A Spring of Joy

Just a brief update, because I’ve had a couple of you ask:

No. The stone has not passed. It’s just hanging out, occasionally causing pain but sometimes I forget that it’s there. Sometimes. The other times, it hurts. A lot.

I have an appointment the end of this month with the doctor. They will x-ray me again and then decide what to do. The stone is small enough that they don’t want to “blast it”. So I drink my lemon water faithfully (most days) and hope that this will disintegrate it.

I started chemo Sunday, so I am in the middle of treatment right now. The fatigue is hitting. Today is fever day (I get those sometimes) and I usually start my mornings throwing up in the kitchen sink (we still only have one bathroom right now and it’s too far away when I’m downstairs helping the children get ready for the day). But my counts are staying suppressed which means the cancer isn’t growing for now, so I tell myself every day that this is worth it. That I do this to stay alive.

Because of the stone, I had to go back on the medication they were weaning me off of (of which they were weaning me off? How do I write that with correct grammar?). Now I’m going through the weaning process again, and the anxiety, y’all, off. the. charts.

I realize this sounds like I’m complaining. I am asking God for strength not to be a complainer. I know of many who suffer–many who suffer far worse than me.

I relish the sounds of my children’s feet when they arrive home each day. I beam with pride when I watch my boy hike the ball from the shotgun position in football games and when my other boy runs miles in this heat and shaves minutes off his last meet time. I braid gorgeous red locks and slowly walk hand in hand with my girl to see the fairy gardens she’s built far back in the yard. I hear stories about their days, and I turn lights out in rooms where they’ve fallen fast asleep on the floor. I sit with my in-laws over a meal my mother-in-law made, and we drink good wine and laugh together and then cry when we say good-bye for months again. I cuddle with our pup and feel the warmth of his breath as he licks tears away. I see my parents weekly, and we share hearts and struggles and make lists for us to work on together, because we enjoy being together so much. I watch my Brian set off on much needed adventures with his guy friends and listen to the stories when he returns and ride with him to games and track meets and parents’ meetings that he came home (out of his way) to get me so we could be together and parent together, because he knows how much I want to be there.

I watch movies. And I read. Fiction and non-fiction. Sacred and secular. And I’m listening to sermons on Esther online and taking copious notes, because I need to know that when I don’t see God’s hand move, when the waiting feels like forever and nothing is changing, He’s still there, working in all the details of our lives, orchestrating circumstances for His glory and my good. And I beg God for eyes to see the gifts He’s given even in the darkness, and I weep when I can’t see them because the loneliness of pain is overwhelming and I don’t want to miss them–His good gifts.

And I tell myself the truth over and over and over again.

That if there were a better path for me, for us, God would have us on it.

He would.

Oh, I believe.

I think I do.

Help my unbelief.

And please, help this stupid stone to pass?

The last post I wrote was a month ago, an update on our trip to Tennessee and the beauty in the midst of the ache. I have spent the last month working through the ache, dealing with crazy side effects and anxiety from medications (and weaning off of them), learning the ropes of life as a mom to a high schooler and cross country runner, and struggling with life with chronic pain and how to cope with it all.

This past Friday I woke at 5:00 a.m. with severe pain. Bri took the kids to school, came home and took me to the emergency room where they confirmed what I suspected. A kidney stone.

Yes. A kidney stone.

And yes, for those of you who haven’t experienced one, they are every bit as painful as you’ve heard.

Our friend, Zoe, met us there, helped me with my hospital gown, rubbed my back, prayed with us and sat with Brian for a couple hours while I lay in the fog of pain medications. Other friends texted, offered to come, to bring phone chargers and pick up children. I was supposed to drive carpool, but another friend covered it, no questions asked.

Six and a half hours later, I was discharged with pain medication and instructions for the weekend–stay on top of the pain. The doctor did tell us not to change our weekend plans… that as long as we were close to a hospital, it was fine for us to go on our Labor Day camping weekend. It would just seem like a different kind of labor.

I wrestled with going. Should I go to my parents’ for the weekend while Bri took the kids? What should I do? Zoe finally encouraged me to go, to enjoy being pampered by friends and time with my loves. She was right.

Brian packed us all up, I grabbed all my creature comforts, and we spent the weekend at a lake near home with friends. My in-laws had given us a camp chair with a footrest, and I curled up in that for the weekend, pillows around me, blanket, cushy socks and kindle. I struggled to get comfortable at times, but wasn’t too miserable (the nights were the hardest, drug-induced dreams and tossing and turning in pain). I drank my lemon water and pulled up to the picnic table to help slice veggies and mix dips as I could. I watched the activity around me, and I chatted with my friends, long talks as we watched our children and husbands paddle board and hang hammocks and ride bikes and beg to sleep in each other’s campers (well, our husbands didn’t beg for this!).

And I was cared for deeply. Pampered, was the word Zoe used. Pampered is right… or at least as pampered as you can be at a campground. But when steak and shrimp are on the menu, pampering is a good word.

The pain is still there, increasing this morning to the point of emptying my stomach yet again several times. I dosed up and curled up and watched everyone pack up and wondered how I was going to do this week. This was “supposed” to be my good week off of chemo, and I groaned inwardly, asking God why He was “kicking me when I’m down” and struggling to believe yet again.

Before we left, Matt drew us together. We prayed for the week and then he had us each offer prayers of thanksgiving, turning our eyes to what gifts we have. The words left my lips, they had to: “Thank you for friends who care for us in our weakness.” And my Bear, “Thank you for the privilege (yes, the PRIVILEGE) of being here this weekend together.” And Amy’s tear-filled voice, “Thank you that despite illness and schedules and all the craziness of life, we could be here, together.” We hugged our good-byes, whispered, “I love yous” through tears, and went on our way.

Then we came home to flower beds weeded and windows cleaned by friends in our absence. To a text that all the tomatoes that I couldn’t can last week, were ready.

And the words I prayed out of necessity ring in my mind, “Thank you for friends who care for us in our weakness.”

I am weak, friends. In so many ways.

Ways I haven’t written about here, because my spirit is too volatile these days. And there are things I must hold close and offer them in the safety of face-to-face.

A friend from church, Angela, has taken the reins, pursuing me with care needs, not waiting for me to say, “I need help.” But offering it, setting it up and pushing me gently to say, “Yes.” What do you need this week? She asks and makes suggestions, knowing I am too overwhelmed to figure that out sometimes. She left me a note on my counter this weekend reminding me that when I say, “Yes,” I am allowing others to be blessed as they bless us.

Oh, y’all. I am tired of being so needy.

I am tired of pain, of tears, of the loneliness that chronic pain affords.

I am tired of the false guilt that comes with asking over and over and over.

Our hearts, our minds, our spirits are weary, worn and weak.

I never thought I’d need a kidney stone to remind me of what gifts I have, but y’all, I needed to see them again, to see you again, to see Him again.

To see friends who care for us in our weakness.

(The kidney stone is still there. I am curled up still with pain meds and heating pads and my dear Ash-man jumping to meet any need I have. Please pray for this to pass quickly–and as painlessly as possible. I know several of you have experienced this, too. And you were right. I’ve given birth three times, this definitely rivals labor. Sigh.)

Last month (how is it August already?!) we packed up our RV (we’ve upgraded to Merlin now and Gimli has a new owner), filled our cupboards with weeks worth of food and began a ten day trip through Tennessee. Brian spent months researching campgrounds and parks and RV resorts, planning places to go and days off for rest, scheduling time with friends and creating a week away that would accommodate my chemo-fatigued body as best as he could.

I want to write post after post like I did last year after our New York trip. I want to use words like epic and fabulous to describe every moment like last year’s trip was for us.

And y’all, it was a beautiful trip. Tennessee is breathtaking. I’ve always said that if I had to move from our home here, Tennessee is where I’d go. We shared so many lovely moments as a family, laughter and adventure and joy. We spent time with friends, sharing and laughing and catching up and crying and celebrating. It was a gift.

But unlike our trip last year, this trip was fraught with struggle. Ending my chemo two days into the trip, I knew I would be tired, but four days in, the wall I hit was unlike any I’ve hit with chemo so far. We were in Nashville, planning to go to church and lunch with our dear college friends and then move on to a new location in the Smokies. We woke early that morning and met our friends at church. I kept telling Brian I just didn’t feel “right.” I cried through song after song of God’s faithfulness and halfway through the sermon on Esther, Bri leaned over and wrote on my notes, “Change of plans. We are going to stay an extra day in Nashville.” As he is so apt to do, he read me like a book and knew I needed more rest.

After church, Bri spoke with the attendant and we moved to a new site in the campground right next to the lake, plugged Merlin in, got the A/C going and waited for Josh and Kristin and their girls to meet us there after picking up lunch. We ate and then planned to sit on the beach at the lake and watch our children splash and play, but I just looked at them all and shook my head. “I. just. can’t.” I stayed in Merlin while they went and tried to rest, but I am incapable of even describing this fatigue that makes it hard to lift a glass of water to my lips yet will not cave to sleep.

Later that afternoon, I curled up outside on a chair and we all chatted for a while until they left. And then the nausea that had been nipping at me all day overwhelmed. Emptying my stomach for hours and curling up in Brian’s lap begging God for relief, I kept saying to myself and to Brian, “I have to get control. I can’t let the children see me like this.” But y’all, this is the life we live, and I cannot protect them from it all. The night, as I held my weeping son, I told him over and over, “Life is hard, but I am okay and God is with us.”

It was days of this mind-numbing fatigue. Days of Brian and the children adventuring while I watched from the sidelines. Days of hearing him change plans and tell the children, “No. We can’t go there today. Mom is too sick.” A side effect of chemo, my anxiety was off the charts and I spent many a night wrapped in Brian’s arms sobbing quietly over fears I know are not real.

Our friend, Tiffany, joined us several afternoons and evenings and her presence was a gift, sitting quietly with me in my grief and laughing heartily with me in my joys. By Wednesday I was stronger. I managed a trip to Dollywood with my loves and sat on bench after bench watching them thrill to new rides and new joys. By the weekend, I was back to normal strength and we were able to enjoy things together as a family, yet another visit with good friends and a ride home from Chattanooga that found me talking and sharing non-stop with my Brian. It was like we were catching up on lost time.

Through it all, I kept reminding myself, “I am here. This is now. We are together. God is with us.” It doesn’t have to look like our dreams. We are learning to accept each day as it comes. I have friends who wouldn’t be physically capable of going on a trip like this. I am fully aware of what we were given even in the hard.

Was it hard? Did we suffer?

Yes.

But we were together as a family. We enjoyed sights and sounds and treats and friends and worship and Coop and life. We explored new surroundings and we fought for faith and joy in the midst of trial.

In the coming days, as I organize photos and collect my heart thoughts, I will share more, but just know it is not lost on me that this time was still a gift. That every day is a gift.

This week I am couch-ridden with the same mind-numbing fatigue. I finish my chemo cycle tomorrow and will start to get stronger. Maybe, one day, I won’t cry when the new chemo cycle starts as I anticipate the pain and fatigue to come, but it’s okay.

I am here. This is now. We are together. God is with us.

She thought to herself, “This is now.”

She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

(~Laura Ingalls Wilder, “Little House in the Big Woods”)

It seems whenever we have weekends like we’ve just experienced, that I don’t even know where to begin with my writing. There is no way to capture it, and the beauty of trying makes my words disjointed.

How do I describe the deep sense of friendship, the longs talks, the conversations over coffee in the morning light? How do I describe the camaraderie as we worked together chopping vegetables and stirring grits and frying bacon and flipping burgers and setting feasts of deliciousness on tables for 30? How do I describe watching and listening to our groups of children laughing and teasing and playing and working together? How do I describe the music… oh, the music?! The harmonies and the rhythms and the drive and the laughter, the moments where I sit and weep as I hear the band sing of our need to be quiet and just watch the mountains burn with those who are aching in life, when I want to jump and scream, “Yes! Yes! You get it!” Or the head on Brian’s shoulder as they question what would I ever do without you? Because, what would I do without him?

We spent our weekend at a music festival here in our little corner of the valley. It’s one we go to every year with the same group of friends, and we set up RVs and campers and tents in a big circle and we can hear the music from our sites, washing over us from the stage or we can walk down to the music meadow and set up chairs to take it all in. It’s a wandering, meandering sort of weekend, full of late nights and long mornings, card games and kids swimming in the river. It’s piling all the kids in the back of Matt’s truck, then surprising them, trapped, with a bombardment of water balloons. We drove them down to a swimming hole under a rusty metal bridge and watched them jump off rocks and splash in the river, well, until a copperhead swam by. Then they were pretty quickly ready to go back to camp. As we drove back to camp, eleven children in the bed, five adults in the cab, we adults sat silent almost mesmerized by the chatter and laughter of our children behind us.

It’s a weekend of watching them do cartwheels and back bends for hours, giggling when they crash and applauding when they succeed. It’s walking through vendor booths and henna tattoos on bare arms. It’s sitting with my books and journal in the quiet and napping on a chair under the trees. It’s unending games of cups behind the RV and lighting candles on picnic tables during late night dinners. It’s inviting new faces into our world and feeding them good food and drink and welcoming them into our “home” for three days (or more). It’s gospel sets and children’s sets and roots and bluegrass and singing about life and love, belting out tunes together with the musicians. It’s grabbing a quick snack from a table full of berries and muffins, or working together on avocado salsas and crab dips. It’s togetherness.

The weekend wasn’t always easy. Being on chemo means life never really is, but I rested a lot in my anti-gravity chair and enjoyed watching the busy-ness of camp around me. Walking back from the music meadow to camp one night, I tripped on a rock and fell hard. My ankle is swollen and bruised, my legs are scraped and black and blue. But my Ash was with me when it happened, and oh my stars, this boy’s heart of compassion. He cared for me so well. He does that, this boy with a heart of gold. I arrived home last night, and this morning the stiffness and soreness of that fall has me nauseated and throwing up, creeping through the house like a little old lady.

My Bella girl crept into bed with me the night I fell, curling into me, choosing to hold my hand rather than sleepover with her friends again. We snuggled together and listened to the music pour over our camp, and after a few minutes, she quietly said, “I think that guy needs to sing with his inside voice.” But within moments, her even breathing told me she was fast asleep. And I listened to the music and held my little girl and whispered my love over her and my thanks to God for giving me such good gifts… these lovely days of summer.

Oh… summer days. As The Walking Roots Band sings it, “Summertime living is good for the summertime soul.”

And this weekend, oh, this weekend was so good for my soul.

Last year, after Redwing, I wept as I hugged my friends goodbye. I went home to terrifying news on my PET scan and wondered if I would even be alive to celebrate this festival with my loves again.

This year. I am still living with relatively suppressed cancer and am here with my loves. As The Steel Wheels sang their last chorus of Redwing to close out the festival last night, my friend, Amy, hugged me tight as I wept. “I was so afraid last year,” I whispered through my tears, “And look where we are. Such gift.”

Yes, such gift.

Music. Feasting. Summer heat. Crickets chirping. Rivers hushing. Friendship deepening.

Sometimes “that’s all you can ask for in these seasons, for sweet moments of reprieve in the company of people you love. You’ll still wake up in the night with the same old fear, and you’ll still face the same tired eyes in the morning, but for a few hours you’ll feel protected from it all by the goodness of friendship and life around the table, and for a few hours that’s the best thing you can imagine.” (S. Niequist)

“Oh my stars, y’all,” I declared, “I think I’m in heaven.”

I had just taken my first bite of ravioli della madre, homemade pockets of pasta filled with prime rib and veal, topped with a creamy tomato sauce and two spoolfuls of parmesan cheese. I boldly asked for two as our waiter came to me, and our friends all laughed at me. After Alessandro, our waiter, left, I chortled, “Come on, y’all. Don’t you know a pasta without a cheese is like a kiss-a without a squeeze?” (I learned that from the Pioneer Woman, by the way.) We all cracked up again, and several heads turned our way in the restaurant. I think that happened a lot with our rowdy group.

The six of us were settled in a cozy nook of the most amazing Italian restaurant in Washington D.C. filling our bodies with spicy arugula and warm bread slices and earthy wines and fresh pastas with lobster and scallops and cheese and meats.

It was amazing, because “…the table is where time stops. It’s where we look people in the eye, where we tell the truth about how hard it is, where we make space to listen to the whole story, not the textable sound bites.” (S. Niequist)

Earlier that day I had wondered how I was going to make this day happen. I am so low right now from chemo and just the thought of showering and getting ready and dressing up was exhausting. But I did it, knowing I would rest in the car and we could take the metro and shuttles to our destination. We met our friends, Steve and Leah, and carpooled up to D.C. chatting and sharing life and family and community and church and gardening and business and beauty. Heart sharing… struggles and victories and advice and books and truth together.

Arriving at the metro, we met up with Matt and Amy, and while Brian groused a bit about the price of metro cards, we all laughed and stepped back to let him and Amy figure it all out. Once on the metro, we chatted and shared and laughed some more. “Can you believe we’re really doing this? It actually worked out!” I grabbed my phone to take a picture of them across the row, and when I saw the man behind me eyeing us strangely, I promised him we knew each other and I wasn’t a stalker, which cracked up several people in the metro car. I’m just that funny, y’all.

Exiting the metro station into Foggy Bottom area of D.C. we drank in the warmth of the summer evening, the sounds of street musicians, and the rush of pedestrian traffic. We walked several blocks to our dinner reservations, an amazing authentic Italian ristorante. We toasted to friendship and shared stories of life and spent hours around a table feasting on much more than food.

Rain began just as we were finishing cannoli and tiramisu and cheesecakes and Bigne’ alla Crema and cappuccinos, so Brian reserved an Uber and we arrived at the Kennedy Center in style, right on time and not soaking wet.

Y’all. The Kennedy Center. Breathtaking. You Must Go. It’s beyond worth it.

We found our seats and the show started two minutes later.

Oh my stars, friends, if you don’t listen to Chris Thile and the Punch Brothers, I’m with Her, Bela Fleck and Edgar Meyers, then go, right now to your iTunes and download them. We were in American Acoustic Folk heaven. The musicianship was amazing, the harmonies were exquisite, and as I stood over and over with 2000 other people to applaud, I leaned in to Amy and whispered, “If music is this fantastic here, just imagine what heaven will be like.”

We spent intermission outside walking alonside the Potomac and drinking in the lights of Georgetown and the fragrance of gardens around us. I wrapped my arm through Bri’s and put my head on his shoulder, and we both just sighed, deeply, happily. No words could even come.

After intermission, we filled our souls with amazing music once again, and during the final standing ovation, when the stand-up bassists took their instruments with them and you knew it was really, sadly over, I curled my arm and head into Brian’s again and said, “I just want to cry from the beauty of it all.”

We exited the Kennedy Center to a fabulously cool evening and walked leisurely back to the metro, hands in hands, arms in arms, little to be said as we drank it all in together. We were quiet on the metro, each full of our own thoughts, and our goodbyes at our cars were joyous with a touch of sadness that it was over, yet hopeful as we promised to do it again. “Because there really is nothing like good friends, like the sounds of their laugher and the tones of their voices and the things they teach us…” (S. Niequist)

Leah and I chatted for a few minutes, then slept for the ride home. Dropping Steve and Leah off, we arrived home to a very excited puppy who didn’t allow us to tiptoe through the house. My mom woke up as Coop nosed her face on the sleep sofa, “They’re home, Grandma!” Oh, that Coop.

We snuck upstairs and I drank in the beauty of my children, forcing myself to not wake them because I missed the “goodnights and I love yous.” We collapsed into bed, exhausted, yet hearts, minds and souls completely saturated with the magic of the evening.

And I am struck by the depth of it all, the splendor of it all, knowing that our eating and sharing and laughing and enjoying is done for the glory of God who created these foods and friends and rivers and views and musicians. I believe with all my heart that this night was yet another gift from our good, good Father. A taste of the new earth to come… feasting and music and fellowship and beauty. Only it will be heightened beyond comprehension and filled to the brim with Jesus.

I can’t wait.

As promised, here are the pictures of our book nook we created. The boys chose everything from the chair, to the picture, to the tiebacks on the windows, so it’s really their project. I’m still planning to go through the bookshelf and organize it (by color, author and size), but I’ve found Ash perched there incessantly the past few days. Between this and super cleaning and rearranging Bella’s room for her while she’s been away at camp with Grandma and Grandpa Davis, I’d say our first week of summer has been a success!

“Ô, Sunlight! The most precious gold to be found on Earth.”
(~Roman Payne)

All that’s missing is our Bella girl. She’ll be home tonight!

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.
(~Marcel Proust)