A Spring of Joy

If you give a mom a water gun, she will shoot her oldest son while he’s laughing at her from his bed.

When she has shot her oldest son, she will then shoot the giggling brother in the hallway.

When she puts the gun down to fold laundry, she will find herself the target.

When she finishes dodging spray, she will have to wash the hallway window because it’s covered with water.

When she is washing the window, she will remember the book nook she’s always wanted to create next to the window.

When she finishes washing the window, she will empty the bookshelves in the play room with her sons.

When the bookshelves are empty, she will sort through them and cry while she reminisces reading them to her children.

When she’s wiped her tears, she will make stacks of books–Mercy House, attic and return to bookshelf stacks.

When she’s finished stacking, she and the boys will tear apart the end of the hallway and vacuum like mad people.

When they finish vacuuming, they will move the bookshelves from the playroom to the hallway window.

When she finishes wiping sweat from her brow, she and the boys will head to Mercy House, Target and Michael’s to buy supplies for their project.

While driving home, she will stop and buy smoothies for her boys.

When they finish shopping, they will carry a chair, pillows, rug, baskets, pictures and plants into the house and create a book nook.

And chances are, when the book nook is finished, they’ll need to cool down with water guns.

Pictures to come… I need to hang the picture and get a larger rug. I am loving the “life of leisure” as Bri calls it. *smiles*

The fragrance of honeysuckle hangs in the air, an intoxicating fog filling our backyard. The crickets are starting to chirp as evenings wane. We’ve seen our first few lightning bugs, drunk our first Slurpees, and run around barefoot in the backyard. Summer’s warm days are finally here as thunderstorms electrify the skies and my summer roses drink thirstily, blooming red.

We are ready. The lazy, hazy days of summer beckon.

Oh, honey, we’ll be okay…
Sun kissed skin on my lips.
Thank the Lord I am here and now, here and now.
Fireflies after dark.
Bless your soul, we are here and now, here and now.

Tomorrow I will pick up the children from school and we will celebrate with good friends the ending of 8th grade for our boys and moving and growing and changing. We are so glad for school to be over. Oh how I miss them when they are gone!

Even with cancer’s shadow in our lives, we are still chanting our summer mantra and filling our days full…

The only option as I see it, is this delicate weaving of action and celebration, of intention and expectation. Let’s act, read, protest, protect, picket, learn, advocate for, fight against, but let’s be careful that in the midst of all that accomplishing and organizing, we don’t bulldoze over a world that’s teeming with beauty and hope and redemption all around us and in the meantime. Before the wars are over, before the cures are found, before the wrongs are righted, Today, humble Today, presents itself to us with all the ceremony and bling of a glittering diamond ring. “Wear me, ” it says, “Wear me out. Love me, dive into me, discover me,” it pleads with us.
(~from Shauna Niequist’s “Cold Tangerines”)

Floors are stained brown from dirty bare feet dancing across them, piles of papers and discarded homework cover the playroom floor, knees have been skinned, bugs have bitten, farmer’s tans have begun, the library books are being read… our summer is beginning with a bang!

We will work hard to live and not be lazy yet to enjoy life and not work too much.

We will figure out how to spend our days with necessary structure but not so much that we are stifled.

We will learn more of what love looks like in the every day moments together.

We will laugh and cry and hug and fight and forgive and teach and pray and read and write and bake and can and celebrate and LIVE.

Our already full hearts will expand to fill up with more of each other… more of us as we wear each day out.

Each day beckons to dive in, discover, love and live! We will work hard to not let cancer stop us, (although we know reality means it will slow us down). But we will be together. We will live together.

We’re working on our summer list, even that changes as the children get older.

Our summer basket is ready.

And so are we!

The sun is shining today, the birds are singing through my bedroom window as I curl up this morning with my pile of books around me trying to decide what to delve into first. I will open them all today at some point, I am sure. I have read already of God’s great love for us, and I am trying to soak in God’s care for me, how “He will supply all our needs according to His riches in glory through Christ Jesus.” Oh, what a source our God is, what a supply His riches are, what a means my Jesus is! I ache to cling to this every day.

It will be a quiet day for me. I have just passed the mid-point for chemo and my energy level is low. I struggle to rationalize a fatigue that is so mind-blowing and a body-feebleness that makes moving an effort. If I’m going to just sit, this exhausted, at least I should sleep, right? But sleep doesn’t come with this fatigue, rather restlessness to do something, yet debility to move. It creates a longing in me that I cannot explain.

But this past weekend, as we sat with friends around campfires and RV tables and picnic tables, we shared of this longing together and it was so good to know and be known.

We loaded up our RV again this weekend for our annual Memorial Day trip with dear friends. We filled our fridges and coolers with all sorts of deliciousness, bikes on racks and duffels of clothes and swimsuits and we escaped for the weekend, no phones, no internet, no grid. I like to call it blissfully and deliciously off the grid.

We arrived within 15 minutes of each other, honking horns and throwing our arms outward in thumbs up signs. We’re here! We unpacked grills and bikes and then the rain arrived. Awnings out with chairs underneath, picnic table covered with screened in canopy, a pop-up camper and our Merlin and we knew we would stay dry, but it wasn’t what we wanted. The guys grilled and boiled while we cut up fresh veggies for the kids… a plate that emptied within 10 minutes. Wait a minute, how many peppers did we bring?

We corralled our eight children (ages 14-8, perfect age pairings to complement each other) around the table in the pop-up and we adults surrounded the table in Merlin for dinner at 9:00. We laughed and shared over good wine and steak and shrimp and potatoes and beans. We poured our hearts out to each other about jobs and life and the kids and parenting all while the rain rustled the trees around us and drummed on the camper roofs. We listened to the raucus laughter of our children at the next campsite and smiled deeply, understandingly… this is why we do this. To be together. To do life.

Saturday dawned warm and sunny and we slept in late (except for our middle boys who were up and early making a fire and hunting for kindling). We brunched late on campfire donuts and eggs and bacon and the children hung hammocks all through the woods around us, their laughter a musical echo for our morning. We drank good coffee and sat together just watching and listening to our loves. No words were needed.

Amy and her two oldest had to leave for the night, and our other children hiked off to the lake with Cooper to play and cool down. We adults just napped and chatted and sat. A quiet day that just wasn’t right without the other three, but still full of rest and play, whittling and wood splitting and bow and arrow making and soaking up the sun and fairy gardening. More food, more games, more laughter and night fell around us. Children joyfully switched sleeping berths for sleepovers together and we called it a night, tired from a day of play.

Sunday dawned with the drumming of rain on the roof again and children playing in puddles and building fairy gardens and generally not caring how wet they were. The boys were at it again, trying to keep the fire going and warming wood to add to the fire as needed. I woke weary… the weariness I wrote of above, that seeps into the bones. The guys took care of everything, “You just sit.” they said. And I did and they made breakfast and parented children and at noon I told Bri I needed to lie down. At 1:00 I would get up again and shower for a wedding we were supposed to be going to.

At one he came to me and found me in tears. “I have nothing. I don’t know what to do.” The thought of a shower was a monumental task. How was I supposed to go to this wedding and be surrounded by feasting and merriment and three hundred people? “You sleep some more,” he told me, “We can just go to the reception.” By this point, Amy and the girls were back, and I trudged over to their campsite, my face fresh with tears, deep sighs. Amy sat quietly for a moment, and then said gently, “Ang, it’s okay to take care of you. Community is good. This wedding is good. But if you don’t take care of you… how will you continue to be able to do community and weddings?”

I am so thankful for friends who are not afraid to speak truth into my life. Twenty years of knowing and being known. She knew what I needed to hear and wasn’t afraid to say it. So we sat at the table in silence other than my quiet orders of what to add to the feta-avocado salsa I was planning for snacks, the guys chopped and poured cheese and dressings into the bowl and we finally declared it ready for afternoon snack. I returned to bed and woke at 5:30, too late for even the reception, and I wept some more over the ways this cancer has stolen beautiful things from my life…

But yet, it has given me beautiful things, too, like the richness of our friendship with Matt and Amy and others that only deepens over the years.

We had sat near the fire Sunday morning in drizzly weather and sang over and over of God’s great love for us. Brian played guitar and Matt helped the children choose songs. We stopped to praise God for life. “What about you?” Matt would ask, “What are your praising Him for?” How could we look around at the lushness of His creation and be silent? How could we look around and stare into the faces of our loved ones and be silent? How could we eat the bounty of fresh foods and delicious meats of the weekend and be silent? How could we sing of our great Redeemer and be silent?

Even in the pain of the “no’s” cancer brings, how can I be silent when He still gives me so many good things?

That evening, we adults piled into Matt’s truck and drove around the area for a while, stopping at lakes and reservoirs, pulling to the side to listen to rushing water and babbling brooks and just be silent. We found new campgrounds to try and the guys hiked up dams to see the deep pools of water while Amy stayed with me in the truck knowing I was too tired to walk.

Dinner found us again cooking under awnings and piling around tables in the pop-up and RV. I had gone to lie down again and soon the adults arrived in our RV with plates of food piled high with pasta and veggies and Italian sausage sauces they had created together. We sat for hours at the table, laughing and sharing, and yet crying together this time of all the goodness God has given us and yet the deep longing to know Him more, to not take this all for granted, to not assume life would always be like this.

I would be lying to you if I told you it doesn’t make me question, “Will this be my last one?” Battling this raging monster inside of me means a constant battle for my mind to not go there, yet the bittersweet acknowledgement that cancer wants. to. kill. me. And I fight it and feel the way I feel today so I can have weekends like this…

I left early Monday morning from camping to take my Bella-girl to her final softball games–a double-header in May’s normal heat. Halfway through the second game, I looked at my mom and said, “I don’t think I can make it anymore.” She told me I could go home and they would bring Bella to me when she was done. Tears filled my eyes, “But it’s her last game.” I couldn’t leave, no matter how miserable I was, I had to watch her play and then watch her glow when she said goodbye to her coach and reveled in his words of encouragement to her, “You didn’t play like a girl who’d never played before. You have spunk and hustle and a great attitude and always followed the plays. You’re a great runner and our best bunter and I hope I have the privilege of coaching you again.” Oh, y’all, if you had only seen her eyes and her smile.

But I saw it.

Do you understand the poignancy of those words?

I. saw. it.

These are the things I thank God for.

I saw it.

I am here.

We are together.

I wept again that night as Brian and the children arrived home and unpacked Merlin and finished up homework so they could go to a cookout with friends. A cookout I ached to go to and yet found myself too weak, too weary to go. Bella cried, curling up next to me in bed, as we lamented this loss. My mom and I texted for a while about my struggle to submit to God’s will in this, to grieve once again the way cancer has limited me.

This morning my phone blew up with communication from those friends. We were so sad you couldn’t make the campout. We missed you. I’m sorry you’re struggling so much. And the one that reduced me to yet another puddle of tears this morning, “We all love you.”

Voices.

Yesterday Matt praised God for voices. For His voice that created the splendor of the forest around us. For the voice of the rain drumming on our campers. For the voice of children laughing together, even bickering together, but learning to work it out together. For the voice of friendship, chatting long into the night.

Yes.

Praise God for voices.

For the voices of friends who walk alongside me in this struggle, who reach out to us in relationship and remind us we are loved, who share heart longings around small tables piled high with luscious food and drink, who listen to the voice of God in the rushing water of brooks and the laughter of children.

What happens matters.

All of it.

“He will supply all our needs according to His riches in glory through Christ Jesus.”

Our needs are met.

Look, and look again.
This world is not just a little thrill for your eyes.

It’s more than bones.
It’s more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.
It’s more than the beating of a single heart.
It’s praising.
It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.
You have a life-just imagine that!
You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe
Still another…
(~Mary Oliver)

It wasn’t the weekend we had planned. Months ago we set up a time to go tour Gettysburg with my parents, taking them camping in Merlin, our RV upgrade. As day after day of rain poured down in May, we wondered if we should reschedule, wait for better weather. What to do? Then, a break in the forecast, 74 on Friday, possible showers on Saturday, then warmth again Sunday. Let’s do this!

I picked up the children early from school, garnering their escape from the yearly jog-a-thon (an activity which none of them enjoys) and we met Gran and Grandy at my house. “We have a problem,” Bri wiped sweat from his face in the afternoon sun. The part he needed for our tow bar is only in Winchester. So we packed everything, including Coopy-Doo, up in the RV and Mom and I jumped in my car to follow behind to Winchester for the missing part. What was a problem was a gift. Mom and I talked for over an hour straight, shared hearts, true struggles, questions on theology, awe in creation’s beauty, thankfulness for husbands who love us, laughter over children and grandchildren who fill us.

We arrived at Camping World, got the part set-up, the Pilot towed and all climbed in the RV for the remainder of the drive. It was fun to watch Mom and Daddy snuggle up next to each other at the table, tossing popcorn to Coop, who snuggled on the couch with Bear. Ash curled with his pile of books in the back and Bella chattered away next to her brother. We were all together and it was so right, so good.

After our arrival at the Gettysburg campground, the kiddos went exploring while we set up for dinner, grilling burgers and opening Gram’s homemade potato salad (the best in all the land!). I turned on our diffuser and set up the vase of flowers left for me on my last day of work. We settled in as the night started to darken to fill our bellies and our hearts with the quiet life.

We all climbed into our various beds (don’t worry, y’all, we gave Gram and Grandy the good bed in the back). I woke at 2:00 a.m. to the drumming sound of rain on the roof of Merlin. It was soothing and yet all I could think about was our plan for Saturday. Gettysburg holds so many memories for my mom, trips from her youth with her own family, and I longed to give that gift to her. We woke late in the morning and discussed how we should probably check out when our “tour” was. Yes, this was one of those, “stay free and we try to sell you a membership to our campgrounds on the east coast” monstrosities. Bri grabbed our packet. “They told me noon on the phone.” The packet said 8:45. It was 8:40. We groaned, threw off our covers, threw on some jeans and hats and barely got out the door before a golf cart pulled up to whisk us away for what we thought would be an hour or so. It was 50 degrees and pouring rain.

Two hours later I texted my mom to feed the kids something to tide them over before our big breakfast plans… After three hours of the guy talking non-stop I widened my eyes at Brian hoping he’d understand me saying, “Just tell him no so we can get the heck out of here!” Telling these guys “no” is clearly never easy, but my stars, y’all…three and a half hours later he finally took us back to our campsite! It was still 50 degrees and raining.

When we arrived back at Merlin, my dad and Bri started cooking breakfast for us and Ash finally climbed down from his bunk. One touch of his skin and I knew. He was burning up with fever. Coughing, stuffy, miserable. This boy was going nowhere. But were any of us? We ate our breakfast, er, rather brunch and decided to wait a bit to see if the weather slowed. The kids did homework and we adults talked and shared some more. Finally, when they were starting to get antsy, we pulled out snacks and a movie. We played Apples to Apples and chuckled at Grandy’s dry wit and Gram’s magical laugh.

Finally Bri could stand being cooped up in Merlin no more. He gathered my parents and the two youngest and they did a drive through Gettysburg, stopping to walk a bit when the rain allowed. I stayed behind with my feverish boy and we curled up with books and the dog and soothing sound of drizzle on the roof. The rest of the family returned with coffees for all and we gathered warm and safe together again.

Together.

As much as I love our outings. As much as I love going places and seeing new things and soaking up new things to learn, it’s the being together that warms me the most.

Another delicious meal. A Saturday night dinner and Harry Potter movie-fest. We fell asleep to another night of rain on the roof and gave thanks for Brian’s grandpa’s and parents’ kindness that allows for us to have our Merlin and our wandering life.

Sunday rolled in sunny and warm, so we packed up Merlin, stuffed ourselves into our car and did the drive through tour of the battlefield, trying to fathom what it must have been like and making plans to return so we could walk and learn and remember with my parents.

We left mid-day and Grandy led us in family worship, sitting around the couch and table in Merlin, Cooper snuggled on his lap, walking through the faithfulness of God to us in Psalm 103, hearing the hearts of children learning and grasping how far the east is from the west, and our voices singing together, “amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

Together.

Yes, the grace that saved a wretch like me is sweetest, but the grace that allows us to be together and live is salvation, too.

It wasn’t at all what we had planned, but it was still a perfect weekend.

What happens matters.

I am here.

I am with them.

It’s grace abundant.

These last days have been good and hard and encouraging and beautiful and bittersweet.

A couple of months ago after long talks with my Brian, aching prayers with my God, heart-to-hearts with my children, and deep discussions with close friends, we made the choice for me to stop working.

Tomorrow will be last day doing the work I have loved with the people I still love, so that I can be home full-time and give my full energy to the ones I love deepest. My children asked me to stop. They want a mother who is there for them when they get home from school, who can take them to the library and the pool and to hang out with friends this summer. They want me present in their lives and at their games and programs and field trips.

I have loved my job. It has filled a necessary role these past three and a half years. When the cancer diagnosis returned for the fifth time, we agonized over whether I should keep working. Would I even be able to physically? I hung in there for another year and a half, still loving my work but finding it harder and harder to continue.

The decision is good. I am looking forward to having more energy to pour into my home.

The decision is scary. My co-workers have been a deep community for me, and I fear that loss. I fear the isolation that cancer brings.

The decision is bitter. I am grieving this loss. I am giving up something I love because of a disease I hate.

The decision is sweet. I am giving up something I love for the someones I love infinitely more.

The decision is exciting. We are looking forward to lazy days of summer together, to weekend trips and RV adventures, to the beach and to curling up on quiet days with movies and books and each other.

On Monday, my co-workers took me to lunch and showered me with words of encouragement. I was utterly overwhelmed by God’s grace to me in them. I have been beyond blessed… and I’m thankful this leaving isn’t because of something that is taking me away from these friendships. Their kindness to me is never-ending, of that I am sure.

We are grateful.

The future always feels so tenuous with us, but we are excited for what it could hold.

“Ends are not bad things, they just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don’t really end, anyway, they just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren’t really an ending; some things are never-ending.”
(~C. JoyBell C.)

It is dark and windy as I write this, the rain lashes our old farmhouse in torrents. The children curl up in our den with me and we watch the puddles form on the road, waiting for Brian to return from the store. Cooper snuggles close. We are not fearful, just fascinated with how quickly it came upon us and how fierce it rages.

I think this is how life has felt for us a good bit lately. We are not fearful, just overwhelmed with how quickly things have come upon us and how fierce our battle rages. It has been a year and a half of battling this cursed metastatic disease… this is the one we have feared and dreaded for the past nine years. This is the one with no cure, no end in sight, no relief from treatment, pain, and fatigue. And we are tired.

I spent a little while outside this morning in the sunshine. Bri was working on our car, so the children and I teamed up to try to tackle some weeds and spruce up the front of our home. We worked together, Coop tethered to the faded porch, the one that needs to be power washed and painted and stained so badly. I clipped and chopped and Bella dug and scooped and Bear weed whacked and Ash followed along behind us with the wheelbarrow and composted our clippings. Halfway through the front flower bed, I sat next the road, took off my gloves and cried over the pain in my hands from the work, the nails that cracked back beyond the nail-bed, the weariness of my body. I had hit my wall. It came on so quickly.

But the tears were for much more than that. How? I wondered. How am I to care for my home, this beautiful old farmhouse that seems to be falling down around us? How do I do the necessary work when my body fades so quickly? I despaired of our home ever seeming finished… our foundation is crumbling, our bathroom renovation is on hold until that is fixed, boxes line my hallway, and I see how slanted our floors are becoming. If I can’t even manage to weed a flowerbed, how do I care for the rest of it?

We took a break, Bella wrapped her arms around me and screamed at the sky, “I just hate cancer!” Then she grabbed her binoculars and notebook to explore the backyard. Bear picked up the weed whacker and told me he’d take care of anything he saw, and Ash stopped to throw a lanky are around my shoulders before he pushed a full wheelbarrow far to the back of our yard. Coop ran alongside us, finding his big blue ball and tearing through the yard. We all laughed at his antics. We needed to. The sun shone bright and warm, and the laughter of my children brought peace as I remembered, perhaps hearing the necessary whisper of the Holy Spirit, “This is your gift. All of it. This is not the end.” Yes, my husband and my children are my gift. They are my home. These are the joys I do pour into with the energy I have. And my house is my home, too, and I steward it as I can. I care for these good gifts… that is the desire of my heart.

I do what I am able, and He see it and He blesses it. If He gives it, another day I can work on more weeds. Another day builders will come and restore our foundation. The tile-work in our shower-to-be is beautiful, the handiwork of a friend whom we watched grow up in our church. The bathroom renovation will finish one day. And, Lord willing, we will paint and decorate and move on to a new spot to make our house more lovely. I’ve already found some gorgeous curtains on a bargain rack for our living room and I can’t wait for the brightness they will bring.

The battle rages fiercely. The exhaustion comes quickly. But the truth speaks boldly. We are together and this is home. This is not the end. And the love fills deeply.

This house is deteriorating. My body is dying. We are subject to the same terrible decay. But worth is not measured in such terms. Once upon a time, God called His creation good. And no curse of sin unwound these words. Gnarled maple trees. Plaster walls. An ordinary woman’s ordinary body. All good. To care for these is to say to death, “You are not the end.”
(~Christie Purifoy, Roots and Sky)