Gathering My Thoughts

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I find myself:

::noticing God's glory

Our rose garden is overrun with weeds. Patrick is home for a few days, so I'd hoped he'd conquer it. He went out, took a look, and came back inside and said he doesn't have time. Ah, well. Perhaps I can do it next week. Kristin has big plans for our gardens. The weather is fine these days. I'm hoping we can get out it in it together and do some serious planting.

::listening to 

Coffee shop noises. This soccer season, I haven't spent much time writing in coffee shops. I haven't spent much time writing at all. This afternoon, with two hours to catch up a bit, feels like such a gift!

::clothing myself in 

Jeans, T-shirt with lace, lightweight cardigan, light dangling earrings. The spring and fall are my favorite months for clothing.

::talking with my children about these books

Heaven is Here- -Mary Beth and I are sharing this one. I found it to be a wonderful book to hand off to a teenaged daughter. 

The Omnivore's Dilemma: The Secret Behind What You Eat, Young Reader's Edition. ---Nick and I are reading this one

We are going to take on this reading challenge this month. Actually, I'm making it a writing challenge, having my kids share their little bookshelves with you here. I'm going to take on the challenge at Instagram (where I'm already behind) and the children are going to write here. Soon. I promise;-)

::thinking and thinking

about a little bit of a miracle in my overactive brain. On April 29th, I marked 23 years since I was diagnosed with cancer. That day, I noticed that when a friend (Hi, Jen!) posted to Facebook about a local wine and farm event that featured an awesome fundraising cause and her spectacularly awesome (priest) brother as an auctioneer and my favorite vineyard, I did something I have not done in 23 years. I said I couldn't make it this year, but I was a definite for next year. In 23 years, I've never let my brain go there, never assumed next year. Of course, none of us knows if we'll be around next year. But normal people do say, "I'll see you next year" or "Let's plan on next year." I never have. 

But I just did.

I think that might be progress. Maybe. What's amazing to me about this whole thing is that I've had a super hard time getting out from under the shadow of cancer the last few months. I've had to do some hard work reconciling survivorship in my own soul. It's not like one day you have cancer and then you're cured and then life rolls on as normal. Physically, nothing is the same again. I'm aware that I'm in uncharted territory. Treatment for my particular disease was changing so rapidly when I was being treated that there are just a handful of us who make up this cohort of survivors. Most people I know in that cohort have some pretty significant longterm effects. I have definitely been spooked.

Part of renewal for me has been confronting this fear and then working to weave a positive strategy of care and realistic awareness into my days. So, hey, chemo destroyed my gut and it's still messed up 23 years later. OK. Time to learn to be assertive about what I can and cannot eat in order to protect myself. And yes, I have a one in three chance of getting breast cancer because I was radiated. But gosh, if pregnancy and extended breastfeeding are protective measures, show me someone has has more of those than I do;-).

And, somewhere, deep down inside, I just had the confidence to say, "Next year..."

::pondering prayerfully

“When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” 
― Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey

::carefully cultivating rhythm

I'm here to tell every mom trying to "balance" (hah!, what a joke) work and home, that it's possible to ask God for direction about one's professional life every day for nearly a year. And then, in a fifteen minute time span, have Him make himself abundantly clear. I feel more at peace in my skin and with my plans than I have in a very long time.

::creating by hand

The girls need some summer clothes as soon as possible. My sewing mission is critical.

::learning lessons in

community. I think that a lot of my notions of community, both online and in real life, have shifted dramatically over the last couple years. I'm very grateful for the insight. And I'm very grateful for a genuinely diverse community.

::encouraging learning 

We are finishing up Karoline's First Communion notebook this week. May is going to be all about math for everyone. I have some very lofty goals for the month, but if we can achieve them, I think I'll call the year a huge success.

::begging prayers

these prayers are still very, very much on my heart:

For a child of mine who needs big infusions of grace. Please pray with me?

For my friend Barbara's new grandson, Isaac. (So far, both our homeschooling-friends-grown-up who have had babies have named them Isaac.)  He was born three weeks ago, by emergency c-section, six weeks early. He and his mom are doing fine, but his time in the NICU just keeps extending. Your prayers for recovery and growth and NICU grace are very much appreciated.

And for Rick Warren, his son, and his family.

and a new one:

Mary Beth sustained a significant injury to her Achilles last weekend. It's never fun to be injured, but it's especially difficult when you train all year for a very short competition season and you find you're going to miss a huge chunk of it. Please pray that she will have the strength and grace to bear the crosses that come with this time of stillness.

::keeping house

One must be home in the house in order to adequately keep the house. That is all.

::crafting in the kitchen 

Paddy is home for a few days to study between the end of classes and the beginning of exams. Hence, I am free to drive to soccer and sit in a coffee shop with you. He is at home making a trademark chicken fried steak dinner. 

::loving the moments

When a faraway friend calls just as some interesting things are happening in my inbox and she is able to help me make sense of it in real time.

::giving thanks 

for hope.

living the liturgy

Karoline will receive her First Communion this weekend. I've never seen a child more excited about Jesus! Please note: it's Thursday as I write and she still has no dress, veil, or shoes. I hate that this seems like an eighth child kind of thing. I care very much about this special day; I'm just having trouble making decisions and I absolutely detest shopping and my favorite Catholic store has gone out of business...That flower girl dress is looking like a very good option.

::planning for the week ahead

My precious second son will turn 21 on Monday. This fact astounds me. I still can't get over the miracle of him. I will never get over the miracle of him. ...

Today. Just Today.

I took the Facebook and Twitter apps off my phone last week. The noise had become unbearable. Now, I check in on my laptop, timer ticking, in the morning and in the evening. I'm amazed at the difference in my distraction level. Clearly, I was checking in and engaging way more often than I recognized. It's good to look up more, instead of down at that screen.

Yesterday afternoon, I planned to settle into my booth and write while Sarah and Karoline were at ballet. Alas, there was no charge on my compuer and I'd neglected to pack a charger. So, I took a walk instead. 

With me, I carried the the very real and very large medical sadness  of Lynn, of  Elizabeth DeHority and of another dear and very close woman. It's ironic; after the election I heard a pundit from the "losing side" reflect that at least he didn't get up in the morning and discover a lump. His world would go on and unless there was that crisis, nothing else was a crisis.

But what if there were that crisis? Three people I love are living that crisis. Well, lots more people than that are living that crisis, but these three are in my constant thoughts. And in my mind, I live that crisis, too. With my what-ifs and my very overactive imagination.

I set off on my walk down a familiar path, listening to and praying along with the familiar voices at Divine Office. As the hymn played, my mind wandered. Initially, I lamented the fact that fall was slipping away. Soon, these trees would be stripped bare. I kicked myself for neglecting to get the beeswax and gather the leaves to dip before the hurricane, for failing to capture autumn in its glory. I brought myself back into the prayer.

The Holy Spirit nudged me to capture the day, the very moment for the gloriousness it was, right now. I looked up. I noticed. How absolutely perfect was just this day, just this fading afternoon! What if I could do that with every moment of my life? What if I could stay --constant prayer supporting me-- in the very moment I was living? No lamentations about what could have been, no gripping fears about what lies ahead, just profound and startling awareness and gratitude for what is right now?

 “Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes." Matthew 6:34

"I’ll show up and take care of you as I promised and bring you back home. I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for." Jeremiah 29:11

Grateful

It started six weeks ago, the morning of Rachael's father's funeral. The words began to haunt anew: lymph node, trial of antibiotics, blood work, sed rate, xray. I knew the progression. I'd lived it before. First this, then this, then cancer, then chemo, then...

This time, though, the words were spoken by my pediatrician. This time, I was not the patient. This time, I was the mom.

She's been through so much this fall that it breaks my heart. Not this, too. Surely not this.

Please Lord, this cup? Let it pass?

And then, after what seemed like eternal waiting and watching, new words.

Within normal limits.

And I am grateful.

Just inhaling the wonder of a normal every day.

Not a Lot of Knitting, but a Whole Lot of Thinking

If it's Wednesday, we're talking about reading and knitting along with Ginny. Since last week, life has moved along at a very quick clip. The relentless activity, together with the fact that I'm stalled until I learn to pick up stitches has left my Baby Surprise Jacket mostly unchanged since I shared it with you Saturday.

Yesterday, in a mental health move, I did cast on for Girl's Cap Sleeved Shirt, like the one Carmen made Sarah. I love that shirt--it's a great layering piece and she wears it and wears it and wears it. So, I set about to make her another one, in a pinkish (of course)  Rowan Amy Butler Belle Organic Aran yarn. I have cast on twice now. I'm beginning to think that every time I start a new pattern, I will have to start more than three times to get it right. Pretty sure I'm going to pull this all out and start again.

So, enough about knitting. I have been reading this week, in odd moments here and there. Several weeks ago , when TLC book tours contacted me to ask about The Jesus Prayer, they mentioned that The Council of Dads would also be on tour. In a moment of recklessness, I abandoned my twenty-year tradition of never reading books that even make reference to cancer. (Yes, I even abandoned The Penderwicks a few pages in because the mother--named Elizabeth--died of cancer. My children have read it on their own.) Lately, I am recognizing that I can't run from this disease and I can't deny that it is part of who I am. Better then, to learn about living with cancer and after cancer from wise people who have traveled that journey. And who write phenomenally well.

This book is a page turner. It's the exceptionally well-written story of Bruce Feiler, young man, husband, and father of three-year-old twin girls, who is diagnosed with a rare bone cancer. When face with the possibility that he might not live to raise his daughters, Feiler chose six men who--through their friendship-- had helped shape him and asked them to be there for his daughters in the future. Throughout the book, Feiler intersperses the story of each man's strength and gifts with his own observations on life and with a record of his treatment. It's a truly extraordinary read.

I'm amazed at Feiler's depth and at the articulate men he has befriended. These are men who truly talk--the relationships are deep and strong and meaningful. True, Feiler had cancer. And true, the idea for a council of dads was conceived as a protection and provision should he die prematurely, but at its heart, this book is about living, not dying. It's about living intentionally. Frequently, Feiler refers to his year of chemotherapy and surgery and rehab and misery as "The Lost Year." That year was anything but lost. Indeed, it was lived full of meaning and full of love. He grabbed the gift and the grace that comes with the diagnosis and he lived that gift with grace for all it was worth.

The book stands as an instruction manual for life, a legacy for his daughters. As much as those men in the council will be there for Feiler's girls, Feiler himself will be there, too, in his own written voice, sharing with them the extraordinary insight afforded him by his year with cancer. A life-threatening illness sharpens one's perspective and lends an air of urgency and discrimination to what gets done and what gets said. With the gift of that insight, Feiler is uniquely able to guide other people in establishing their own councils, not necessarily because their lives are threatened, but because life itself is precious and all too often we take it for granted when instead we should live it with a purposeful sense of meaning and mission.

Bruce Feiler isn't dead. He's a survivor. As such, he has left a legacy to all of us who have lived "The Lost Year." He invites us by his example to reflect on the meaning of that year and to honor the struggle it was by always, always living the second chance life with purpose, and always, always investing wholeheartedly in relationships that give life meaning. Personally, he challenges me not to run from the history that is cancer, but to see that in its horror, there is clarity; there is the invitation to live fully.

{comments open}

Five Minute Friday: Deep Breath

I read the prompt words on Lisa-Jo's page and tears spring to my eyes. Just yesterday, I sat creekside with Lisa-Jo. We watched our children play and I tentatively asked her about her mother. Tentatively, because I didn't want her to catch her breath in pain on that glorious spring day. Tentatively, because to ask, I would have to admit that I have heretofore skipped her posts about her mother. Tentatively, because if we are being honest, I just don't talk about cancer and dying. Not for the last 21 years.

I don't go there.

But yesterday, I asked. Because I wanted to understand more than I feared her answers.

I asked because because cancer is real and concrete and I cannot click away this time.

Love keeps me on these pages. In this life.

Deep breath. It brings tears to my eyes because I want so badly for Elizabeth to take a deep breath. I want to breathe breath into her. Instead, her breath catches. She uses precious breath to talk to my children via Skype, to encourage them, to ask about their days. And it's not just about knitting and little girls. It's big teenaged boys on the brink of adulthood, who escape to a quiet corner and talk to this kind woman, the woman who breathes life and hope into others even as she struggles for deep breath. My children--the ones who have never watched a movie where the mother dies, because I have long worked to keep them from knowing that such things even exist. (Yes, I am aware that this is a bit crazy.) I have brought Elizabeth into their lives because I have learned that love is well worth the risk of pain. And we love her. Truly, truly love her.

She wills herself to breathe so that she can mother her five dear children with all her heart and all her might. She breathes gentleness and joy into their every minute, knowing that every minute matters. She worries about how to allocate breath so that she can accomplish the most important things.

It's not cancer that has robbed breath. It's chemotherapy.

First, do no harm.

No harm.

She must breathe. Must.

And we? Who love her? We hold our breath, waiting to know what comes next.

What will I do with my every breath today?