A Spring of Joy

Most of us have seen it. Facebook being taken over by color. Bra color that is. In an effort to raise awareness, women all over facebook are writing their bra colors in their statuses. What?

I’m pretty speechless by it all.

(I won’t go into my issues with modesty and how on earth it benefits us to announce to the world the details of our intimate undergarments. I won’t go into how my husband doesn’t need to know what color someone other than me is wearing. Have we become so desensitized by Victoria’s Secret commercials? Commercials that find my husband bowing his head discreetly and me scrambling for our remote, I might add. Oh, wait, I said I wouldn’t go into it… )

Okay. Awareness. I’m sure there are survivors and battlers out there who think this is wonderful and a great marketing strategy. Let’s get the word out!

“Something fun is going on. Write the color of your bra in your status. Just the color, nothing else. And send this on to ONLY women no men. It will be neat to see if this will spread the wings of cancer awareness. It will be fun to see how long it takes before the men wonder why the women have a color in their status…..LOL!”

I appreciate the heart and the motive behind it, and I think the original sentiment behind it was to encourage women to do exams. However, once again, it has been distorted into a fun game to raise awareness.

As a survivor, here’s my take.

Breast cancer has become the most glorified cancer. I saw one person call it the “captain of the cheer squad of cancers“. Breast cancer, no, ALL cancer, is awful. It is brutal. It is death in your body. It mutilates you. It leaves you and your loved ones scarred in every possible way.

“Good,” we say, “Let’s get the word out. If it’s so bad, let’s raise awareness.”

Can I just ask what raising awareness does if it doesn’t DO anything effective? So, we’re more aware of it. Yes, we are. Every October the U.S. looks like it threw up pink. Believe me, I think we’re aware.

But I wonder…

How has putting bra colors on facebook done anything to help eradicate the disease? When you put the color on your status, did you check for lumps? Did you write a check to the Susan G. Komen foundation? Did you sign up for a cancer walk/run? Did you put a pile of hats in a box to donate to cancer patients who are bald? Did you think about some of the women out there who will never be able to wear leopard print again because their bodies have been too mutilated? Did it educate you about the disease? Did you pray for someone who has it? Did it move you to act?

Or was it just a fun way to get the word out?

Cancer. is. not. fun.

I appreciate the heart. Now let’s go DO something about the disease.

I heard the screams first and knew immediately it was one of mine. We mothers are gifted like that, so intertwined in spirit with our young that we recognize their voices in a sea of noise. I swallowed hard, looking up from my position by my in-laws’ sink, dripping hands motionless over the counter.

“Brian,” I tried to keep the panic from my voice, “That’s Asher!”

He was up off the couch and running along with several of his family. Out the door. They all moved.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I stood with my hands over my mouth.

Because I knew.

He had been playing in the “yard” with his cousins. I say yard, loosely, because in Phoenix, a yard is stones and cacti, and palm trees, and a few other plants. I had seen them earlier, dodging rocks and plants to kick a blue nerf ball onto the patio roof. And I had wondered if it that was okay.

But it wasn’t.

It had happened.

And I knew.

I knew because earlier that day my Bella had been trying to keep up with the bigger kids and tried to take a short cut between two cacti. She had gotten trapped, but fortunately it only snagged her dress. I knew because Mama Bears don’t think when their young are screaming in terror, they act, and I got a spine stuck in my own arm rescuing my Audrey. And it hurt. A lot. And it was just one.

So I knew.

I knew that a little boy tripping into and over a cactus plant would not be good. I knew because I had never heard screams like that coming from my own son. And I knew because by the time I moved to the door, Brian was carrying him inside, stiff, keeping his legs from moving.

We moved him into our room, surveyed the damage, and I held his head, cradled in my lap while he screamed. It took two uncles to hold him down so Brian could pull the spines out. And I brushed his hair and wiped his tears and tried not to throw up. Because he was mine. And it was awful.

Brian finished, moved him to a warm salt bath, and the room emptied. Except for me. I sat there on the edge of the water bed, bobbing up and down to my deep breaths. Only the breaths wouldn’t come. I couldn’t take it. I knew I would hear those screams in my sleep that night. I finally rose to pick up towels and washcloths, grabbing shed clothing strewn over the floor, anything to do to keep me from thinking, and I turned to find my brother-in-law, Alan. “You okay?” was all he said. And I melted.

Because he was mine.

My son.

It was my boy who screamed for what felt like hours.

And it felt like the last straw in a few days of nightmare news. “I want to go home.” I whispered thickly, “No offense.” Then I laughed, “What was it I just told you in the kitchen?” I asked. Alan smiled, “Something about God being good no matter what.” I shook my head, took a deep breath and smiled back. “Yes. Something about that.”

Brian found me later, reeling under more news I had just received over the phone. “I can’t take it any more.” I said. “Can I be cloned? Can I be in Jersey and Pennsylvania and here and back home all at the same time?” Brian grinned, always able to calm me with his eyes, “Hon, you’re not the savior of the world, you know.”

He’s right.

Jesus is.

That’s why He came.

I needed to hear that yesterday.

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to mine.

“Merry Christmas.” he whispered.

And I knew.

Christmas.

The Savior.

Of the world.

It is good.

He is good.

That He came.

Over the last two days I have received overwhelming and heartbreaking news in the lives of two separate friends. And I have wept. I have shouted. I have punched the leather seats of the car in my frustration. I have shaken my head. I have had to explain to my children. I have lain awake and cried and prayed and struggled.

I’m struggling, and I know they are, too… far more than I.

Because it doesn’t feel like a merry Christmas. It feels awful. heavy. hard.

And I have remembered.

He came so we might have life…
Even in the midst of death.

He came to be near to the broken-hearted…
Even when the pain swallows and steals our very breath.

He came so that death might be defeated…
Even when we feel we cannot bear the weight of its load.

He came to be the Light in darkness…
Darkness that covers and invades our being.

He came. And one day it will all be okay.
But one day feels very far away.

He came so that we might have hope…
In a world that seems hopeless some days.

He came.

Yes.

He came.