The good, the bad, and the unseen

I don’t have cabin fever, yet.

That’s a good thing, for somebody who craves activity. I’m only alone in a physical sense. Maybe it has something to do with prayer. And angels, but I’ll get to that, later.

I stayed home most of January to avoid the flu, and wore a mask when out. I even skipped COURAGE & Cancer, and missed seeing everyone there. The good thing is, I’m part of a team and others did a great job.

I’m on a new oral chemotherapy. The good thing is, my white cell count is back to normal, so my system should be better at fending off germs.

The bad thing is, this medicine drops my red cell count, so I have less energy. I notice it most at night, when irritation sets in (I’m sure Jim does, too).

Another bad thing is hand-and-foot syndrome, caused by the chemo. It’s like having sunburn on my soles and palms, made worse by friction. Weird, right? Some days, but not all, it’s like walking in sizzling sand.

The good thing is, I take chemo pills daily, every other week. That gives me time to recuperate. But, does it give cancer time to rejuvenate? Then I think, that’s fear talking.

A wise friend says the world won’t crumble, but we might, if we don’t take time for a respite. The good thing is, I’m content being home this winter, writing in solitude.

The bad thing is, my husband went to New York City for a total shoulder replacement, which went exceptionally well, except I couldn’t accompany him. Our brother-in-law did, which was a wonderful thing.

One morning, I awoke to a line from “The Lord of the Dance” running through my mind: “It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.”

After fixing tea, I reached for my daily prayer book. It fell open to the wrong date, where I saw this, highlighted in yellow on the page before me:

“It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.”

Hmm.

A friend said she stood at her kitchen sink that same morning and felt an urge to tell the devil, be gone. Then another gal and I took a country ride and she mentioned Satan seems busier than ever. As if I needed poked, someone who dropped by said we need help recognizing the enemy’s craftiness.

Believe me, these aren’t everyday conversations. I felt heaven cautioning me: “Be attentive.” And I am. I don’t expect a devil behind every tree, but am more on guard these days to things beyond my sight.

By now, some folks have left this blog for some more sensible activity, like almost anything. (I probably would too!) But the truth is, we’ve all felt the aftermath of evil. Like the aftershocks of an earthquake, the tremors we feel tell us something is off kilter.

The good thing is, forces for good are deligent behind the scenes, too.

In his book “Angels, God’s Secret Agents,” Billy Graham wrote, “Think of it! Whether we see them or not, God has created a vast host of angels to help accomplish his work in the world… we can have confidence his angels watch over us and assist us, because we belong to him.”

If we buy into that (and I do), it means angels battle on our behalf. Years ago, a friend and I created and taught a class on angels. It convinced me they’re on our side, standing against the darkness.

Ephesians 6 is well worth a read. It says in part, “. . . be strong in the Lord and his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so you can stand against the schemes of the devil . . . keep this in mind, stay alert, and keep praying for the Lord’s people.”

We have a role in this drama. Prayer is part of our spiritual armor. So are the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, sturdy shoes of peace, a belt of truth buckled in place, the shield of faith—however battered—and the sharp sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

Either you believe opposing forces are in spiritual conflict, or you don’t. I’m not expecting to change your mind. Someone, though, needs this message, someone attempting to open a window of hope.

I have hope because I believe good ultimately wins. That was sealed when Jesus said, “It is finished.” The cross was the worst thing in history, but those three words cry victory over evil.

These are great mysteries. We don’t have to understand it all for God’s peace to reign in our lives. . . and that’s a very good thing.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

Our heart of hearts knows there is something more

This isn’t the column I began with. I wanted to tell a love story. Our kids took my honey and me on a trip down memory lane on our fiftieth anniversary. We toured our early IUP haunts, viewed a memory book, listened to sixties music, enjoyed a festive family dinner, thanked God for family.

Our children surprised us that morning at a coffee shop. I was sipping a mug of peppermint latte, embossed with the words “WRITE YOUR OWN STORY,” when they waltzed in and announced our chariot was waiting.

As I started to write about it just now I paused to ask, “Who am I writing this for?”

That’s pretty important, right?

Suddenly, I knew that column idea would never see the light of day.

Writing is my passion. I’d write for a single reader, or no one at all. For pay or for free. Writing is in my DNA, as surely as I’m designed to be a tall, white, near-sighted female. A day never passes without my jotting a sudden inspiration on an envelope or scrap of paper. If you’re a writer, you understand. If want to be one, start saving envelopes. You’ll need them.

Someone on Facebook kindly said I was born to inspire. Maybe. I think we’re all born for something beyond ourselves. To connect to the Trinity, to people, and the world. Life is too short to worry if there’s a preposition at the end of my sentences. We have this one, solitary moment that passes in the blink of a cat’s eye. When I reach the end of mine, I want to know I did more than dust furniture and pull weeds (neither of which I do well, or often).

My daughter in Philly said she and her husband went for a three-hour bike ride, recently. Jim and I walked our furry dog that January night and I laughed, “Imagine us ever doing that!”

“Well, we raised three kids and that was like a three-hour bike ride, every day . . .”

What I’m formed to be differs from my children, husband, siblings, friends. And our activity, the stuff we do, may not be as as important as our attitude, our being. God cares as much about our mindset as how we spend our nine-to-five.

Remember drawings in schoolbooks of multiple levels of the earth’s crust? They reminded me of a cake from the best bakery, concocted with cherries, walnuts, and chocolate cream, layer upon luscious layer. Life is more like a layer cake than a one-dimensional apple pie.

There’s this earthy world in which we move about as mortals, with a beginning and an end. It takes most all our effort to get through a day, crowded with activities, assignments, anxieties. We know in our heart of hearts there is more to the universe than this walking-around existence that consumes all our energy and oxygen. For me, it makes living with the uncertainties of cancer an easier horse pill to swallow.

Look in the eyes of the next person you encounter and know you’re looking at a creature without permanent tethers to this physical landscape. We each began in the heart of God and go about our days in search of how to return.

This is why I say God may be more interested in our attitude than our daily footsteps, important as they are. God knows we’re both flesh and spirit. Finite, fragile mortals created for immortality. Jesus entered history so we could spend eternity around the table with the Sacred Three.

One of the advantages of being a writer is I can express on paper what until then is floating around like vague blobs of consciousness, without form or substance. That’s why I couldn’t present you with an itinerary of our anniversary celebration and feel it was worth your time. It lacked substance for you, my reader.

I write for my spirit to acknowledge yours, to affirm your personhood and your infinite value as my companion during these few orbits around the sun. Another dear friend passed through the veil last week, making eternity one step closer for those who loved him.

This is why I write. To walk the journey with you. To encourage your passion.

Maybe this is a love story, after all—ultimately, I’m writing a love letter to God.

P.S. If you’d like to know what we did on our anniversary, I’ll gladly tell you over a cuppa tea.

All will be well.

Thresholds and Epiphanies

January 6, 2018 Maybe it’s because the wind chill is minus 14 degrees that a summer afternoon floats to mind. Relatives from California were in town and I took them to our empty church sanctuary, a special place to me. I hesitated, however, at the threshold; something was missing.

To me, our sanctuary it’s beyond beautiful with its towering white columns and rows of long pastel windows. The next time I went it was Sunday morning and I had an epiphany. Colonial architecture isn’t what makes the church striking. It’s the people. Filled with people who are filled with God’s Spirit, it vibrates with life.

These thoughts from 1983 remain vivid because it was my brother’s family visiting. Over the years we’ve rarely been together, but on the last Sunday of 2017 I sat in our church with my Roman Catholic brother, George, beside me. He had flown East for the holidays, his first Christmas as a widower.

I was rather astonished that he was well enough to be there after suffering a heart attack on Christmas Eve at my nephew’s home in Pittsburgh. Friendly greetings and lively worship warmed and strengthened us. He felt it, and so did I. I felt the same way the night before, attending Mass with him at St. Thomas More University Parish. The Spirit prevailed at both services, like a magnet, pulling us into community.

Churches are far from perfect or even serene places. Church-goers mess up, like everybody else, sometimes more. Through God’s grace, we also offer and find forgiveness, healing and new beginnings.

January, named for the Roman god Janus, is a natural time to start something new. Janus’ two stone faces look backward and forward, over gates and doorways, transitions and seasons, passages and endings.

Jesus was more than an idol carved in rock. He entered time and space in human flesh and declared He was the Alpha and Omega, First and Last, Beginning and the End. The handiwork of this Creator God was on display outside our windows as 2018 arrived—for miles around, trees that morning were coated in icy diamonds. It brought a smile to my brother’s face, a Californian since his 20s. At our kitchen table, spread wide with extra planks for the holidays, we shared memories from winters past.

I remembered George taking care of my twin and me one New Year’s Eve. We folded sailor hats—pirate style—from newspapers, banged pans, and paraded through doorways inside our red brick home, crossing the threshold into another year. We were all kids then, unaware he would soon enter the Navy and never live with us again.

George recalled New Year’s Eve, 1959. “Dad sat in that wing back chair of his with his feet on an ottoman and said at midnight, ‘Well that’s it for the ’50s.’ The ’60s were supposed to be a golden time, but it didn’t work out that way.”

Isn’t that the truth! Vietnam, assassinations and social tumult stormed through the decade. Crises continue sixty years later—this is a restless, dangerous world. As of a few days ago, the local unit of the National Guard is again traveling to some Mid-Eastern desert. Do we throw our hands up in frustration, or find a better response?

And how exactly do we do that?

The answer came for me on a purple magnet that randomly fell off the refrigerator when I brushed by: “Every day, find a way to practice the presence of God.” This epiphany, paraphrasing Brother Lawrence (1605-1691), provides a starting place, a threshold to approach everything else.

When I first wrote this piece, I thought cancer was behind me, its door closed and bolted. Now, more than ever, I need to be attentive to God’s gentle servant, Brother Lawrence. A kitchen worker, he found peace in the midst of the clamor of his monastery’s pots and pans, proving you can meet God anywhere.

Among the many ways to draw near to the Holy One is a slender key that opens an innermost chamber to fresh epiphanies. Henri Nouwen describes it as solitary communion: “Solitude begins with a time and a place for God, and Him alone. If we really believe not only that God exists, but that He is actively present in our lives—healing, teaching and guiding—we need to set aside a time and space to give Him our undivided attention.” (Making all Things New and other Classics)

Jesus says in Matthew 6:6 (NIV): “But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

(This week I’ve updated an entry from two years ago. It seems appropriate, with the week we just experienced.)

textingthrucancer@gmail.com

Images of Jim and me by Brett Woodard

Info on Janus from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janus

‘The Gate of the Year’

Some years back our local university constructed impressive arched gates by approaches to campus, concrete statements that this institution intends to be here, far into the future. In the medieval world and earlier, gates and walls were more than symbols, they kept villagers and estates safe. Watchmen posted on walls were on the lookout for enemies; only those who came in goodwill could enter. It makes me ask, what am I permitting entrance to my mind and heart as another year begins?

What do I wall within, and without?

I came across a poem Minnie Louise Haskins wrote in 1908 she titled, “God Knows.” It’s best known as “The Gate of the Year.”

The late Queen Mother of England admired this piece. As a young teen she handed it to her father, King George IV, to quote during his 1939 Christmas radio address, with young Brits headed to war. The style is antiquated, but as I read it through several times my understanding grew. If you have the patience in these inpatient times, you might do that, too:

“The Gate of the Year (abbreviated):”

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:

“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”

And he replied:

“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.

That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.

And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

So heart be still:
What need our little life,
Our human life to know,
If God hath comprehension?
…God knows. His will
Is best. The stretch of years
Which wind ahead, so dim
To our imperfect vision,
Are clear to God. Our fears
Are premature; In Him,
All time hath full provision. . .

(Source: “The Desert,” published in 1912.)

I halted briefly, at the word dim: “The stretch of years which wind ahead, so dim to our imperfect vision . . .”

Our dim, imperfect vision. Think of the horrors that followed the writing of this poem. World wars, Stalin, Hitler, Korea, Rwanda, Cambodia, Syria . . . And of the advances—vaccines, clean water, antibiotics, women’s suffrage, the Civil Rights movement . . .

I remember my Grandma Watrous’s comment, late in life. Born in 1886, she lost two sets of twins before birth, once after a fall. A school teacher, probably in a rural, one room school, she helped manage the family hardware store, saw two sons serve overseas during World War II, and outlived her beloved husband by over a dozen years.

It wasn’t always an easy life but she was pragmatic, like many who lived through the Great Depression. I still see the sparkle in her eyes when she said: “I lived from horse and buggies to men landing on the moon. From gas lamps to electricity. I’ve had a wonderful life!”

What is dim to our imperfect vision, the poet wrote, is clear to God.

That’s not nearly enough for most of us, but do we really want to see into the years ahead? Would it bring us more peace or increase our contentment in this moment?

Knowing fear can destroy us, Jesus said live fully today and don’t get bogged down by tomorrow. He spoke of lilies and sparrows. Common simple things, pulsating with the mystery of life, “Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds. Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? So if you cannot do such a small thing, why do you worry about the rest? Consider how the lilies grow: They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory was adorned like one of these.” (Luke 12:24-27 Berean Study Bible).

Last January, my friend Dorothy posted: “The new year has started and I hear a still small voice say, ‘but you know who holds your hand.’ I grew up in a home hearing my Mother sing this song. And that still small voice said, ‘hold tight to this song, don’t be afraid, I am here with you, holding your hand.’”

Amen. I’m hoping good news rides through the gates of 2020, but if invaders manage to scale the walls, they won’t have the final say.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

textingthrucancer@gmail.com

(“The Gate of the Year,” Public Domain)

More steadfast than the stars

I discovered in New Zealand they have different constellations in the night sky. Sailors must have figured that out – stars were their signposts over vast oceans, dependable as a compass.

My living room is still dark at this early hour here in western Pennsylvania, except for the glow of the Christmas tree, until a thin pink line slips over the hills, to the east.

When I flew into Amman, Jordan, 20 years ago, there was a figure of a tiny plane on a corner of the large screen that planes provided at that time for passengers to view movies. I asked the steward what that image was about; he told me it always pointed East, so Muslim passengers would know in what direction they should pray.

The thought of faithful people praying five times a day has stayed with me. My inner compass goes wonky, sometimes; it isn’t as trustworthy as that prayer guide on the plane, or as the stars above –I need God’s Word to keep me on the right road.

Your Word is a Lamp to guide my feet and a light for my path. (Psalm 119:105 NLT)

Cindi Kordell gave me a gift she calls Sacred Script. It contains 31 verses in calligraphy to meditate upon, a spiritual flip calendar. She presented it to me last fall as we sat beside my now frozen water garden, sipping iced tea. Cindi chose each verse especially for me. She didn’t know her gift would be like a compass, keeping me facing in the right direction.

Love one another with genuine affection, and take delight in honoring each other. (Romans12:10 NLT)

I was surprised to learn some church sanctuaries are designed to face east, like that little image of a plane on Jordanian Airlines. Then I heard that among Jewish people there was a saying that when the Deliverer comes, he would arrive from the East. In response, a medieval conqueror of Jerusalem sealed the East Gate into the city and planted a cemetery in front of it.

Pretty silly, as if the work of men can thwart the plans of God. Yet most of the time my own ideas of God are way too small.

I need a really big God right now.

Put your hope in God, be strong. Let your heart be bold, put your hope in God. (Psalm 27:14)

This sounds like a God I can trust, One who at the beginning of time threw His hands in the air and let the constellations fall in place, like diamonds in the sky. He named Himself with a verb – the Great I AM.

I AM that I AM.

This present tense God has proven faithful to Jim and me every moment of our 18,251 days of marriage, partners and friends on life’s sojourn. On December 27, we celebrated 50 years together.

For He will put His angels in charge of you, in all you ways. (Psalm 91:11)

Our love is stronger and more abiding for the laughter, tears, and trials we’ve shared.

I think of the pine floor in our daughter Julie’s Philadelphia row home, where a century of footsteps has indented a step. Over in Italy’s Roman Basilica, the toes on the bronze right foot of St. Peter are worn down by the kisses of a hundred million pilgrims. I’m feeling a bit worn down myself as this year ends, but also treasured. The memory of eighteen-thousand kisses are mine.

Do not be anxious about anything but in every situation by prayer & petition, with thanksgiving present your requests to God. (Philippians 4:6 NIV)

This coming year holds great challenges for Jim and me. Knowing we are not alone makes all the difference. The young campus minister at our church, Caleb Fuget, said he passed under the entrance way into Duke Divinity School every day while he studied there. Overhead are the last words of John Wesley, Methodism’s founder: “The best of all is, God is with us!”

I AM with you, always. (Matthew 28:20 KJV)

The sun now floods this blue-sky day. Morning has broken, as the old hymn says. Another day to love this guy who has stood by my side for 50 years. Steadfast. Even in the hardest times, I doubt a day has passed without some hint of Jim’s dry humor, telling me and the world we’re people of hope.

My New Year’s resolution is to treat each day as an unopened treasure, wrapped in the promises of God, more steadfast than all the stars of heaven.

May God . . . cause His face to shine on us. Psalm 67:1

And be our peace –my prayer for all of us as 2020 begins.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

textingthrucancer@gmail.com

Midnight Christians

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5 NIV)

Christmas is harder on some of us, than others. While friends and neighbors are immersed in gifts, parties, and carols, some can only go through the motions, weighed down with loss.

Christmas, without a loved one.

A broken relationship.

A hurt that casts doubt over the future.

It can feel like God is missing. That might be what the prophet Jeremiah felt when lamentations spilled out of his pen, like tears.

Tonight, on the winter solstice, the year’s longest, darkest night, something is happening across the country that sheds light on the shadow side of Christmas. You probably won’t see it featured on the Today Show or listed among the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” It won’t make headlines or send crowds flocking to Walmart.

Because of the darkness within and without, Longest Night services are held. Here in Indiana, one will begin at 7 pm tonight at Grace United Methodist Church. You are welcome to come, sit in the semi-darkness and know that, at least for this hour, you do not grieve alone.

The prayer is that in recognizing and acknowledging the pain people feel, we might be strengthened by God and the faith of others when our own fails us. When I feel that way, it helps to see the word holy in holiday.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.

We all bear scars of the world’s brokenness. I use brokenness to paint a portrait of our estrangement from God and one another, the poet who authored “O Holy Night” used sin and error.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

It was written for a Christmas Eve service in 1847, at a church in Roquemaure, France by Placide Cappeau. Composer Adolphe Charles Adam quickly put the unforgettable melody on paper.

Titled Cantique de Noël, the French call it Minuit, Chrétiens.

Midnight Christians.

I heard it for the first time as a sleepy child in the balcony of my home church, St. Paul’s Methodist in State College, performed in a darkened sanctuary on the violin as the clock ushered in Christmas Day. It’s sheer beauty was like a lullaby, cradling baby Jesus, and me.

Those who carry the Holy Spirit within are Midnight Christians, called to shine like candles in the dark. The deeper the darkness, the brighter the flame.

As believers, we take turns illuminating the path for each other, because no one’s light is strong all the time (least of all, mine). Our combined radiance is enough to comfort the whole world, if only we would stand in unison for God’s goodness to prevail. We do that best, at Christmas. On that holy night sanctuaries everywhere will be aglow as our voices proclaim the Lord has come:

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new glorious morn;
Fall on your knees,
O hear the angels’ voices!
O night divine!
O night, when Christ was born.

Living with advanced cancer, this season is different for my family and me. More precious. More tender. I’m starting on a new medicine and once again ask for prayers for me, and all cancer warriors. Whatever burdens you carry this Christmas, I pray a flicker of hope burns in your soul.

We may not always see them, but Midnight Christians stand with us, lifting our tomorrows to God.

Christmas arrives when light is dim and hope seems out of reach. It’s not by accident it comes this week, as the planets and sun move in their appointed rounds, promising more light will ever so gradually grace our days.

All will be well.

(Photo by Tara Woodard-Lehman of Eli, 5, @ St. John’s in the City Presbyterian Church, Wellington, NZ, 2016.)

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette. Contact jan at textingthrucancer@gmail.com

A baby’s first cry

I bought new bedroom curtains. White. Gauzy. Woven, with a texture that is more sustantial that sheers.

Jim asked me why. Why now? We’ve lived most of our lives without them.

I don’t know why I bought new curtains, anymore than he does. And then I cried. Because maybe I do.

Maybe I want our house in order.

For me. For us. For now. For later. To waken to softly filtered light. Light that’s traveled millions of miles to reach our eyes, light that woos us up and out of bed more gently than the snap of a shade on a roller gone rogue .

Muted light calls to my childhood, shimmering through white Priscilla curtains in my parents’ blue and white bedroom. Light, glistening on Mom’s cut glass dresser tray that now rests atop my own unkempt chest of drawers, so unlike Mother’s tidy one.

Light calls to a wee bit of a girl, a jumble of legs and arms, quiet and still on Mother’s lap. Safe. No questions. No answers. Just safe. Held in love. Now I wonder how weary she became carrying two of us inside her womb, with two tykes hiding behind her skirt.

Maybe the child within wants to hide in the curtains’ folds, waiting for light’s return. Watching it travel from pane to pane, from wall to wall. Illuminating cobwebs in forgotten corners of my room and heart.

Each day a new beginning.

Each evening another ending, a pause for rest as curtains close.

The season of darkness is the best time to celebrate the coming of light. I push the rod through each panel’s pocket as a sacred act. If my lowered immune system confines me to home this winter, at least I’ll view the season through new curtains.

Why curtains, when there’s gift shopping to do? What do they have to do with getting ready for Christmas? Nothing. Everything.

Our children are coming. A family Christmas. Celebrating a birth. A baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Not white, nor soft nor gauzy, yet safe in Mary’s arms.

A swaddled baby, born to hold the child within us all.

The night before our son was born, I strolled the sidewalks with his Nana under a moon as round as my belly, in awe of moonlight on August gladiolas.

The night before our first daughter arrived–at dawn on the summer solstice–a burst of energy kept me up sewing pillows, then covering an old wooden footstool, made by Great-Grandfather Woodard.

The night before my final delivery, I lay between our son and daughter in the same spot where Jim and I now sleep. Their smooth young hands felt their baby sister doing handstands, safe within my womb. The fragrance of lilacs in the air, I soon was pinning cotton diapers on the line. White, woven, soft, and gauzy.

Angels still watch in wonder at the miracle of birth, each little one so close to heaven, its holy glow reflected in their eyes.

It’s the hush–not the rush–of Christmas that we yearn for.

We ache for the hush of Christ’s coming, as He came to a manger in sleepy Bethlehem, not the crush of discovering there is no room at the inn for strangers.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

Angels guard me thru the night.

Between two windows, robed in white.

And so we wait. For family. For Emmanuel, God with us. For Light to guide our way down the unknown corridors of another year, new as a baby’s first cry.

“And this will a be sign for you, you’ll find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes…” – the Angel of the Lord. (NKJV)

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

(Elias & Josiah’s pensive photo by their mama, Tara)

Flurries predicted, within and without

The air is pale with snow, falling steadily, outlining the world in white, like a Grandma Moses painting.

The weather reporter says zero visibility. I’d like to remain in this recliner, contemplating winter’s beauty, but it’s December. The days buzz with busyness, even as I trim traditions passed along by earlier generations.

Cards? Not many.

Cookies? Nada.

Celebrations? A few. I attended Advent and Candlelight at Calvary Presbyterian Church, a perfect evening of music, light, and friendship. (This congregation’s wheelchair ministry puts their faith to work helping people like me, when I needed one last spring.)

Crafty gifts? I feel a touch of melancholy, remembering Christmas past and making most of our gifts. My hands are stiffer, these days. With added years, priorities shift.

There’s no doubt how I’ll spend most of my waking hours for the next seven weeks. On Sunday our pastor spoke of babies coming. Mary’s. Elizabeth’s. Our own, figuratively speaking. That’s when something quivered within me.

I counted on my fingers and saw my due date to have my manuscript, my baby, to the publisher arrives in 50 days. Yikes. So much to do between now and then. Advent. Anniversary. Appointments. Bone and body scans.

Each event impacts all the others, like billiard balls on a pool table. I’m already having Braxton Hicks contractions. Unlike when I carried our three children, I’ve been laboring over this baby for more than two years.

Let’s hope it’s an easy delivery. That the baby arrives safely in my publishers arms. After it gets to Nashville, there will be over a year of working with staff, nursing it to its final format.

My editor says my book will encourage people going through stuff. That’s my goal. I’m really not writing about cancer; I’m describing micro-victories that say, Yes! God can use everything, even this.

Please pray I remain strong over the 15 months between now and publication. Everyone touched by cancer knows it is unpredictable. I hate for anyone to hear a mundane, methodical, terrifying phrase medical professionals sometimes use: “The natural progression of the disease. . .”

No. No. Nada. No. No one wants to hear their test results indicate disease is progressing. Yes, I’m believer and yes, I still try to bargain with God, even though I’m doing okay, right now: I’m willing to make concessions, Lord. To stay home, eat better, go to bed earlier, walk more steps, pray harder, drink bigger glasses of water, to think good thoughts . . . these are things I can do. Do they matter? It matters to me, that I’m doing everything I can to stay healthy as long as I can. People tell me I look good; I want that to be true, inside and out.

A friend texts to say I have a whole body of healthy cells where cancer “is not,” and a Lord who says in every circumstance, “Fear not.” This, from a nurse who knows the power of faith.

A breast cancer warrior told me that I’ll hear that terrifying phrase, the progression of disease, for the rest of my days. That took the edge off of my fear. If she can live beyond it’s power to pull her down, so can I.

I have more immediate things to think about, like putting out seed for cardinals brightening my porch this snowy morning, and working on my manuscript. (That word feels unreal, like I’m in a movie, living someone else’s story.) I’m picturing the day I cradle my book in my hands, and perhaps, place it in yours. I’d like to be like Grandma Moses, whose most productive span came after 70. There are more books inside me and I want to get them out before my eyes grow dim.

God places a creative spark in everyone, intending we share it. First, we have to figure out what it is and how to pass it along. When we do, we’re actually giving it back to our Creator, becoming part of the cycle of giving and receiving that are at the heart of gift-giving.

Ephesians 2:10 says we’re God’s masterpieces, his handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works that God has chosen as our personal assignments. Creativity is surely among our gifts or God would have no reason for musicians, artists, dancers, photographers or authors. (Jim made me add that last one to the list. . .)

I’ve heard folks say they don’t have a creative bone in them, but kind words are gifts everyone can give. Each word spoken to me signals I’m doing what I’m created to do, even when I mess up (and believe me, I have). It took cancer to figure out my purpose for these days.

I’ve shared my inner flurries over my future and over this book, this quivering of life within, because you’ve traveled this pilgrimage with me. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, do it without you.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

(Thanks for your comments here & on Facebook… I’m truly blessed!)

Quilt with a Message

Stitched around the edges of a glittering blue and white quilt is Isaiah 41:10 –Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (NIV)

On gray sky mornings I need this.

To keep me warm.

To keep my mind in the right place.

To remind me blue skies will return.

Quilting is a traditional fiber art. This one is a work of love spelled in stitches. The wonder is, the woman who made it for me was responding to the request of a friend. She didn’t even know who was getting it yet took her time, resources and creativity to create a bright pattern, as if she knew I would need it as we trudge through the darkest time of the year.

*****

My new friend Judy said the Spirit encouraged her to visit a woman with an infected limb who lived in a place hostile to faith. Judy told her God cares about her but hesitated to pray for healing –what if God failed to answer?

Yet pray she did, pushing aside her worries, in obedience to the Holy Spirit’s nudge.

Fear not.

The following day the woman called, excited. Her wound started healing the moment Judy prayed. God touched others parts of her life, too, because Judy gathered the courage to pray.

When she spoke, one of Judy’s comments lingered with me –the Spirit gives her strength to do her job, be a mom and wife, and overcome fatigue.

Fatigue. My constant companion.

I hug my homemade quilt. It tells me God is my strength.

What does this mean? Will God help me overcome fatigue, like He helps Judy?

Well, I won’t know if I don’t pray.

My oral chemotherapy, combined with other meds, contrive to keep me bone weary. Right now my lids are heavy, calling me to sleep. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon.

But listen to this: my meds are working synergistically with prayer, contemplation, exercise, diet, and other practices to stop the creation of new lesions and prevent the ones present from spreading.

This is a big deal. Perhaps we’ve tricked cancer, diminished its horrific appetite, depleted its vigor. I don’t have pain like some people with cancer because there’s no pressure on nerves from hungry cancer cells. No bones are cracking from ballooning tumors.

This is definitely worth feeling a little fatigue, a side effect of chemo drugs. Am I overly optimistic? Maybe, but smiling is in my DNA. It fits me better than moaning through life.

And there’s a reason Judy’s comment spoke directly into my heart.

I think God wants me to trust my fatigue to Him.

To release it to His hands.

To rename it – to think in terms of recharging my batteries, to plug into my Source. Remember the little engine that could? Instead of repeating “I think I can!” I’m repeating the verse that borders my quilt.

Fear not.

The angels sang it, and still do. Do I hear them?

I reach for my quilt to read the second phrase.

For I am with you.

I’m never, ever alone.

Be not dismayed. For I am your God.

God’s take our intimacy seriously. Do I?

I will strengthen you.

That’s what I need to keep my engine going, Lord.

I will help you.

God helped and healed a young woman in an oppressive nation who didn’t even know Him. He guided another to make a quilt for a stranger. Why would I doubt He’s helping me?

I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

God’s strong hand reaches down and helps me up, strengthening me to do what He calls me to do.

What a wonderful God we have.

I’m going to nap now, knowing God’s in charge.

Covering myself with my blue-and-white quilt, I shut my eyes . . .

And then another wily foe sneaks in, as often happens when I attempt to snooze, mid-afternoon.

Anxiety gnaws at my innards, spreading cold apprehension.

As if a pump is spraying acid throughout my abdomen.

My eyes are too heavy to open but I practice measured breathing, repeating my breath prayer:

God is… (Inhale, deliberately).

God is … (Exhale, slowly.)

My torso swells and relaxes, gentle as waves in Lewes Bay last summer, washing away the jitters’ power to disrupt my rest.

God is . . .

The phone rings. My eyes slide open. I slept an hour and a half.

A wasted afternoon? Or a pause to renew this grandma-on-the-go.

I already have more energy after a simple step –I’ve taken a multi-vitamin daily since beginning this blog a week ago. Heaven’s Health Plan includes practical things I can do, while trusting God’s angels –some with thread and needle –are working in our midst.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

(Angel photo, Princeton Cemetery 2015)

‘I am the Lord your Healer’

I am the Lord, that healeth thee. (Exodus 15:26 NASB)

A sparrow lands on the tube feeder hanging by the sliding glass door. With winter’s early arrival, we’re keeping an eye on our feathered visitors. It’s Thanksgiving, time to thank God for these small creatures and for all things that land in our lives.

The Gazette is on my thank-you list, for the space to tell my story, and I’m grateful to my friends and readers for lifting my spirits –it’s awesome connecting with you. We’re bound together as fragile humans, celebrating our victories and grieving our losses, however we vary in our views on life.

With that, here’s a faith alert: While the world hangs greens for Christmas, I’m zooming in on Jesus, my healer. Hope operates outside the boundaries of the natural world, giving me the humble boldness to rest in God as my ultimate source of healing and wholeness.

And hey, I totally get that this may raise eyebrows and questions. We doubt if prayer matters because we’ve prayed and not received the answers we wanted. But we don’t know how often prayer did change things. Locking doubt out in the cold, I’m concentrating on healing Scriptures as I prepare for the Christ Child.

F. F. Bosworth’s Christ the Healer is my Advent guide. Psalm 107:20 says God sent His Word to heal and rescue us from death’s door. Bosworth said our job is to plant seeds of faith by believing Scripture. God’s job is helping what we plant to grow. A farmer plants, the Creator transforms seeds into thriving plants and later the farmer harvests the crop. It’s a partnership based on the laws of nature.

By New Year’s, I hope we have blossoms of healing hope.

As I’ve sought a peace stronger than cancer, I came upon Proverbs 4:20-22, 25 (NASB), which offers nothing less than life itself:

Incline your ear to my sayings.

Do not let them depart from your sight;

Keep them in the midst of your heart.

For they are LIFE to those who find them,

And HEALTH to their whole body.

…Let your eyes look directly ahead,

And let your gaze be fixed, straight in front of you. (Emphasis mine.)

What is my gaze fixed upon? I once wrote a poem titled “Dove Eyes” for my Mom. It begins:

“My eyes are on Jesus,

the source of my faith,

the source of my life today.

Oh, hold them there Lord, by the power of your Love,

for the world would cause them to stray.

Just let me focus on all that you are,

and all that you’ve done for me . . . ”

I’ve heard doves focus their eyes straight ahead, undistracted by peripheral vision. I’ve seen their delicate eyes and iridescent feathers as they waddle along our railing. In the Song of Solomon the author tells his beloved she has eyes like a dove. I want to be like that, not distracted by anything peripheral in this season of miracles.

Proverbs 4 says it matters where I set my eyes; if I incline my ears to God’s Word; what I store in my heart.

My focus is this: I am the Lord who heals you. (Exodus 15:26 Berean Study Bible.) You can hear Don Moen sing his song based on this promise, “I am the God who Healeth thee” on YouTube.

God said this to people vomiting from drinking contaminated water. Those not bent over with cramps grumbled against the One who just parted the Red Sea so they could escape the Egyptians. God defines His character with His names. Here He is revealed as Yahweh (Jehovah) Rophe, the “Lord thy healer.”

Jehovah, the great I AM.

Rophe –Restorer, Healer.

Myredeemerlives.com says rophe also means physician. This physician makes house calls, day and night! The site says 700 New Testament verses tell us Jesus heals and restores.

Jehovah Rophe, my great Physician.

You heal me, cell by cell.

Day by day.

Pill by pill.

Verse by verse.

Prayer by prayer.

Physician by physician.

Researcher by researcher.

Medicine informs me there’s no forever cure for metastatic breast cancer.

But You O Lord, are my Healer.

My times are in Your hands.

Foolish? In the world’s eyes.

But our heavenly Father cares about all these things, and “His eye is on the sparrow.”

The hymn by that name was written in 1905 in Elmira, New York, my dad’s birthplace. Songwriter Civilla Martin and her husband became friends with the Doolittles, living there. Mr. Doolittle was wheelchair-bound but their radiant attitude defied his severe limitations. When asked about it Mrs. Doolittle explained, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.” (Wikipedia.)

I sing because I’m happy.

I sing because I’m free. . .

And I know He watches me.

All will be well.

YouTube: Don Moen, composer

Photos: Titmouse, Blue Spruce Park 2013; Dove, Philadelphia 2019; sparrow art at Louise Bem’s house

Texting Thru Recovery/ Indiana Gazette