A Spring of Joy

Today was exhausting. Each day is, really. I wake and wonder how on earth I will do all that I want or need to do, and by the end of the day I’ve only done a bit of it, and I wonder how I’ll get up the next day and keep pushing forward.

It’s an awkward place I’m in.. this waiting place before surgery, because part of me wants it here tomorrow and part of me wants it to never come. We are packing our week full of summer fun, trying to catch all the time together we can before our lives change yet again in the whirlwind that cancer is.

We went to dinner tonight. Ate outside. It was on our summer list. While there we saw my surgeon. (I love living in a small town!) He’s awesome. He really is. We are so thankful for that. He came right over, met the kids, then commended me for following his instructions and eating all my favorite foods this week. He re-introduced us to his wife and we chatted for a bit, then he put his arm around me and said, “Enjoy your week,” and I saw the sadness, the understanding in his eyes. He is such an answer to prayer for us… a gentle man who cares for us beyond our physical needs, he cares for our souls. We are grateful.

Many of you ask how I am. How we are.

How do I even answer that?

We are ok. But we’re not. We are grieving. But we are hopeful.

We are hurting and heavy and stricken and anguished and tired and exhausted and numb and screaming and aching and crashing and burning but fighting and pushing and growing and clinging and loving and wishing and hoping and laughing and crying.

The kids are struggling. They are afraid. They are sad.

Sad.

It seems like such a little word. But it really is huge.

And that’s what we are.

We are sad.

I look at our summer list, and I ache and grieve. There is so much undone.

I look at our garden and all the vegetables beginning to pop out, and I sigh, knowing I won’t be able to do much with any of them, and I won’t be able to eat them either.

I look at our vacation plans and weep, because we cannot go.

I look at our house and our list of projects that are unfinished or in the beginning stages, and I just shake my head. They will remain unfinished for a while, new ones won’t begin, and savings will pay bills not buy furniture.

And I just feel so sad.

I know all the right answers. I know that, Lord willing, we’ll have a summer list next year, projects can begin later, others can chop veggies and freeze them for us and I’ll get to eat them eventually. I know that people are much more important that projects and plans. I know the Lord has bigger plans for us.

I know all that.

But I also know this hurts.

We are grieving our losses, and we are grabbing each other, holding tight in the darkness and desperately treading water, sucking frantically for air and swallowing a lot of muck and mire and briny fluid.

And clinging.

Clinging oh so tightly to truth and begging God for strength to believe it to be true even though we know it is. We are just afraid we might forget the truth in all this.

We are okay.

We are His.

And that means we will be okay.

But life just doesn’t feel okay right now.

And I’m okay with that, with being here, with being human and with being real before our Lord and each other.

He has not forsaken us yet.

We know that.

We cling to that.

We have to.

There is nothing else to cling to.

(Many of you have asked how you can help. Our friend, Maretta, is going to coordinate help for all our needs. Many of you know her and know how to get in touch with her. If you don’t, just contact me and I’ll forward messages on to her. She is a gift to us. As are all of you. Thank you for your prayers and love.)

She sat beside me this morning on the swing and we raised our arms high, signing “I love you” to Brian as he drove off to work in his Chevy truck (please pronounce that with a hard “ch” not the soft “sh”. That’s what Brian does to make me laugh, and if y’all feel anything like me these days, you need a laugh). “Double love!” Bella shouted as he drove away, “No, love FOUR times!” Then she curled into me and whispered, “Daddy. I just want Daddy here, too.” We are all feeling it, this need to be together. To grab every moment.

We swung in silence for a while, and I surreptitiously wiped away tears, because my tears make her even more fearful.

I have watched Bri these past few days, and he looks 10 years older to me. But driving away in that big ol’ truck, he also looked so small, so broken. So I cried. Who will wave to him on the porch? If this isn’t curable? Will he have to drive away in the mornings, take the children to school and gaze at an empty house?

I cannot go there. I must not. Dear Lord, please no!? Have mercy on us. Body, soul, mind and spirit. Have mercy? It is all I can pray, all I can beg. For him. For our children. For me.

Last night some of our deacons and their wives came over and sat with us in our pain, listened to us share, and prayed for us. When they asked Bri how they could pray, he sighed.

“Just pray for her. If she’s good. I’m good.” And I sigh with him.

Oh, y’all, how could I ever doubt this man’s deep love for me?

Later that night he woke me after I had fallen asleep on the couch so I could come to bed. I murmured something about just sleeping on the couch. He stood there, over me… “You sure? Why don’t you come to bed?” And I knew. He needed me up there with him. Needed to hold me… to just be together.

My heart is breaking for him, y’all.

Just breaking.

Because y’all, as painful and fearful and terrible as this is for me, it is for him, too.

And just as it is for him. It’s the same for me: If he’s good, I’m good.

So I’m begging you… please don’t forget Bri in all this.

He suffers silently. But he suffers. So much.

(Many of you have asked how we are, what you can do, what we need. I will write a post soon to address this. But just to tell you: We are grateful for your love and your concern and your prayers. As for how we are. We don’t know. We are hurting and grieving and struggling, but we are clinging. That is all we can do right now.)

This morning, I stood at my kitchen sink and stared unfocused out the window at the dewy yard. I couldn’t see the ragged canes of our black raspberry patch straggling through the yard, because yesterday morning some of our former youth and college kids came with their father and cleaned it all up for us. I thought for a moment about what an incredible blessing it was, how humbled we are to be loved so much.

Then my eyes fell on the zinnias on the windowsill. Seeds Ash planted for Mother’s Day and gave to me, sitting there waiting for me to move them outside. I have the perfect spot for them, just at the edge of the shed where I can see them every day.

I’ve been waiting until I could get that spot dug up and cleaned out because it has become so overgrown and encumbered with weeds that I want to start over, and I want Asher’s flowers to be the first planted.

Asher’s zinnias are wilted and dying.

Over the course of the last few days I’ve forgotten to water them, and I am afraid they are beyond hope.

And I sit and weep over flowers and pray over flowers and beg God to let them revive, for Asher’s sake. For mine.

Y’all, I feel like those flowers.

I sit and weep over my diagnosis, my fears, my struggles, and I wonder if I am too wilted and beyond hope.

I cannot go there. I must fight constantly against the whispers in the back of my brain. “Get them planted now, because next summer you might be gone.” And I mentally scream at the thoughts inside my head to SHUT UP, and I beg God for mercy on us and our home and our hearts.

I sit and weep over us and beg God to let us revive, for our children’s sake, for my husband’s sake, for my parents’ sakes, for my brother’s & grandparent’s and in-law’s sakes, for my friends’ sakes, for my sake.

Not just my body, but our hearts. Revive us, O Lord, with deeper love for you.

So I pray.

I pray for healing and grace and mercy and strength.

And I pray over zinnias, because no prayer is trivial. Because it matters to me, so it matters to God.

Thank you all, for your encouragement, support and prayers… we need them. Oh, how we need them!

It is a struggle to breathe. A struggle to believe.

Will you pray for the peace that only the Spirit’s presence can give?

That I am accepted. Loved. His child. Not forgotten. Nor forsaken.

Completely and utterly His.

(Thank you to my Monica, who sent this prayer to me today.)