A Spring of Joy

Glimpses of our world…

  • Jumpstarting My Heart

    “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 the lingering effects of the chemo reaction I’ve had, and 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 heart failure, so it’s an always wondering if it’s chemo or my heart. And it is exhausting to live every day wondering if it’s progressing more because of the physical pain.

    I am relearning the withdrawals and deposits of life. Resting in the mornings so I can carpool my girl to practice or go to tennis matches or celebrate Star Wars day with my fam. Last week Bri and I triple dated and went out to a restaurant for the first time in fifteen months. (I’m so thankful for vaccinated friends!) Each of those things depletes me and I spend hours, if not days, in bed afterwards. I am so thankful to be living life again.

    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.

    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)

  • Of Pulled Rugs and Tapestries

    It has happened again. The rug, Pulled out from under our feet and we are struggling to regain our footing.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    I battled fevers, rash (covered every part of me except my soles and palms), and pain last weekend and until the middle of last week. I was on all kinds of medications to combat it and lived in the mental fog of either pain or drug induced fatigue. I slept little and wept much.

    I have been off the new chemo for over a week. The chemo we prayed and fought for. The chemo my oncologist felt like was the next good way to fight.

    I saw her yesterday–the amazing woman who has fought for my life with me for almost thirteen years. We learned last week that she is leaving and relocating across the country. I grieve this loss deeply. I’m weary of loss. In the lives of my friends there has been highest of highs and lowest of lows this past week. On Saturday, we reeled with the death of an older neighbor across from us, one whom Brian had been faithful to care for when needs arose. We are shaken.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    One of my chemo nurses, and a friend from church, sat next to me in the lobby to see how I was doing yesterday. His presence in that moment as I waited in the unknown was such a gift. The new plan is to restart my oral chemo at half dose tomorrow and then I will see my oncologist next week to see how I’m doing. I have all the necessary medications should my body respond this way again. She is treating me cautiously. As we talked about next steps, I crumbled. “Is this the last one? At what point do we reach the end of treatment possibilities?” Her hand rested on my shoulder and she looked me deep in the eyes. “There are still plenty in the arsenal to fight. And I’m here for two more months. We will figure this out together.”

    Oh, friends. How I will miss her in my life.

    As she shared her plans for the future, we both teared up and she told me how she would miss me.

    “I have learned,” I told her as we cried, “God is never not providing. He has used you to provide for me these past thirteen years. And He won’t stop because you’re leaving.”

    I believe this. I do. But I am so very sad.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    I am tired of the rug being pulled out from under us, but at the same time, I accept that this is our life. Incurable cancer does this to you without warning.

    But here’s the thing. He puts it back. The rug, woven through with the tapestry of our lives. Our God puts it back. He doesn’t leave us floundering and trying to get our footing. And each time it is pulled from under us, we get to see the Rock we’re standing on. And each time He puts it back, the Rock feels firmer under our feet.

    I wonder.

    May I use some hopefully sanctified imagination here? After all, as Frances Schaeffer wrote, “The Christian is the really free man–he is free to have imagination. This, too, is our heritage. The Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars.”

    I wonder if that rug will sit on the floor of our mansion in heaven? I like to think that I’ll see it, that I’ll run my hands over it and remember His goodness…

    “See that?” I’ll say, “That green? That’s the grass in which we smothered our bare feet, trying to taste the goodness of God’s earth. And that? That gold? That’s the gold of sunsets we watched out the window and marveled at His beauty. The black? That’s the inky darkness of long nights, of midnight cancer… but every black strand turns brilliant yellow as the light emerged. And this red? It’s the cut of every knife, every incision into my body, every needle hunt and prick, every scar. And the blue? It’s the water He gave me to drink through His Word. Look, there’s the pink of ribbons friends wore to honor me. This purple? That’s the laughter of my children. There’s a lot of purple in there. And white… the purity of my Brian’s love for me, an example of Jesus, and a reminder of life. And look, more red… Jesus’ blood shed for me. And this one, look how much of this clear strand there is. These are the unseen prayers of those who loved us, their tears. My tears are over there on that shelf in a bottle. Theirs are in bottles, too, but this rug is woven with them, too. And look at all the different shades of skin. These are the arms of those who carried us through. And all of it, a remembrance of His faithfulness to bring us through. Shot through with His mercy, goodness and grace. Isn’t it the most beautiful tapestry you’ve ever seen?”

    I have sat on the phone with friends and with my parents this week to weep, enveloped in words of truth and care. I have poured out my heart and rocked in Brian’s arms. I have wiped the tears of my children. And I have prayed and prayed for the hurting ones in our life.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    We are held.

    And through it all, the beautiful tapestry in my life grows ever more lovely.

    ,

  • No Matter the Season

    “No matter the season, the song is the same.”

    My dad and I were discussing how hard the winter months will be this year. Taking down the Christmas decorations and sending kids back to college and increased cases with the pandemic. The cold, dark days feel a bit more dreary.

    Then the call came in yesterday. A PET scan early next week, so they’re moving chemo and my appointment with my oncologist to later in the week so we can discuss results. The very next day, my Ash will return to college.

    It feels like every year begins with us drinking from a fire hydrant of unknowns and tests and changes. I was a bit undone, to say the least.

    All of the what ifs? swirled through my brain. What if my increased pain means…? What if my tumor markers rising means…? What if they can’t use my port and I have to suffer hours again of infernal hunting and pecking for veins? What if the news is bad, very bad, and then I have to send Ash away to process it on his own? The rabbit trails, y’all! I’m good at chasing them.

    “Oh, I’m prone to wander…”

    A sweet friend of mine, who is battling cancer and finishing her last round of chemo today, texted me. My dear friend, Bethy, called. Other friends responded to my fears with “I’d be a mess, too.”

    And they asked. They asked how I’m doing. They shared their hearts for me. And they spoke comfort over me.

    If there’s anything I’m learning in this crazy virus-laden and politically upheaved world, it’s that we must all listen to each other. And listen with understanding. My friends showed this to me yesterday. They didn’t try fix it, they didn’t preach how they thought I should respond… they listened, they understood, they loved, and then they spoke or prayed truth over me.

    Truth that I am loved unrelentingly by my Father. Truth that He delights in me. That His mercy and goodness follow me (literally running after) all the days of my life.

    “But You’re prone to chase.”

    I’ve said it a lot this year. 2020 was extremely difficult for me physically, mentally, emotionally. Increased pain. Increased nausea. Drug-interactions that left me debilitated for months on end. Drug allergies (that scared my poor Bear half to death when he had to call Brian to come home quickly because Mom’s not okay). Increased depression. Increased anxiety and intense panic attacks that come on suddenly and with no apparent cause. I’ve fought to live well with my loves. And still through it all, I’ve battled myself over my inability to serve my family and friends the way I long to… how absent I have been from their lives. And how excruciatingly lonely it is to suffer.

    And yet. My friends still came to me with care, with truth, with no judgment, with love.

    And Jesus.

    “Nothing in my hands I bring.”

    Nothing to offer, and yet, He comes close and I call Him Friend.

    Friend.

    Y’all, have you ever thought about how intimate that is? That Jesus is our Friend?

    I’ve had this song on repeat the past couple days, because I need to hear truth over and over and over again. The songs His people have sung through the ages. He doesn’t change even when my circumstances do.

    “No matter the season.”

    So if the winter months are dark and dreary. If the pandemic continues to rage. If my scans come back with progression. If there is no relief to my pain.

    All the what ifs?

    There is no what if? about Jesus.

    His faithfulness remains the same. How great He is.

    I’m clinging to that today. My soul may not be singing very loudly today, but He knows the words.

  • This morning my Bella read our daily Advent reading to me. If you look closely, you can see the script on the inside of the book, a gift from my dear friend, Bethy. We had to stop several times while Bella read because I was so sick. I’ve been up since four a.m. with nausea and pain, and she always finds me to rub my back and bring me water and waits tenderly beside me in the throes of my struggle.

    I cried today. A lot. The years of battle are wearing me down. And I told her how thankful I was that the incarnation meant Jesus came near to us. How I just wish I could touch Him, to know He’s near because today He feels so far away. She snuggled in close and stroked my Bible. “Touch Him here, Mama.”

    Oh y’all. What gift she is. How kind our Father is to give me my children as helpers and truth tellers. How in the stinging ache of cancer’s loneliness, He gives me the touch of her comfort… which is a tangible touch from Him.

  • The Mountains We Cross

    “Trusting God when the miracle does not come, when the urgent prayer gets no answer, when there is only darkness… This is the kind of faith that can be developed and displayed only in the midst of difficult circumstances. This is the kind of faith that cannot be shaken because it is the result of having been shaken.”
    (~Nancy Guthrie, “Holding on to Hope)

    It has been 23 years since the first time I heard the word cancer spoken about me. Five times in 23 years, and I will never get accustomed to hearing that word spoken about me.

    This week marks six years since my breast cancer progressed to stage IV. Since my breath stopped when I heard, “There is no cure.” I am one of the 18% who have lived more than five years. In four more years, I pray I am one of the 10%. Four more years… that is, God willing, Ash finishing at CNU and Bear and Bella graduating and us becoming empty nesters. We refinanced our house last week, and there were moments as we talked about how quickly it could be paid off, I found myself thinking, “How are we planning that far ahead?” How do we plan when there. is. no. cure?

    But how do we NOT plan? We don’t stop living. We can’t. We won’t.

    There are days when my mortality is smacking me in the face and I can only weep, and there are days where I stand confident in the truth that He has numbered my days. There are days when I cannot catch my breath and wheeze after I climb stairs and there are days where I take mile walks with my pup and my girl. There are nights where I writhe in pain and nights where I sleep soundly for six hours. There are moments where I cannot open my Bible because I am too weary to wrestle again and times where I can’t stop devouring every word. This journey of faith is not an easy one.

    I have not been well lately.

    I am struggling through some medication changes and side effects and increased bone pain from treatment and depression from my treatment and weaning off the old medications to try the new ones. It has been a debilitating few months, and having my family home sheltering in place to protect me in love during this pandemic has only opened their eyes to how weak Mom is… and opened my eyes to how I tend to place my value on my own productivity. And I struggle with my perceived not-enough-ness.

    Before COVID-19 my family would leave and head off to work or to school, and I would do small chores and rest so I would be strong in the evenings and able to go to all the things with them and live life with them. Now they are home and they see just how much time I spend resting, and they are understanding more just how bad this is. How Mom has strength for so little.

    Oh, but y’all… here is what is true.

    My strength may be small, but I will always have the strength to love them deeply.

    Bella and I wake earlier than the boys and we make coffee and chat about the day as we empty the dishwasher together. We curl up under warm blankets and read a devotional and we pray. Bella makes us breakfast and we talk about school or the musical (she has a named part! They’re doing it like a movie this year to keep the children safe. It’s so fun hearing my songbird in her room every day). Then we grab Coop and run up the back stairs about 10 minutes after Bear’s alarm blares. “Let’s go get him!” And Coop jumps on his bed and nuzzles his face and Bear starts his morning with a smile and a groan. I make him hot chocolate to sip during classes and his day begins hearing of my love.

    Bri comes down freshly showered and grabs breakfast and coffee and goes to the library nook for his office set-up to begin his work day. Bella and Bear start virtual classes. I throw a load of laundry in or pay some bills and then sit at the table with my girl as she works, and I listen to a sermon on my AirPods and read and write. I love the accessibility the internet offers and just how much good stuff is out there. I listen to poetry podcasts and sermon series (just starting one on Ezra and our faithful God). Then I nap. Then it’s break between classes and I help Bella with English paper ideas and listen to Bear on the phone with a friend trying to figure out Analysis homework (I would be of absolutely no help there). Then class number two. I switch laundry loads, do a little meal prep and then nap again.

    Cancer is a lonely disease, and the loneliness has been intensified by the pandemic. I live like I do during flu season a couple months a year, only even more cautious… and with no end in sight of living this way. And the hardest struggle has been that my family sees just how weak I am. Every time I throw up from treatment, my Bella girl is there. She’s bringing me water and holding my hair and rubbing my back, and I weep. “It’s not supposed to be this way. I’m the Mom. I take care of you.” And she rubs my back harder and she says, “Mama, no one is independent. This is where you need me, and I’m here.” And I marvel at her… at her wisdom and nurturing heart. She dreams of being a kindergarten teacher and a librarian one day, and as I write this, tears fall as I think of all those young ones who will have the joy of knowing Bella’s love.

    And when I go there… I also go here: “Please God? Please let me be here to see it? To watch the lives of my family as they grow and change and please let them run hard after you?”

    We just watched “Fellowship of the Ring” on Saturday for pizza and movie night, 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 on the phone with my Ash for an hour and talk through life and questions and struggle and hear all about his love for college. And I laugh hysterically with my family on family game night. And we go on family drives through our beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. And I curl up to read with my girl and we share quotes from our books. 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 my Bear drives me on errands and we talk about life and dreams. And we have patio dates with friends and porch date sermon and worship times. 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 an essential worker in a nursing home, and the stuff she deals with… sigh. Y’all. This pandemic is awful.

    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.

    For 23 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 23 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 fourteen 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.

  • For today…

    … simple today.

    Outside my open window…birds chirping in a harmonious call and response… neighbor mowing spring’s early growth.

    I am thinking…about generosity and how we are all human.

    I am thankful for…children who are faithful to serve when asked, a cozy bed for after-chemo recovery, technology that connects when we can’t be together, porch swing conversations, my Brian working from home, Cooper snuggles.

    From the kitchen… a yummy lunch prepped by my girl, leftovers in the fridge, pork loin waiting to be grilled.

    I am wearing…yoga pants and a fleece for comfy curling.

    I am creating…next week’s meal plan, a quarantine playlist, a list of new recipes to try with what we have on hand.

    I am going…to stay at home. Please, if you can, do the same.

    I am reading…The Secret Keeper, What We Keep, Suffering, Just Mercy and The Turquoise Table. Just kind of depends on what mood I’m in.

    I am hearing…Bella-Girl singing show tunes in her room. “Just you and I defying gravity…“, the squeak of the back door as Bear opens and closes it on his way to work outside, Bri whistling, Asher talking with a friend.

    Around the house…squished floor pillows, strewn socks, open windows, textbooks, disinfecting wipes, artwork and more artwork.

    One of my favorite things… sharing life with friends—-bearing burdens and celebrating joys.

    A few plans for the rest of the week… family game night, finishing up our Star Wars marathon, working together on house projects.

    Here is a picture thought I am sharing… Taken on a walk with Bella girl. I love stained glass and steeples.

    What happens matters, my friends… it all matters

    ,

  • God Can, God Cares

    Recently, in my Facebook memories, a picture popped up of Bri and me with dear friends who were our campus ministry leaders at JMU many years ago. I wrote:

    On Friday, they stopped by to see us, and it was sheer gift to laugh and cry, to reminisce and to dream, to see through it all God’s faithfulness to them and to us. They have taught us so much in the twenty-plus years we have known them, but always, always it comes back to this: He is faithful.

    I have been quiet last week. Part of it is that I had chemo and was down for a few days. Part of it is that there are things going on in life that aren’t for me to write about. But they are hard places that Bri and I and others are stepping into as helpers.

    On Tuesday of last week, my faithful Daddy by my side, we tromped into the cancer center with our bags of books (we bring several because you’re just never sure what mood you’ll be in and what you want to read) and awaited my appointment. After seeing one of my oncologist’s colleagues, they sent me to my chemo chair. I’m at the point now where they just tell me where to go and I walk the halls with Dad to find my spot, waving at the nurses, many of whom I consider friends. After chemo, we made our way to another part of the hospital for my MRI of my arm, stopping to grab a ham sandwich and some coffee.

    They were wonderful and the MRI went smoothly (or as smoothly as lying in a tube six inches from my nose with my hands strapped to my sides can be.) I am so thankful I’m not claustrophobic.

    Afterward, I returned to the cancer center for a few more things and getting my port deaccessed. I was at the hospital almost eight hours, and weariness oozed from me as I climbed in Daddy’s car to head home. The phone rang not two minutes later. The doctor had received my MRI report and there is NOT cancer in my muscle.

    Deep breaths. Thank you, Jesus.

    It appears to be physiologic which means injury of some sort. I will discuss with my oncologist when I see her again. In the meantime, I do struggle with pain in my upper arm, shoulder and neck. By the end of the day it feels debilitating, and I. Am. Done.

    Next week I will see the radiation oncologist to discuss treatment for the adrenal gland, and we will move forward from there.

    Deep breaths. Help me, Jesus.

    Y’all, my hair is coming out in droves. Handfuls when I shower. Our vacuum is more full of my hair than Cooper’s. I know this treatment that I’m on can cause thinning but this is way more than thinning. And I wonder if there is a connection to the cancer in my adrenal gland. And I wonder at what point I will shave my head again and go back to wigs and scarves and hats. And that makes my heart very sad.

    But in the midst of sadness, He brings joy. I was able to help plan and celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary party for my parents on Saturday. There were quite a few moments where I had to catch my breath and swallow that lump in my throat as I looked around the room and saw so many people who’ve known me since birth. The hugs and the tears and the laughter and the celebration. What an impact my parents have made on the lives of so many. (Bonus: I ordered way too much food so we have lasagna and salad to feed us for the week.)

    All in all, I am doing okay. I’m thankful for the “yes” God gave us with regards to my arm. He is worthy of praise no matter what the answer may be. And I have friends right now that the answer seems to be a lot of “no” right now. God loves them no less. We are all moving forward to the final “yes” when we see our Jesus face to face.

    In the meantime, we cling to truths that our friend Dan has ingrained into us with his life and teaching:

    Look at the cross, delight in the resurrection, hope in the future, share with the world, encourage the saints. God can. God cares.

    He can, y’all. He cares.

  • Careening and Spinning and Sliding. And Held.

    Wednesday night, I curled on the floor in our den surrounded by my youth group high school girls. As we concluded our Bible study, I looked around at them and said, “Cling to God’s sovereignty. It’s hard, y’all. But the world is never spinning out of control. It’s only spinning out of OUR control.”

    Y’all. It sure feels like it’s spinning out of control… careening and tilting, and I feel like I’m sliding off trying to grasp onto something and my fingertips just squeal and slide.

    Deep breaths.

    The oncologist called this morning with results of my PET scan, and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around all the information. I’ve talked with her twice and gotten clarification on some things. I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face—my oncologist is amazing. She went over my scan in detail with the radiologist so she could talk with me about where we go from here and I wouldn’t be left floundering over the weekend.

    Here are the facts (trust me, I’ll get to the feelings):

    —the areas of concern that they’ve been watching over the past year are continuing to disappear. The area in my abdomen that they biopsied last year is gone.

    —my tumor markers continue to drop (one is in the normal range). Tumor markers are not an accurate indicator for everyone; however, they have been a good predictor for me in the past.

    —but there is new spread in my abdomen. It’s actually in my left adrenal gland.

    —there is also uptake of the radioactive dye in an area of my left triceps muscle. While it is very rare, breast cancer can spread to muscle.

    Deep breaths.

    —because of the lessening spots, the low tumor markers, and the time spent examining my scan, both my oncologist and radiologist believe that the area on my triceps is probably muscle injury (a tear perhaps) rather than cancer. But obviously they can’t say for sure. Either way, this would account for a steady increase in pain I’ve experienced in my left shoulder, neck and back.

    —she has ordered an MRI for a better look at my arm and shoulder.

    —also because of the lessening spots and low tumor markers, she will keep me on my current chemo regimen because it seems to be working to a good extent.

    —I will have targeted radiation to the adrenal gland.

    Deep breaths.

    —I am overwhelmed by the hard. But thankful for some encouraging news.

    A friend recently posted an article about Toby Mac, the Christian music artist, whose son died unexpectedly this week. Toby wrote: “We don’t follow God because we have some sort of under the table deal with Him like we’ll follow you if you bless us. We follow Him because we love Him. It is our honor. He is the God of the hills and the valleys. And He is beautiful above all things.” It wrecked me.

    Because, y’all, I’ve been living my life recently like it is an under the table deal. I’ve struggled with anxiety, a LOT of anxiety of late, and I’ve struggled with distance from God. And I’ve been envisioning a God who is standing with his arms raised up waiting to drop the other shoe because I’ve not been a good enough daughter to him. And that’s not our Father God at all. Rather, He is the God Who, like my own father prayed this morning, “isn’t standing with His arms raised in judgment. He’s running with His arms outstretched to hold me close to Him.”

    I’m overwhelmed by His kindness. I’m fearful, yes. “Don’t you see that we are perishing?!” the disciples screamed in the stormy boat. Yes. He sees. In fact, Jesus was there precisely because we ARE perishing without Him. To save us. If God sent His Son to die for me, to save me, to bring me to eternal life with Him, how can I doubt that anything else in my life is not for my good? It’s all for my good.

    The flood still feels overwhelming. If I look ahead to what my days will look like… appointment after appointment after appointment… more procedures…the burning and fatigue of radiation, my knees buckle. But living in tomorrow is exhausting. Because we don’t know what tomorrow holds.

    So we sit in the sadness today. Not frenetic or panicky. This could be much, much worse, and I’m thankful it’s not. Just sad. And heavy.

    And we do the next thing. Lord willing.

    We will go to dinner with a dear friend who is in town for JMU’s Homecoming.

    We will go to the football game tonight at the boys’ school, and we will stand on the field at a pink out for breast cancer game, and we will honor our Ash for senior night.

    We will celebrate tomorrow at our third wedding of the fall, another heart friend who has been a kindred since the day she introduced herself to me in the chemo room many years ago.

    Bri and Ash will go to another college visit (I may or may not join them) at Virginia Tech (this pains my JMU Duke heart).

    Bear will attend a Young Life retreat and worship our Father, “Because I need to, Mom. I need to worship.”

    Next week we will go to work and school and play volleyball and tennis and have drama club and I’ll have chemo and we will enjoy our annual chili night for Halloween with friends…

    And we will live.

    Today.

    Honest about where we are.

    Thankful for the kindness of our good, good Father.

    And finding our careening, slipping, squealing, sliding lives stilled by the hands that hold the universe in His.

    (Thank y’all for praying for us so faithfully. For loving us so well. We are blessed beyond measure by you.)

  • Pain and Promise

    “What are your plans for today?” Bri asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat next to me. We had just dropped off my Honda at the mechanic’s, and I was still trying to clear the haze of the morning even though I had been awake for hours. I leaned my head back against the headrest and mumbled, “Try not to throw up again?” He reached for my curled hand which ached from pain deep in its joints. He sighed his sorrow and drove me home.

    That’s how that day began.

    It’s been nine months since we learned there was progression of my cancer and I underwent all the subsequent testing and surgery. It’s been six months since I started new treatment protocol. My oncologist has been working faithfully with me to tweak dosages and timing. As always, she is giving me much input and days and weeks off so I can travel or attend important things in my family’s and my lives. This new treatment regimen has been hard with its impredictability. We are starting to learn what to expect when, but the last nine months of life have felt like the haze I was pushing through this morning.

    “This one is breaking me,” I’ve whispered to Brian many times. And we tweak it again, so I feel less broken. And we keep on tweaking because we know it’s working. Some days I think it’s getting easier. Days like today, I don’t.

    I see people regularly choosing their “word of the year” and I laughingly tell friends mine is “broken.” Depression and anxiety rooted deep within my heart and soul this winter, a side effect of one of my three medications with which we blast this cancer yet again. I have lived in a deep darkness these past months, but God is bringing me out of the shadows. Warm weather helps—-my physical aches and pains are less.

    Yes, my body is broken. I have been struggling with a past of very poor theology that didn’t allow lament, and I have not known what to do with the darkness of my days. I have watched my children live life somewhere in the realm of “undone” and “fearful” yet rise to hope in what is true. Their courage pushes me to see the world around me with different eyes.

    But treatment is working. I am fighting this monster with diet choices and Pilates and counseling and medications, and progression has halted for now. I am able to pace myself to watch my loves doing the things they love—running and tennis and drama. We go to movies together and have long, deep conversations about life and the power of story. We fix meals together and plan menus and work around the house. Bri and I get out together and go on dates and have game nights with friends. We laugh. A lot. We really do. I’m thankful for that. I need that.

    Recently, at one of those game nights while playing the game, Imaginiff, we were given the choice, “If Angie were an ailment, what would she be?” Options were along the lines of a headache, a sick stomach, a pain in the rear, a pulled muscle… Brian laughingly looked over and said, “Well, that pretty much describes everything she deals with.” I won’t tell you which ailment he chose. *smile*

    I don’t know how to answer friends who ask how I am doing. And many of you faithfully ask, for which I am so thankful. I often reply with, “I have good days and bad days. We just never know when they’re going to be.” Which is true. We tend to live very spontaneously. I just don’t know how to sum it all up without sounding like I’m complaining—-how do I describe to people that my hands become so raw that they burn and that I can’t pick up a pen and write? Or of my nails that split halfway down to the cuticle? Or that my scalp aches all the time and it hurts to brush my hair? That my skin feels like one big bruise covering my body and showers are physically painful? That I sometimes can’t eat because of sores in my mouth that mysteriously disappear the next day? And yet the medications cause bloating and swelling so it looks like I eat more than I do? And those are the minor side effects.

    And the mental side effects? The forgetfulness? The words that don’t come? How when I go to church, I am so mentally exhausted from having to work so hard to understand what’s being taught and sung that I struggle to find joy? That beautiful words that used to be part of my vocabulary fly over my head and I feel like a simpleton? That Brian will tell of his day and talk about things I should understand, and I’ll say to him, “I don’t know what that word means.” Or this weekend when we were camping and I kept calling “cornmeal” “cole slaw”. That I have anxiety over the weirdest things—like what if I sit on an anthill at Bear’s tennis match and the ants eat my toes off? What. The. Heck?

    How do I keep doing this?

    But how do I not? Because even with all that I’m describing, I have days where I feel somewhat well. That a good cup of coffee and a good conversation with a friend is revitalizing. That I may limp down the hill to watch Bear play tennis, but the warmth of the sun on my face and the pride in watching him compete is strengthening. That the chill in the night air may make my bones ache, but watching my Ash push through in a 3200-meter race fills my heart. That getting ready to go out may use up all my energy, but watching my girl own the stage as a Shakespearean Puck breathes life into me. That I may tell Brian he can’t put his arm around me because the weight of it around my waist is too painful, but I am calmed by the press of his body against me when I lean my head on his shoulder and know he will not give up on me.

    A couple months ago after watching the author speak on The Gospel Coalition website, I picked up the book Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy by Mark Vroegop. Y’all… I have gotten through one chapter. Not because it’s a hard read or because I don’t like the book. It’s because I keep going back over and over and over again to the same words because I need them over and over and over again.

    Because lament is a language I am still learning. He describes it as a “minor-key language for my suffering” and how it “provides a critical ballast for the soul.” (I had to look up the word “ballast”… a word I’ve used many times before. *sigh*)

    I have rooted myself in the psalms and in the gospels. I have listened to various podcasts that speak to suffering, and I have listened to various podcasts that celebrate the beauty of our world and our lives. I have picked up books that are simple to read yet rich in truth. And I have read others’ stories to remember it’s not just I that suffers (because it’s so easy to navel gaze) and to pray for them in their need. And I sit in that gap between pain and promise.

    And I wait.

    And some days I weep.

    And some days I revel.

    And every day, I thank Him. Because even with all this pain, He has given me another day with the ones I love doing the things I love. Another day to see His beauty.

    And I cry. And I laugh.

    A lot.

    Because the pain is real.

    But so is the promise.

  • Of Sparkle and PET Scans

    Yesterday I watched my Bear play tennis while my Bella girl curled with her head on my lap, and I stroked her long red locks. I was weary in every way. The PET scan yesterday had gone well other than some IV issues. I have a huge knot and bruise on my left hand, and it hurts to use it. Sigh. IVs will always be my nemesis.

    I steeled myself for the wait. I have treatment on Thursday and an appointment with my oncologist, so I was expecting two days of limbo. But my oncologist, who is amazing, called yesterday evening to share the preliminary news that my PET is stable. No further progression. We will talk more tomorrow, but stable is good. Treatment is stopping cancer… now if we could just get it to shrink cancer! But I will take no progression. And I breathe thankfulness.

    As I shared the news with my Bear before he began his doubles match, he flashed those dimples at me and said, “I’ll be able to play better now.” And when I whispered the news to my girl as we curled on the blanket watching him play, she tightened her grip around my legs, “My birthday will be perfect now.” She whispered back. And before supper, as we celebrated an early birthday dinner for our girl, my Ash prayed and thanked our Father that his mom was still okay while Brian and I tightened the grip of our held hands.

    Y,all, there are days when I think it all will break me; this treatment is far more difficult than I expected. Every morning finds my Bella girl holding my hair back while I throw up. She fetches me water and rubs my back and nurtures me, and I wipe away tears that this is her life. Shouldn’t it be the other way around, that the mother nurtures her child? Ah, but then there’s my Bear, who when we talk about what they were like as babies and I share how I threw up all nine months of all three pregnancies, he laughs and says, “Well, you’ve just been throwing up pretty much your whole adult life, huh Mom?” And Ash throws his arm around me, shakes his head at his brother while we all laugh, and leans into me protectively.

    And I breathe thankfulness. We lament. But we rejoice. Bella girl was one when I first started this battle. She turns 13 today. Look at this beautiful life God has given us!

    I’ve had several of you ask for an update. I know I have been quiet, and my heart is warmed that you want to know how we are. I will write more after my oncologist and I have talked tomorrow, so steel yourselves for a post full of medical jargon. In the meantime, will you breathe thankfulness with me for no progression?

    And here’s a bit of three-year-old sparkle to brighten your day. I have been gifted with that sparkle every. Single. Day. now for thirteen years, I guess I can share.