table and when the tears sprang to my eyes and the what ifs rumbled, my heart sprang to prayer, because without prayer I wouldn’t have life. Because I know Who holds tomorrow. I don’t have to live in fear. Battle it, yes, but I don’t have to LIVE in it. I know Who has numbered my days. And because I know Who He is, my theology shapes my experience. It CANNOT be the other way around.

Trust.

I watched my Bella girl as we walked through the store. Her eyes sparkled with joy and she was so content pushing her cart. Not one crash, not one bump, and when she put the cart away after we were done and carried bags to the car with me, she skipped again. “Thanks, Mommy. That was amazing.”

Yes.

Trust.

It’s amazing.

“Every day is important for us because it is a day ordained by God.” (~Jerry Bridges)

Tired.

I am tired.

I am tired of feeling the weight of this broken world.
I am tired of picking up my phone and crying.
I am tired of checking my email or facebook and reading heartbreak.
I am tired of the processing and grieving and the pain of loss and heartache.

I know many of you are tired, too.

But at the same time I long for it.
I long for the processing and the tears.
I long for the hours spent on the phone with my mom, with friends who share in the ache.
I long for the encouraging words to read or to share.

I know many of you long for it, too.

My body and soul are weary, and with each new piece of news, I find myself covering my face with my hands and crying, “No, no, no!” over and over and over.
Some days I just want to ask what God is thinking, what His plan is.
And some days I do.

I know many of you ask questions, too.

But it’s not for me to figure it all out–any of this: deaths and miscarriages and surgeries and cancers and panic attacks and disease and divorce and depression.
In this life we will struggle.
And so I wade through the grief.
The muck and the mire of life.
And I thank Him for grace.
Grace that cleanses and gives us strength to walk…
some days crawl…
some days only lie prostrate before Him on this journey toward Home.

I know many of you cling to grace, too.

Yes.
I am tired.
I am tired of the battle.
I am tired of the grieving.

I know many of you are grieving, too.

But I wouldn’t give up the phone calls and the prayer times and the emails and the notes in the mail and the processing.
I wouldn’t give up the tears and the cries and the longing.
I wouldn’t give up this need for one another for anything.

We need each other so very, very much.