A Spring of Joy

It was a week ago that I sat huddled under blankets in our den, fire burning, reflecting, praying, weeping. I was missing my Pappy whose birthday would have been the next day. I was longing to sit with my dear college friend who is walking through pain unimaginable as she watches and grieves the impending loss of a loved one. She and I had talked and shared and cried together that day, aching to accept the losses of this life with grace and trust.

I moved into the living room, to our old, antique piano with weathered ivory keys and a few notes that just never can quite be tuned. I needed music, not just mentally and emotionally, I needed to physically interact with it, to let my hands fumble over those keys as the tears fell. I pulled open my battered blue hymnal, the one that’s dog-eared and duct-taped, the one that I played from all through high school, the one I used as I played for church through my teen years. “Lord,” I prayed, “Just show me what I need to hear.” I opened it and let it fall to a page.

I started to play, reading the lyrics as I moved through the piece, unable to sing without my hoarse voice croaking, but then I could hear my daddy’s beautiful tenor voice singing as I played (what a sweet memory). I thought of my pappy, my nanny, of my friend, Kim, whose loss four years ago I still grieve, of my dear one who is tasting this grief in the waiting.

Oh, y’all… God knew what I needed to hear, of that “little while between… severed only till He come.” We’ll see our loves again one day.

I’m not even sure why I share this. I just hope these words bless you today, whatever you’re walking through. Death and darkness and the tomb only pain us for a little while. They pain us with a dark, weary grief, but I’m thankful for the hope that comes beyond.

“Till He come!” – Oh, let the words
Linger on the trembling chords,
Let the “little while” between
In their golden light be seen;
Let us think how heav’n and home
Lie beyond that, “Till He come!”

He breezed in the back entrance
carrying lunch
and discovered me curled up
on the couch,
tears streaming, and
eyed me
quizzically.

“I love you.”

It was all that would pour
forth from my
full heart.
I laughed softly, then told him
I was inhaling poetry.

He smiled and
sat down, he
listened
while I read stanza after stanza
of love, tragedy,
love, home,
and more love.

He is not a man of many words
but he shares my love for them.
He understands
my desperation to read
them aloud
to hear words
whirl off my tongue.

He is not a man of many words,
but he comprehends
the importance of them,
the exquisite magic of
poetry.

He doesn’t write them
to me,
words,
he is not wired
that way,
and I don’t expect it
from him,
but he reads them
with me.

And he writes countless words
with his life.

I hear the rhythm of his
poetry every day,
lyrical verses
that tone constantly with
his love.

This past weekend was full of so much wonderful, so many beautiful moments. My Bella was in our little city Christmas parade wearing her red cloak, plaid scarf and matching braids, vibrant red in the night sky. She carried her lantern and waved excitedly. Her zest for life was palpable. After the parade it was the annual Christmas party in the office where Brian sublets, and we sat with friends and contentedly watched our children with their friends, and we laughed hard and long. A friend took me home earlier than my loves and I crashed on the couch until they arrived home late to drop exhausted into bed.

Saturday found us driving to northern Virginia for Brian’s company Christmas party and y’all, we were spoiled rotten and overcome once again with the joy of his work, the camaraderie of his co-workers, and the blessing of working for men who care deeply for their employees, both spiritually and physically. It was another night of sitting with friends, laughing hard and long and then heading to a hotel to drop exhausted into bed.

Sunday we rose late and drove another hour to Baltimore, picking up Starbucks and gifts for my childhood friend, Monica and her loves. I’ve written often about her family, about our friendship, and once again, her dear daughter has undergone major, life-saving surgery and they are worn within inches of existence. We hugged and cried and shared and laughed and then cried more deeply as I prayed over my friend. Dear Lord, how much can one family bear? We drove hours home to our own loves, wrapped up the evening with snuggles and stories. I began my chemo regimen that night and fell exhausted into bed again.

And Monday, the beautiful pushing of the weekend reared its ugly head. Mingled with the beginnings of chemo, the downward spiral began. This spiral is normal on chemo. How do I even explain? It’s the exhaustion of even moving off the couch, away from the warmth of the fire, to fix myself a sandwich for lunch… the nausea and vomiting, the aches and pains. Then the forcing myself to get into the car for errands or picking up my Ash from track practice. When days before I was celebrating and laughing, now I am fighting for deep breaths and wondering how I will make it to my children’s Christmas program. How do I maintain the normalcy of life?

A friend and I caught up for a few moments on Tuesday evening, happening to run into each other. “This new normal,” he said, speaking of his own cancer recovery, “We are realizing there is no new normal.”

Exactly. Life is disrupted.

But it is still filled with so many gifts.

I saw my oncologist on Wednesday, and as I left her office, tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Not tears of fear, but tears of sadness. Sadness that this is our life… full of wonderful, yet full of so much nebulousness. I am weary of fighting this disease, of the chronic pain, of bone-deadening fatigue, of the constant work it takes just to have a “grab and go” breakfast, of never knowing how to explain to friends what our life really looks like, of the battle against hopelessness even when things are looking very hopeful. Because, y’all, this. is. my. life. until God calls me home.

And I cried because I so easily drift to auto-pilot and lose my desperation for Jesus. I don’t want good news like tumor markers dropping or a clear MRI to deaden my heart. I don’t want God to just be a go-to when life is hard. I don’t want to just run to Him when everything is caving around me.

I don’t ever want to lose my desperation for Jesus.

“It’s hard to remember, isn’t it?” my brother once said to me, “the goal of all this isn’t you getting back to where you were before. It’s getting to know Jesus more deeply.” He is such a wise, kind man whose heart is enormous, and I am thankful for him and for how he walks with me through suffering.

Good news or bad news, good days or bad days, I only want to grow in my desperation for Him.

Even as I struggle with the hopelessness of the day-in and day-out of all of this, God comes and gives me huge gifts like clear MRIs and seemingly small gifts like weekends of love and laughter. Only I have come to realize that the latter is really the bigger gift. The family, the friendships, the joy He brings in the ordinary day-in and day-out of life are magnificent. Every moment is important.

The news is good today.

And as I sit and gaze at the sparkling lights and dangling ornaments on our lovely Christmas tree, I am reminded of the good news that came 2000 years ago.

The beautiful moments I get to share with my children. The joys of deep friendships. Time away with my hubby. Time to grieve with my friend. These are all gifts, yes, but they are not what drives me.

Every moment is important, because every moment is from Him.

That good news has never changed.

This. This is what drives me. And it drive me to Him.

Our lives are at once ordinary and mythical. We live and die, age beautifully or full of wrinkles. We wake in the morning, buy yellow cheese, and hope we have enough money to pay for it. At the same instant we have these magnificent hearts that pump through all sorrow and all winters we are alive on the earth. We are important and our lives are important, magnificent really, and their details are worthy to be recorded…We have lived; our moments are important.
(~Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones)

A repost from years ago, because I need the daily reminder that He is with us:

The children love to climb the ladder to our attic and explore. I needed a few things so I asked for their help, happy to incude them in our daily tasks. The boys were up top grabbing the items we needed and handing them down to me. Bella-girl stood on the ladder with me behind her holding her so she wouldn’t fall. She began climbing down, and one of the boys began moving things back into place, finishing their job and not seeing what was coming…

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” I heard the other boy shouting, insistently, almost fearfully.
It was too late.
Looking up, I saw it rolling. A barbell with weights on it. At least 20 pounds of metal and bolts and pain falling towards us, right on top of her.

Then I heard her screams as I pinned the weight beside me with my bad arm (I don’t know how) to the back of the ladder.
The boys’ faces, white, peered from the attic hole and Bella’s wails of “Oh, it burns! It BURNS!” pierced. I grabbed her with my left arm, the weight with my right, and climbed down the ladder, trying to soothe her screams.
“Is there blood?” she asked through sobs. I was terrified to see what had happened.
I looked.
No.
In fact.
There was nothing.
From a human standpoint, I have no idea how she was uninjured.
The weight must have only grazed her lip.
I don’t know how.
But I do know how.
It was God’s protection over my child.
And it was protection over the heart of a little boy who didn’t see the weight he accidentally knocked out… over the heart of another boy who saw it coming but couldn’t stop it… over the heart and body of a little girl who could have been horribly injured.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” she kept saying it over and over, like a mantra. She just needed me close. Then she finally said, “If you hadn’t been there…”
“But I was, dear girl. I was.”

The illusion of control, as my sweet friend, Beth, says…
I like to think I have it.
I don’t. And it’s moments like these in our ordinary days that remind me I am not in control of anything.
But He is.

And He spared my girl today. He spared all of us.
It’s the daily reminder I need. That He is in control. He is guarding and protecting us.
Honestly, I shook for at least an hour after this happened. I hyper-ventilated in the bathroom and called Brian to talk me down from a panic attack.
What might have been attacks me and plagues me still…

As I look back over my life, there is so much pain, so many falls, and I find myself crying, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” like a mantra. I need Him close, “If YOU hadn’t been there…”
I hear His whispered reply…
“But, I am, dear girl. I am.”

It’s days like these that make me ache.

I ache with the sweetness of a simple day, curled up with my Brian for the morning together, tinkering around the house and running errands “just us” before the children come home. It makes me realize how much I am looking forward to his retirement and us having long days of togetherness. I told him this after he picked up a prescription for me, giving me time to rest in the car. He laughed and said, “We’ll be just like your mom and dad, puttering around and going everywhere together.” He couldn’t have offered a higher compliment. I love the way my parents love.

I ache with the struggle to even dream about the future. This month is two years of living with Stage IV metastatic breast cancer. At diagnosis, most MBC patients are given two to three years to live. Only 15% live more than five years. How do I dream about a future when these are my odds? I can’t tell you how many times I am asked about when I will be done with treatment, when I will feel better, when it’s over, and I have to face my reality yet again and answer, “Never.” Treatment ends when we choose to stop or when I die. How do I dream when this monster threatens me every single day?

I ache with the gratefulness for life. As of right now, treatment is keeping the cancer suppressed. We don’t know how long it will stay this way, but it’s suppressed today, and I am living life with my loves. I am having days like today with my Brian. I’m reading more and more articles about women who are beating the odds, of how MBC is still incurable, but it’s becoming more treatable. My oncologist told me of one of her patients who has been on my same oral chemo for over ten years now. I want to groan about ten years of feeling this way, but then my heart beats with thankfulness that this is even a possibility.

I ache with the kindness of friends. Friends who bring warm pasta with fierce hugs. Long chats with friends who understand suffering and for the truths we speak into each others’ lives. Friends with whom I can dream and talk about our bucket list of things to do together, who aren’t afraid to plan with me and dream with me, even though they know my fear of dreaming, who make me feel normal. Friends who text just to see how I’m doing and to tell me how they are.

I ache with the fear I have some days. The what if’s? I fear for my children as I watch their fragile strength. I want someone to tell me they’ll be okay. If I am gone in a year, they’ll be okay. I want to hear from someone who knows, and then I look at my own father who lost his father suddenly at a young age, and I know. I know they’ll be okay. My Brian will be okay. It would devastate but not destroy, but I fear for the devastation it could bring.

And I ache with the hope that conquers the fear and the struggle. The hope that is deeper than life here and points me to life eternal. The hope that has justified, and sanctifies and will one day glorify. The hope of “what is” instead of “what if?” The hope that isn’t about odds and is about soul healing (and sometimes body healing, too). The hope that anchors my soul, that points me to the blessings I have… a cup that overflows.

And I ache with the tenderness of it all. The beauty of simple life with a caring man. The beauty of watching my children grow and live. Oh, y’all, nine years ago, the first of four of my diagnoses came. A dear, dear friend, who has walked with me since the onslaught began, sat with me days ago and said to me, “Ang, we begged God for time for you, for time with you. Look how much time He’s given. We beg Him for more, but look what He gave.” And I wept with her over His wonderful goodness.

I ache with the color of flowers on my porch and turning leaves in golden sunsets. I ache with the warmth of long evenings over glasses of wine laughing hysterically with friends over the antics of our children. I ache with the quiet nights curled under new fuzzy blankets with Bella girl’s head on my shoulder, arms intertwined with hers. I ache with the pride of a mom watching her boys run and tackle and seeing the joy on their faces. I ache with the comfort of Jesus, how He has walked this way before me and never, ever turns His back on me. I ache with not just the truth that He won’t turn His back, but with the truth that He can’t, because He keeps His promises to hold me fast.

Yes.

It’s days like this that make me ache.

There is so much in this life that makes me ache.

Some days the ache is deep and hard.

But today, the ache is beautiful.

“What makes the desert beautiful,” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well…”
(~Antoine de Saint-Exupery)