Please pray for the repose of the soul of Tony Snow and for the consolation of his wife and children. The link I've provided is an essay Tony Snow wrote last summer. It's echoed in my head ever since. Do take a moment to let him bless you today.
And the tulips are blooming, again. It's been eighteen years since I was diagnosed with cancer. I was thinking yesterday about what ran through my mind the morning after the biopsy surgery. I was very much concerned with my eighteen-month-old nursling. In the near term, there was the formidable task of weaning before chemo. In the far term, loomed the fear that I wouldn't see him grow up. He's grown now.
And he's weaned, too;-)
But when I wasn't thinking about Michael, I thought about the oddest random things. What's even odder is that I still remember them.
Cancer brings you face to face with mortality in a way that is startlingly real. For me, it brought an unquenchable thirst to know God, and then, a longing to love and to serve Him. And it was the Church from whom I drank deeply. I am still caught by surprise when I encounter lifetime Catholics who have never thought to read the Catechism, who don't know what the Magesterium is, who haven't read a single thing written by John Paul II, or still haven't taken the time to get to Benedict XVI. Don't they care? Don't they know the treasure they have been given? Don't they want to know why we live and why we die?God himself gave us this Church to shelter us and to teach us and to heal us. Time is short--even if you're perfectly healthy. God calls you to Him with urgency.
Life-threatening illness is great way to understand very well how short our lives here are compared to eternity. When one is ill, she yearns to be healed. If one has faith, and is facing a serious illness, she yearns for physical healing, but even more, she yearns to be spiritually whole and healthy. It's a tremendous gift of grace to know that we are wounded and to know where to go for healing. I found healing in the Catholic Church. She nurtured me and she continues to bring me to the Great Physician. There is no doubt that with cancer comes suffering, and not just for the person who is sick. My whole family suffered. But with that suffering and with healing came an understanding that God allows us to suffer in order to bring us closer to Him. And if we will come closer, we will be consoled and we will be cured.
I was coming here tonight to tell you about my bad day. The short version is simply:
I've been hurt by several people I thought were friends and it about crushed me early, early this morning.
Patrick made the state ODP team (good news except that they practice in Richmond every weekend and the people we usually carpool with didn't make the team--have I mentioned how much I dislike driving? I dislike it even more when it's two hours away and likely to be cold).
And so my dear friends, I called Christian and Patrick and the three of us reached way in and pulled that stroller, covered in muck, out of the trash truck. It wasn't pretty. And then I had a very pleasant talk with Customer Service.
By this time, it was nearly noon. I locked myself in my room and called a friend and totally fell apart. I wanted to crawl under the covers and stay there. She suggested gingerbread houses, St. Nicholas crafts, and Dawn's gingerbread cake. And she came over and made it all happen. Before I began to blog it all, I stopped by to visit Heather and read this poem.
And I was transported back seventeen years to a young mother who was bald. Her throat was so burned by radiation that she couldn't even swallow water. Her young husband was tired and worn and worried and her toddler knew all too well the waiting area at the hospital. But it would soon be Christmas and with Christmas would come the end of this treatment. With Christmas would come hope that they could begin life again with a rare and precious perspective. They would know that even the bad days are golden gifts of precious time. They would know that delayed parcels, flat tires, twisted, filthy strollers, and even shattered friendships cannot rob us of the awareness that time is a treasure and life is very, very good. 
They would know that in the blink of an X-ray, a phone call from a doctor can shatter peace and threaten life as we know it. They would promise never, ever to lose sight of the gift of joy. And time. And life itself.That young mother was me and my life is forever imprinted with gift of cancer.
It is no coincidence that it was Heather who shared the words of another young cancer patient. Nor is it a coincidence that it was the mother of a cancer survivor who filled the afternoon with fun and the house with the smell of chocolate gingerbread. Sometimes, we live through experiences that teach us invaluable lessons. While we never, ever want to learn those lessons that way again, we can appreciate the treasure of the lesson and we can honor its message.Even--especially--on the bad days.
Gratitude check:
Tonight, dear Lord, as I sink into the comfort of the evening, I thank you especially for (14) a brand new box of Saintly Soaps, herbal tea, and a very hot bath. (15)I thank you for children who delight in the feast of their patron, despite the chaos and the disappointment of the grownup world. (16)I thank you for the lessons of cancer and the gift of perspective and (17) for friends who understand perfectly both the gift and the perspective. (18) And I thank you for tomorrow and the hope and promise of a new day, filled with You.
We're gathering to pray for Heather, of the Homeschool Blog award staff, who will undergo brain surgery tomorrow. Please stop by and promise to pray and then hold her in your hearts and prayers!
Yesterday, Heather wrote:
But at this point I have no control over what Thursday holds for me.
I can cry and flip out and waste these next 48 hours on what ifs and
fear, or I can enjoy them knowing that whatever the outcome on
Thursday- I lived my life to fullest. I laughed, I loved so very
deeply, and more than anything I tried to share Christ's love at every
opportunity these last 3 weeks. Come Thursday, all I can do is lay my
antibacterial washed head down on that table and find peace in the
knowledge whatever happens at the end of the day-
He’s already there.
Sounds like a good plan for all of us. Live life to the fullest; laugh; love deeply; and share Christ. Pray for Heather as you go about your joyful,busy day tomorrow.
The sun rose brightly this morning, shining sparkling hope over a fresh spring day. We survived yesterday. In all, seven children were quite sick within a 48 hour period. Many cups of ginger ale were poured and ignored and many, many loads of laundry were washed and dried.I can't begin to count the number of times I ran up and down the stairs, heart pumping, lungs working overtime. The awake hours of the day numbered 20. Still, it was a relatively good day. And today? Today is relatively great. Sure beats April 29, 1990.
On that day, a remember kneeling to kiss my one-year-old goodbye before getting into the car. I remember arriving at the hospital in the early morning just as all the pink tulips were opening to greet the day. I remember squeezing my husband's hand before surgery, trying to ignore the fear in his formerly fearless face. I remember the pathologist, one of my father's dearest friends. "Hodgkin's Disease. It's going to be a very tough year, but then, you'll live."
Indeed. A tough year. It was a chrysalis year. Together, my husband and I lived a life dictated by doctors and hospitals and IV pushes of nasty chemotherapy. As the tulips began to wilt and drop their petals, huge handfuls of brown curls fell from my head. Life looked so very different at every turn. We lost our innocence and found our faith. We learned we'd never have another baby and prayed for children we had never wanted so much. I grew to hate the sight of tulips and to gag at the smell of latex--whether it was surgical gloves or birthday balloons. We huddled, dark and tired, inside the shell of our experience, partly to avoid the germs of the outside world, partly because everything that really mattered was inside our four walls and we were living as much life together as we could.
I was twenty-four. That's not very old. And the next year, I think I was about 50, though I'm not quite sure. I definitely wasn't 25. People who are 25 are usually blissfully unaware of their mortality.
Together, my husband and I had grown in this strange new world of surviving cancer . We would find ourselves telling people over and over that we never wanted to learn those lessons that way again, but that we were so grateful for the grace of God in allowing us to learn them when we did.
I live a life that is rooted in the reality of a finite time on earth. I live a life that sparkles with the hope of heaven. To be quite honest, I live a life that is tinged with fear, my constant adversary.Though I'm not the superstitious type, for a long time, I was afraid to plant tulips, afraid to tempt fate. But I live a life of great blessing.Time and faith have taught me so much. And so, yesterday, God reminded me with emphasis just how many sweet young souls are in my care and how He is bigger than any prognosis. He reminded me that I am still young and strong and able to care for many needy people, singlehandedly, at once. He reminded me that my heart pumps and my lungs fill with air. And He reminded me that it's okay--even hopeful and beautiful-- to plant pink tulips in the fall and watch them bloom on April the Twenty-ninth.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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