The healing process is often slow and hard.  Some days I feel a bit like my old self – happy, passionate, dreaming and planning for the future.  And some days, anxiety, anger, guilt, or fear takes my breath away.  On those days it is tempting to retreat into myself, climb into bed with my sweet son by my side, and close my eyes.  Because sometimes, remembering what has been and what has been stolen from me is too much.  Sometimes, wondering why I am here and another person is not is too much.  And sometimes, too often lately, the world is just too much.

I see the pain on the faces of those who have lost loved ones to cancer, to car crashes, to war, to bombings at marathons, to shootings at schools and movie theaters, and I start to wonder what it’s all for, this living and trying and striving.  I hear John Paul say “happy, happy, happy” to himself as he bounds down the stairs and I want to cry because this two-year old doesn’t yet know pain beyond scraping his knee, sadness beyond saying goodbye to a friend after a play date, or fear beyond the darkness of his room at night.  He doesn’t yet know of the harshness of life, of the world, and oh, what I would do to keep it that way forever.  And though I know I have the great honor as his mother to help him learn to see all the beauty in the world despite the scary things, I let insecurities overwhelm me and tell me I’m just one person against so much evil in the world, so what can I do?

But then, I remember.  I remember the kindness of a nurse practitioner’s blue eyes as she kept her face on mine the whole time a needle was being pushed into my chest, checking for cancer that fateful night two years ago.  I remember the way John Paul reached up and touched my cheek with his tiny hand after meeting me, despite not seeing me for eight hours, knowing he was mine and I was his as soon as he heard my voice.  I remember my sister holding my hand, never flinching or showing fear, as a nurse struggled to place an IV into my bruised arm for over forty-five minutes.  I remember my mom slowly and gently removing the long tube that had administered pain medication into my chest after a reoccurrence scare and biopsy, all the while smiling and telling me it was almost over.  I remember my dad’s tired eyes as he entered my hospital room after driving all day and night from where he’d been vacationing in Florida, because he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from me.  I remember my brother collapsing into my arms, a mess of sweat and tears, after he completed a triathlon in my honor.

I remember my mother-in-law’s tight hug when she threw me a baby shower in a conference room, complete with cake and decorations and presents, the night before my C-section.  I remember my best friend sitting by my side as poison flowed into my veins, stopping anyone who dared to enter the room and asking that they let me sleep in peace.  I remember my brother-in-law sitting with me that first night in the Intensive Care Unit, watching sitcoms and forcing smiles even as doctors came in and out and our minds raced with questions.  I remember my friends from church cracking jokes about my sassy wig, “Holli,” bringing much-needed levity and laughter.  I remember my dear friend and working mother of four flying cross-country to care for my son and me as if she had all the time in the world.  And I remember my husband holding me as I cried after I threw up or tried to eat something despite the mouth sores, or just felt the weight of all the seriousness and sadness and fear bearing down on me.  I remember the way he lovingly cut my hair before it began to fall out and told me I looked beautiful, how he breathes a loud sigh of relief each time my doctor walks in after a follow-up scan and says, “It’s good,” and how he constantly tells me I’m his hero, even when I falter and fail to return all the love given to me.

I remember all this, and so much more.  The amount of love and kindness poured out on me has been immeasurable, as well as the grace given by God Himself.  The moments where I teetered just above despair and He found a way to remind me that He was there, the promises He has dared me to believe and then fulfilled, and the joy He has shown me even in pain, even in suffering, even in the face of death – it is all almost beyond my comprehension.

I remember all this, and this is why I feel I must run.  I am not very fast.  I am not very strong.  I am not even very coordinated.  But I am living proof of the goodness in the world, despite my brokenness and sinfulness and shortcomings, only because of the love given to me in my greatest time of need.  And I want people to see that when I run.  I want them to be reminded of the beauty that still exists despite all the evil that threatens to pull us into the darkness, especially lately, especially in this often confusing and difficult world.

And so, I will run a 5k on June 15th.  I have no goal other than to finish, and I have no request other than that you pray for me as I move forward and that when you feel discouraged or down or fed up with the world, you remember the story of what you and so many others gave to me, without expectation of reciprocity, without reservation, in my time of need.  When I run each week as I train for my race, and when I run that day in June, I will be doing it for you, as an offering, not big enough or great enough, but an offering nonetheless, in thanksgiving for all you and God have given me.

****

I have always been honored to pray for you in any way I can, especially when I was in treatment and so needed a reminder to look outside of myself.  If you would help me continue to do this by sending me any prayer requests you might have, I would be so grateful.  Specific or unspecific, big or small, whatever healing or hope you may need in your life – feel free to send it my way and know you will be remembered.

And if anyone in the area would like to join me on June 15th, I would love to have you run/walk/skip/whatever by my side.  You can contact me for more information or sign up for the race to raise funds for the fight against pancreatic cancer here: http://www.kintera.org/faf/home/ccp.asp?ievent=1052169&ccp=634713

****

Rise-Josh Garrels

I hung my head, for the last time
In surrender and despair
Before I’m dead, I’ll take the last climb
Up the mountain, face my fears
The time has come, to make a choice
Use my voice for the love of every man

My minds made up, never again
Never again, will I turn round

Though they may surround me like lions
And crush me on all sides
I may fall, but I will rise
Not by my might, or my power, or by the strength of swords
Only through, your love, my lord
All we’ve lost, will be, restored

Take courage sons, for we must go under
The heart of darkness, and set them free
But don’t lose heart when you see the numbers
There’s no measure for, the faith we bring
It’s given us, to overcome
If we run, where the spirit calls us on
The greatest things, have yet to come
With the dawn, we will rise

Though they may surround us like lions
And crush us on all sides
we may fall, but we will rise
Not by my might, or my power, or by the strength of swords
Only through, your love, my lord
All we’ve lost, will be, restored

****

For more information about Cancer to 5k and the Ullman Cancer Foundation, click here.

To hear more of Josh Garrel’s incredible music and to support this great artist, click here.

1. Jen at Conversion Diary has been having some serious health problems (pulmonary embolisms in her lungs) and is not only pregnant, but a busy mother of five children (not to mention an incredible writer.) Please join me in keeping her in your prayers in a special way during this time.

2. Speaking of Jen, Mike and I recently used her Saint’s Name Generator to select a “Saint of the Year,” a Saint that we’ll have a special devotion to and to learn from in 2013. I’ve never been very good at sticking to my resolutions (or even making any for that matter), and I’d heard of some people choosing a theme or word of the year (like my beautiful friend Caroline), but I felt overwhelmed at the thought of narrowing my theme down to just one word (I’m not the most concise, if you haven’t noticed.) So, I said a quick prayer, let the computer do it’s thing, and voila! My Saint of the year is Saint Gianna Beretta Molla! I know little about Saint Gianna, besides the face that she was an Italian doctor and mother of four who refused to have an abortion and hysterectomy when she was pregnant with her fourth child, despite knowing that she could die, which she did seven days after the birth of her child. But I’m excited to learn more about her this year.

And yet, when I first saw that Saint Gianna was my Saint of the Year, I admittedly thought it was a little strange. Two years ago, when I was gearing up to find out I had cancer when I was pregnant, when I was about to be asked to balance the health of my unborn son with my own, and when the possibility of leaving my young son motherless was at the forefront of my mind at all times – then, yes, it seems a devotion to Saint Gianna could have been an extremely fruitful thing.

But, the more I read about Saint Gianna, the more I see how applicable lessons to be learned from her life are to not only all mothers, but all people. Her life was the true embodiment of true love (“My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:12-13). Plus, if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that God will reveal His reasons and His ways in His time – I can only imagine that when I look back one year later how clearly I’ll see how perfect Saint Gianna was for me at this time.

3. Mike and I recently celebrated our 5th anniversary on December 29th. We had an incredible time spending a night on the town in Chicago (move over Denver, I think I’m back in love with the Midwest. But don’t worry, I’m sure the tides will turn in a few weeks when I fall back in love with the coal mining region of Pennsylvania or somewhere else.) I had a blast making the following video and surprising Mike by playing it for him on Christmas Eve (it was especially fun to record The Lumineers “Ho Hey” a capella – did you know I was in an all girl’s a capella group in college? Oh yeah.) You should watch it for no other reason than that my version of “Ho Hey” will probably make you laugh!

4. Emotional healing after cancer continues to be a long and often difficult journey. It sometimes feels like I take two steps forward and then one step back (have I said that before?? I’m also finding that healing contains a lot of deja vu!) Often the weeks I feel I’ve made the most progress end with me completely losing my cool over something completely insignificant at someone I love the most (i.e.: the lucky Mr. McGinley!) When I finally calm down I realize that my anger had nothing to do with him, and little to do with the situation, and that it’s just an extension of that small pot of fire that still burns in my soul with anger at getting cancer, going through treatment, feeling robbed of time with my son and my husband, the injustice of the hundreds of thousands of people who die from cancer everyday, the injustice of the hundreds of thousands of people who suffer everyday, and on and on the list goes.

I know there are some things that can help with this (medication, talking to someone, finding a productive hobby) and I’m taking steps to do those things, but God is also working through others to clue me into some steps I need to take before this anger ever goes away. While being prayed over during a holy hour led by the lovely Kelly Pease (a beautiful musician and sweet soul who you should check out – listen to her “Mother’s Song“) our Deacon reminded me that it is perfectly okay to not only be mad, but to be mad at God. I don’t know if he realized it, but this was truly a revelation to me. I have been mad, yes, but I’ve mostly stuck with ending my anxious pleas to God with “but, let thy will be done.” And while following the ways of Jesus is the most important thing in our faith, how can we expect to get there if we’re not honest with God about how we’re really feeling (and in my case, that’s admittedly not just angry, but angry at God)? It was a grace-filled moment, and I suspect I’ll be digesting what it means for a long time.

5. Since I still harbor feelings of extreme anger and sadness towards cancer, it’s probably not surprising that a video about cancer would make me cry. But the great thing about this particular video is that it makes me cry, then smile, and then laugh, and I think it’ll make you do those things too. People never cease to amaze me with their ability to find joy in the midst of suffering.

6. How was our Christmas, you ask? Well why don’t you take a look at these pictures and figure it out for yourselves?

Okay, okay, just kidding. I mean, there was a lot of that, but there was also a ton of laughter, joy, and fun. It was wonderful to be home, and especially meaningful to put on a memorial Christmas concert with my amazing siblings in honor of my Nana at the nursing home where she was so wonderfully cared for and loved. I hope you all had an equally blessed holiday season!

7. After wearing a tie for our Christmas pictures, JP is obsessed with his “tieeee,” wants to wear one every day, and well, it’s pretty darn cute.

I mean, right??

Happy weekend friends!

But how many mothers weep today at the loss of their baby?  How many siblings cry out at the loss of their brother or sister?  How many spouses will lie sleepless tonight mourning the loss of their husband or wife?

How many, Lord?
How long, Lord?
Oh, come quickly, Lord.
How dearly we need You.

Deliver Us-Andrew Peterson

Our enemy, our captor is no pharaoh on the Nile
Our toil is neither mud nor brick nor sand
Our ankles bear no calluses from chains, yet Lord, we’re bound
Imprisoned here, we dwell in our own land

Deliver us, deliver us
Oh Yahweh, hear our cry
And gather us beneath your wings tonight

Our sins they are more numerous than all the lambs we slay
These shackles they were made with our own hands
Our toil is our atonement and our freedom yours to give
So Yahweh, break your silence if you can

‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem
How often I have longed
To gather you beneath my gentle wings’

That being said, I’m going to be joining Jen at Conversion Diary (check out her blog – it’s great!) and posting 7 quick takes every Friday.  Enjoy my random thoughts and pictures!

1.  For the first time in 3 years, I had a group of girlfriends over last night.  It was so much fun!  It hasn’t always been easy making friends between all of our moves (I’ve had eight different addresses since Mike and I got married almost five years ago-whoa!), but now that I’m a mom, I’m a part of a mom’s group that hosts different playdates and activities during the week.  It’s been great for John Paul to start learning to share (emphasis on start!) and make friends, and amazing for me to have other mom’s to talk to and bond with.  I’m so grateful for this group, and it was so much fun to have a few of the mom’s over last night.  Slowly but surely I’m putting myself out there more and more, and every time I do, I feel a bit of the protective block that formed around my heart during my battle with cancer chip away.  And that is AWESOME.

The basement all set up for the party!

2.  It’s gearing up to be a wonderful Christmas with our little buddy.  Between walking around the house saying “ho, ho, ho” in his high-pitched voice (By the way, when does that go away?  Because I kind of hope never – though that might be awkward for him…) and sometimes resembling a Who from Whoville, this kid is getting ready for the big event in style.

3.  I’ve been thinking a lot about grace, and how there’s really nothing better we can offer one another.  Last weekend, I was supposed to spend time with a dear friend who recently moved states away.  I miss her dearly, and was very much looking forward to our reunion.  But, being the night before my appointment to receive the results of my latest PET scan, I was stressed and full of anxiety.  When I found out that my church was having adoration after mass, I knew immediately that I needed to be there.  I could actually feel God calling me there.  And so, I nervously called my friend and asked for her understanding of my need to cancel our plans.  To my relief, she couldn’t have been more graceful in her loving response, and I was able to go to adoration that night with no guilt hanging over my head.

With a clear mind and open heart, I was given a beautiful, amazing gift of peace in my time of adoration.  One minute I was sitting there, on the verge of crying, worrying, once again, how I (and my family) would handle the news if the cancer was back, wondering how I could possibly leave my sweet boy if that was what was to be.  And then, I felt moved to pray just as passionately as I was praying for myself for the teens from the youth group around me, one in particular.  In that moment, when I took the focus off myself and put it onto them, I felt complete peace in my heart.  I didn’t have any inkling that my test results would show continued remission and even further decrease of SUV activity (cancerous activity or in my case non-harmful thymic rebound) as it wonderfully did; rather, I had a pervasive feeling that no matter what happened, God would be with us and it would be okay.  And while that may be overly simplistic, the simplicity of the message was what made it so comforting and real to me.  For if there’s one lesson I’ve learned over the past few years, it’s that the details don’t matter.  If we lose faith when the details get more complicated and messy, then our faith means nothing at all.  If we lose hope in goodness and God when faced with adversity, then we have no hope at all.  We can cry, scream, worry, doubt, fall, and falter, but if we keep believing that God overcomes all things, even if our belief is just barely hanging on by a thread, we will never be without hope and peace in our heart.

I am so grateful for how God gave me peace through the grace of my friend last weekend.

4.  And speaking of grace, my siblings-in-law showed Mike and me an incredible amount of grace over Thanksgiving weekend.  On Saturday night, right before we watched Notre Dame beat USC (!), they surprised us with a donation to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society in my name (for $300.00-wow!) and a beautiful video made up of songs and pictures of our journey over the past year and a half.  At the end of the video, they included messages to Mike and me.  These messages said kind, loving, thoughtful things about what we mean to them and how we’ve inspired them, and I was brought to tears reading their words, not only because they humbled me, but because they healed me.  I have been consumed with anger at myself for how bad of a friend and family member I’ve been to so many as I’ve struggled with bouts of sadness and fear over the past two years, and I constantly worry that I’m going to end up with no friends at all because of how difficult I find it at times to properly stay in touch and express how grateful I am for these relationships.  I am constantly striving to do better, but I falter often.  Yet, hearing how deeply I am loved by my adopted family, despite my admitted self-absorption since being diagnosed, was like balm for my heart.

Here is the lovely video.

And here’s us:

5.  I’ve recently discovered that it’s one-hundred (or maybe two) million times more difficult to take a family photo now that JP is a toddler.

Evidence below.

Then.

Now.

(Though I do greatly prefer my real hair to Miss Holli, so that’s fun!)

6.  The other night Mike indulged my kid-like excitement about Christmas and he, JP, and I set off in our car, warm drinks for Mike and me and a chocolate muffin and milk for little buddy, to drive through the Bull Run Festival of Lights.  We cranked up the Christmas tunes, and the whole night was just lovely.  I tried to capture the LED excitement, but wasn’t very successful.

I think I did capture the toddler excitement pretty convincingly, on the other hand.

It’s moments like those when I think, “Is he really ours?”  We are so lucky.

7.  On Halloween, my brother moved to Switzerland, and I miss him terribly.  We’ve been so lucky to live about 15 minutes away from one another for the past two years, and especially after going through my illness together, we’ve grown so much closer.  He is a wonderful, loving person, and although I’m so proud of his accomplishments and excited for him to be living in such a beautiful place, every week I feel a little sad when I realize we won’t be getting together.

Clete and JP right before he left.

John Paul watches Clete’s car drive away.

John Paul really loves his Uncle Clete, and I’m so glad they’ll get to see one another at Christmas.  Uncle Clete knows just how to joke with his little bud, plus, he does the best radio announcer voice that’s made JP laugh since he was just a baby.

I love you Clete and can’t wait to see Les Miz with you in a just a few weeks!

***

This was so fun!  I hope you enjoyed my less than eloquent, rambling quick takes and that you have a wonderful weekend!

In a sense, I have accepted that cancer has changed me beyond my short hair and scars. And beyond acceptance, I am actually thankful for some of what it has taught me – even if the education was rough and raw. There is no doubt that I have learned firsthand how incredibly important my family and friends are to my very survival, and how deeply I feel that what truly matters are the relationships we cultivate with others. And while it may have also caused a painful loss of innocence, facing death and subsequently immersing myself in the cancer world has shown me firsthand how short life on this earth can be, and how tragic it is to spend any of our time blind to the beauty that surrounds us.

And yet, I often wonder if learning these lessons means anything at all. For it seems that what I know in my head has yet to positively affect what I feel in my heart, which is mostly pain and resentment. Though I have always been sensitive, I now routinely find myself crying because of tragedy I hear about on the news. Though I have always felt grateful for the blessings in my life, I now frequently forget them altogether and let myself fall into a deep depression, obsessing about how unfair it is that I have to continue to worry about PET scans, possible infertility, nerve damage in my chest, and reoccurrence. The most cherished compliments I used to receive were when others told me my positivity cheered or inspired them, but now, I regard the positive, cheerful person I used to be as a stranger. What’s worse, while I yearned to be surrounded by loved ones and hungered for connection when I was sick, over the past few months I’ve slowly retreated into my own anxiety and frustration. Rather than living with purpose and seeking connection like I so long to, I live as a leaf hangs from a tree, blending in with my surroundings, waiting for the wind to blow hard enough to move me, rather than venturing forward on my own.

Mike and I recently took a trip to France, which was as beautiful and incredible as you would imagine such a trip to be. And there are many things that came easily on our trip that I’ve struggled with lately. After all, it’s not hard to feel rested when you let sunlight peeking through the window wake you, content when you have nothing to do but wander the charming streets of Paris, or inspired when you gaze upon the detailed wonder of the Notre Dame cathedral.

But being in a foreign country where you know no one other than your travel companion and know little more than pleasantries in the native language can also make it easy to blend in with the background. In my case, it aided my ability to disengage and retreat even further into myself, my problems, and my feelings. And while this is often exactly the welcome reprieve one might want or even need in their overly connected life, for someone who has perfected the art of feigned connection (via pictures shared on Facebook or short texts here and there), it can be dangerous.

Yet after a few days filled with enjoyable, indulgent activities, Mike and I traveled somewhere that couldn’t have been more different from the city of lights – the pilgrim destination of Lourdes. Though the streets of Lourdes are filled with kitschy religious souvenirs and neon signs, once you enter the grounds of the Grotto, everything is different. On these grounds in 1858 the Virgin Mary appeared to a young girl, Bernadette, on eighteen different occasions. She strengthened Bernadette’s faith and offered words of wisdom, all while providing her with glimpses of the peace she would eventually – and only – find in heaven. During one of Mary’s Apparitions, she directed Bernadette to dig into the ground and drink and wash herself from the water found there. Ever since, pilgrims have come to visit this holy place. Many come to drink of the water that still flows from the spring, hoping that in doing so Mary will aid them in strengthening their faith and prayer life. And among the faithful who have come to pray and drink and bathe in the water, there have been sixty-seven unexplained cures, all confirmed as miracles by the Church.

Even with hundreds of pilgrims milling about, speaking French and a myriad of other languages in hushed voices, the sacredness of the place was palpable, and at first glimpse of the Grotto I began to weep. The emotion of being in a place I’d dreamed of visiting for so long knocked every bit of thought or anxiety out of me, and for at least a moment, I was completely engaged and felt wholly connected to all those praying in similar reverence around me.

Later that evening, Mike and I joined other pilgrims at the Marian procession. Together, holding candles in the moonlight, we prayed the rosary, each decade said in a different language. The eldest and sickest among us led the procession to the altar. I sang the words of the Salve Regina acutely aware that although I was considered one of the healthy, strong ones present, my soul was as broken and weak as the body of the sickest pilgrim. Among so many people being completely vulnerable about their physical ailments, I could no longer hide from the ailments of my soul. As I cried freely, strangers on either side of me, my brokenness and pain were out in the open. I felt more vulnerable than I ever had when I had ashen skin, no eyebrows, and only wisps of hair on my head.

Exhausted from the emotion of the procession, Mike and I headed back to our hotel room afterwards, ready to lie down and rest. But before we’d even removed our shoes, Mike received an email from a friend, who is ill and in need of prayers. Almost wordlessly we got up, put our coats back on, and headed out into the night.

It was nearly midnight when we made it back to the Grotto, and the still silence and emptiness of a place that had once been buzzing with life was jarring. But despite the black sky and frigid air, there was a warmth not present during the day.

Mike and I entered the Grotto for the first time, with no line or crowd to navigate. After lighting a candle for our friend, Mike returned to the pews to pray. Though I began to follow, I felt drawn deeper inside, to the wall where water trickled down. After rubbing my hands in it, I kneeled down on the cool, damp ground. As I sat there begging God to heal our friend, I knew that selfishly, my tears were as much for myself as for her, and that when I said over and over “heal her – please God heal her,” though my prayer for her was entirely genuine, I was also begging for the healing of my emotional pain.

But no sudden miracle occurred in my heart that night. Though I could see the beauty in front of me, I still couldn’t truly feel it. Though I could sense the holiness of the place, I couldn’t truly see it. Numb and blind, I got up and reentered the darkness.

That night, Mike and I slept for hours. We finally awoke in the early afternoon to the sounds of mass being said at the grotto, ringing bells and muffled voices creeping into our room. Though we had slept longer than either of us had in months, maybe even years, I still felt groggy. I showered and dressed in a daze.

It was our last afternoon in Lourdes and I knew there was only one thing left to do – only one more thing I could think of to try to heal my broken heart. I needed to do more than drink from the fountain of water; I wanted to be bathed in it. My hunger for my heart to be healed was overwhelming, incredibly, even stronger than any hunger I’d felt for a cure when I was sick.

Mike was able to join the “young men’s line,” and immediately enter the private baths, while I joined a long winding line of women, mostly French and much older than me. I had barely moved five feet when Mike returned, looking fresh and invigorated. We made plans to meet at a nearby cafe once I made it through, and I resumed aimlessly mouthing the French words of the Hail Mary being recited by the pilgrims all around me.

The line moved almost excruciatingly slow, but I didn’t mind. In fact, the closer I moved to the baths, the more nervous I became. I was ready to ask God to heal my pain – I needed to ask Him for this. But up until then I hadn’t truly put my desire for healing into words. Though I knew that God undoubtedly already knew the hidden yearning of my heart, how could I go on if I actually said the words out loud, put myself on the line, and still felt no relief? How could I remain faithful? My desire to simply be happy threatened to overcome my faith.

Though we hadn’t spoken more than pleasantries to one another when first entering the line, the elderly woman sitting next to me suddenly interrupted my thoughts by grasping my upper arm. I looked at her and she said something I couldn’t understand in French, her brows furrowed in concern. I shook my head,”Je ne parle pas francais. Desole.” She furrowed her brow even deeper and clasped her hands to her chest, right above her heart, in the same place where doctors had found a softball sized cancerous mass in my chest a year and a half earlier. Then she put her hands together as if praying, not taking her eyes off mine. I looked down at my chest, wondering if my pink scar was showing, but it wasn’t. “Merci,” I said, looking away so she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

Finally, I made it to the bathhouse. Smiling women wearing Berets ushered us inside in groups of three or four. They helped us undress and wrapped us in white sheets. And before I knew what was happening, I was standing before a long curtain. It opened, and two women helped me down the steps toward a long tub filled with water. Before helping me get in, they paused and gestured towards the statue of Mary at the end of the tub, and I knew that this was it – the time to ask for Mary to intercede on my behalf to God for the healing I so desperately needed in my heart. But before I could form the words in my mind, a familiar sharp pain in my chest stopped me. I no longer worry about the sensation, as biopsies have confirmed it is merely scar tissue healing – not cancer growing. Yet, the sharpness of the pain is still shocking, and was enough to interrupt my thoughts even then.

Even so, as I entered the tub and sat down, immersing myself completely in the freezing water, I didn’t feel frustration. And instead of begging God to heal my heart as I had planned, I merely lay down, my skin tingling as if burned by the cool water. In that moment, I realized that just like the painful healing of my tumor, the healing of my heart might always be painful. In fact, it might be similarly incomplete on this earth, and in this lifetime. But is that necessarily bad? For, what would life look like if the raw, exposed parts of my heart never closed but remained wide open? Though I might never return to the innocent days of my youth, could it be an opportunity to be something more? Could a heart broken wide open spur me to love more deeply, live more freely, and above all, act more compassionately? And instead of allowing my pain to make me resentful and angry, could I use it to become more compassionate and kind?

As I exited the bath house and made my way back towards the Grotto, I looked to my right just as the person walking next to me looked to her left. It was the same woman who’d sat next to me in line. Without thinking, I hugged her. Neither of us moved for a minute or two, then reluctantly pulled away, smiling at one another, no words needed to convey the connection we’d formed that afternoon.

A few days later, Mike and I returned home. Despite the joy at being reunited with our son, life was immediately overwhelming. The very things that seemed so clear in Lourdes threatened to disappear in the smoky haze of our everyday life. And yet, just as my cheeks felt warm and raw for days after skiing in the Colorado winter, I can still feel the burn of the cold water of Lourdes on my skin. I pray it never fades, but rather, continuously reminds me that the road towards true happiness must be walked with a heart willing to be broken again and again.  For how else can we truly empathize with those in pain around us?  How else can we live as Christ, with hands reaching outward in compassion to hold those in need tightly to our chest?

By the time winter snaked cold wind through the tall buildings of the city, we were both lost.

And so, we sat together in the living room of our tiny apartment and huddled close on the futon, drinking wine in an attempt to melt the ice that threatened to settle permanently on our hearts. I so badly wanted the right words to form on my tongue – words that would heal both my sister and me, and that would remind us of the goodness still out there in the world. Those words never came. But one night, some instinct moved me to turn off the lights, turn on a good song, and turn my head towards the window. My sister followed suit, and soon we sat side by side, watching snow gently fall through barren branches of the tree outside our window, set aglow by the nearby street light. These words echoed in our ears:

So, let go, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It’s all right
‘Cause there’s beauty in the breakdown
So, let go, let go
Just get in
Oh, it’s so amazing here
It’s all right
’cause there’s beauty in the breakdown

That night, as we sat wordless, we realized we were not hopeless and something stirred within both our hearts. Healing didn’t come quickly; there were tears, broken hearts, harsh words, and dashed dreams. But eventually, there came laughter, along with bigger hearts, sweeter words, and new dreams.

And all week I’ve had the opportunity to see firsthand how all things are made new, through the beauty of my sister – her happiness at finding a generous and kind person to share her life with, and her fulfillment at birthing a boy whose sweetness and love fill her heart.

Today, I am savoring our time together, taking it slow in order to just be with this amazing sister of mine, reflecting on where we’ve been and marveling at where we are. I am rejoicing at how our hearts have grown, and realizing that it is the breaking and tearing of them that has caused them to grow bigger and stronger than we could have ever imagined on that cold winter night.

****

Rebecca and her sweetheart:

Charlie, with his father’s beautiful eyes:

Cousins:

****

How might you savor the moment today so that you too might feel the joy of being made new?

Happy weekend, everyone.

And cheers!

I set up the baby monitor on the patio, and with the sound of my sweet boy’s steady breathing in the background, I sat in a rocking chair and drank a glass of wine.

I subdued my desire to either check email on my phone, call a friend, get up and clean the house, or run to the front door to see what the mailman had brought. I merely sat and sipped.

And in the stillness, I could feel myself becoming more relaxed and more content. Sitting there, a smile on my face, squinting at the bright sun, I could almost pretend I was back in Colorado – before the sorrow of moving, before the loneliness of unexplained pain, and before the trauma of cancer.

But then, I suddenly realized that my heart no longer yearns to return to that time, to the life I had two years ago. It’s not where I’m supposed to be, and that girl isn’t who I am anymore. I am stronger. I am wiser. I am more grateful. I am more faithful. I am a mother.

My smile grew wider and I laughed out loud because suddenly, I felt it: the slow melting of the frost that has accumulated on my heart. And I just know, even greater joy is coming.

***

How might you savor the moment today so that you too might feel the joy of merely being alive?

Happy weekend, everyone.

And cheers!

Almost overnight, the flowers I’ve been waiting for have bloomed in our yard. There are yellow ones, purple ones, and magnificent ones with orange and ruby swirls that resemble the setting sun. Together, they bring glorious color to our yard. Though I appreciated his work and found all the gardening my dad initially did impressive, I don’t think I really understood how fruitful the seeds he planted would eventually be.

One year ago, this very week, I lay on the couch in our living room. A comedy was blasting from the TV, but I didn’t have enough energy to watch. As it grew later, I began to feel as if I were drifting away from my own body and floating above myself. I was hot – so very hot – and tired. I could barely keep my eyes open though I’d been sleeping all day, and finally, when my temperature reached a dangerous high and I began to sweat through my pajamas, despite the air-conditioning being on full blast, we knew it was time.

I’d avoided infections and hospital stays throughout my previous three rounds of chemo, which was not only helpful in keeping my spirits relatively high, but also fairly amazing, considering many people only receive DA-R-EPOCH while being closely monitored in the oncology wing of a hospital. But I couldn’t avoid the hospital anymore. And though I hated to leave John Paul, even just for a few days, the pain from my mouth sores and wrecked digestive system was so intense, and my energy so low, that I welcomed the blood transfusions and intravenous hydration and pain medication only the hospital could offer.

And so off to a cloistered, germ-free wing of the emergency room we went. I’ll never forget Mike telling me how he watched my face turn from white to pink as someone else’s blood entered my body. And I’ll never forget how grateful I felt in that moment, for that precious gift.

Two days later, my fever was gone, they’d pinpointed the type of infection wrecking havoc on my body, and I’d begun treatment to get better before my next round of chemo. Finally, I was allowed to see people without their smiles being covered by face masks. My parents and Mike’s parents came to visit us at the hospital, and with them, came little John Paul. How grateful I was to finally hold him again, even in that hospital waiting room, even under the circumstances. How sweet he smelled, and how content I felt.

Still, just below the surface of my happiness lied fears I couldn’t erase: what if they hadn’t gotten my fever to settle or my infection under control? What if I had never had the chance to hold my baby again? What if after all of the pain and suffering I’d endured during chemotherapy this terrible disease still got the best of me?

But here I am, the same person with the same sweet baby, in a different summer, on a different day. I’ve made it to the other side of suffering, and though I know there is surely more hardship to come in my life, I also know that God is good and faithful. I have learned firsthand that pain always ends, and no matter how bad or hopeless things seem, relief and peace is always somewhere in our future. No matter our circumstances, we’ll all eventually feel joy, heavenly joy – joy even greater than I feel sitting in my yard with John Paul as the sun warms my face and the breeze of the wind blows at our backs. Is it easier to say this now, here, healthy and growing stronger every day? Yes. But saying it – affirming it, even – in precious moments like these is what helps us say it in the times when heaven seems that much further away, when the seeds we’ve planted and sown seem like they might never come to fruition.

My garden isn’t perfect. But its growth and perseverance through extreme heat and a long winter amazes me. My faith isn’t perfect. But it’s growth and perseverance through extreme pain and suffering amazes me. The credit and thanksgiving all goes to God. And I can feel it, sense it, see it, how my faith, like my garden, is slowly becoming something strong and beautiful.

In my garden, there are dead flowers. Though they are shriveled and small, and in no way dominate the space with their presence, they are still there. It will take time, and much pruning, for them to be completely erased. Even then, their fragrance will linger on, reminding me of where I’ve been, what I’ve survived, and where I’m heading.

In my garden, there are new flowers. After lying dormant for over a year, they have finally begun to burst forth with vibrant color, bringing hopefulness and optimism.

In my garden, there are buds. These buds need more nurturing before they too can burst forth with life. And just as surely, in my garden, there are seeds of flowers to come. They lie small and still beneath the mulch and dirt, as our hopes and dreams, anxieties and fears lie deep in our hearts. But I believe that someday, with love and nurturing and God’s grace, they too will grow and bloom into something worth seeing, something beautiful.

***

John Paul and I enjoying the garden and sunshine today.

The point is, people with cancer are everywhere. And sometimes, only they who are walking the same rocky path as you can completely understand all you’re feeling, and all you’re facing.

Since I’ve only ever met one woman who has fought the same type of cancer as me, I am especially grateful for the Facebook group I belong to, a group made up entirely of PMBCL fighters (that’s primary mediastinal diffuse large b-cell non-hodgkin’s lymphoma to you!) It’s been such an incredible source of support and comfort to me. The one hundred and some members have listened patiently to my worries during my roller coaster journey with cancer (remission-maybe not!-biopsy clear-maybe not!, etc., etc.) They have sympathized with me when I complained about how insecure I felt after gaining new scars, losing my hair, and becoming puffy from prednisone. They have suggested remedies for my chemo-induced side effects. They have celebrated with me when I finally received news of my remission this month. And they have inspired me with their own stories of survival and perseverance. I am so thankful for them.

Yesterday, a member named Steve told us that he was checking into the hospital to begin the 21 day process of annihilating his current immune system with intense chemo, and then infusing his body with new, cancer-free stem cells (after already enduring many rounds of chemo and radiation.) In a sense, he is being re-born, and he is doing all he can to kick cancer’s butt once and for all. He asked that in his honor, we spend these next 21 days living life more fully than ever before, that is, with more love, more happiness, and more adventure.

In that spirit, John Paul and I have set aside the laundry (stop complaining and just wear your swim trunks under your suit, Mike!) and cleaning that desperately needs to be done.

(This picture is actually from a few weeks ago-hence my baby’s burn-free face, but the current state of our house is shockingly worse.)

We’ve left the dishes in the sink, set aside the mail that needs to be sorted, and crumpled up to-do lists (the crumpling was JP’s idea.) And instead, we’ve set off on adventures, spread love by spending more time with friends-both in person and on the phone, and done our best to whole-heartedly embrace happiness.

One way we’ve done this is by starting a tradition of eating breakfast by the bay, giving ourselves time to enjoy the boats, watch the early morning walkers, feed the ducks, and just be with one another. It has been lovely. And you better believe we’re going to keep looking for more and more opportunities for love, happiness, adventure, every day, everywhere we go.

And so, as we begin the weekend, I’d like to offer my friend Steve’s challenge to you: what are you going to do to bring more love, happiness, and adventure into your life?

The path is wide open.

Friends, I do not know everything Steve is going through. In truth, we’ve only ever met through Facebook, and I know little about his life. I’ve never had to face a stem-cell transplant, or say goodbye to my son for 21 days. But I do know what it’s like to have my spirit momentarily crushed by a cancer diagnosis. I do know what it’s like to wake up to the sounds of beeping machines in a hospital room in the middle of the night, longing for someone to talk to. I do know what it’s like to be tired and to struggle to find the strength to keep fighting. And wonderfully, thankfully, blessedly, I also know what it’s like to receive message after message of love and support. I know how important these words are, whether they come from friends, family members, or strangers. I know how often these messages carried me through my darkest days. And so, I would love to be able to send Steve this post, complete with messages of support and love, as he begins his 21 day journey.

Please leave a message for Steve below in the comment section. Let him know that you’re supporting him from afar, and tell him what you’ll be doing in his honor for the next 21 days to bring more love, happiness, and adventure into your life.