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Dancing in the Kitchen

June 30, 2019July 2, 2019
by Jan Woodard

He’s out there in the backyard right now, putting a water garden in place. Lugging rocks and a hefty liner, with plants, fish, and a waterfall to come. This, with two total knee replacements, two shoulders with worn out cartilage, and a mind that applies principles of physics to moving barn foundation stones like an ancient Egyptian.

He’ll laugh at that but most everything Jim’s laid a hand on over our lifetime, he’s had me in mind – labor is his love language, it’s how he deals with my diagnosis. This garden with its flowing water is designed to quiet my soul on days I don’t want to go further than the back deck.

*Correcting earthquake damaged doorway, New Zealand*

Half a century ago I worked at a Young Life camp in Colorado. On my return to Pennsylvania, a friend dropped me off at the Woodards’ home on Ben Franklin Road where I knew my fiance was waiting for me.

It was a simmering July afternoon. I found Jim in the cool basement family room, his bare back to me. He turned at the sound of my steps, smiled, pressed on a background track and started singing a Vogues’ tune, “Turn around, look at me…”

My heart melted. I’d thought a lot about our engagement while I was gone. Am I ready for this kind of commitment? Do I know what I’m getting into? Am I sure he’s the right guy?

We danced that afternoon and were married in a blizzard, five months later.

I’m sharing this because Patti Klausing Simons posted a photo of her husband Bill as a teenager, crooning with locals who formed a band, J.R. and the Attractions. She included a link to their recording of “I’m Yours.” (JR-And-The-Attractions-Im-Yours-Bristol-Stomp)

Doo wop harmony brings back good times. Jim, now white-haired with laugh lines mapping his face, was at the kitchen sink when I walked in, “I’m Yours” playing in the background. Tapping his shoulder, I asked, “Wanna dance?”

We’re seniors, but haven’t retired from hard work, fun, or dancing in the kitchen. We have dreams, despite an uncertain future. . . and memories of some crazy exploits, like the following.

After our December wedding, I returned to Johnstown to complete student teaching. Two weeks later, while helping a friend board the train I was startled to hear its long whistle and feel an unmistakable chug-a-chug, rumbling down the tracks. The train left the station with me on it!

Remember Lucy on her comedy show yanking a train’s emergency brake? In a moment of rare clarity I knew that was not the thing to do, but raced down the aisle yelling, “Stop this darn train!” The conductor just grinned.

When we rolled into the first stop, I called Jim and explained I was double-parked at Johnstown’s snow-covered train station and was now in Altoona. His dad rode along with him to pick me up and said (grinning like the conductor, I’m sure), “Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Really, neither of us had any idea of what marriage and unfailing commitment meant but through grace, we’re still dance partners. We’ve had our rough times, but faith and forgiveness have sealed our bond.

I never thought of it before but the lyrics of “Turn Around, Look at Me,” could be God’s love song for us all: There is Someone walking behind you, watching your footsteps, Who’ll love and guide you … Turn around, look at Me.” (Bing.com turn+around+look+at+me)

We can’t know what’s beyond the next bend. I didn’t expect a ride around the world-famous Horseshoe Curve when I got up that snowy January morning 50 years ago, but Someone was watching my footsteps.

Always has been, even when I didn’t recognize it.

A verse I’ve often shared says, The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who gives your the victory. He will take great delight in you; He will quiet you with His Love and rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17 adapted)

Vinyl records wear out but God’s song is unending, even when we fall short or when things like cancer try to throw us off track.

Jim and I are celebrating that my cancer markers have dropped AGAIN, now 109 after starting at 332. While I still have lesions in my right lung and on some ribs and spine, overall my scans show a decrease in lesions, especially in my liver, praise God!

I’ll be with him on Friday, celebrating his birthday, my inspiration for this blog.

Jim has a set of paraphrased verses to pray for me. One says, With a joyful heart, let Jan clap her hands, sing and give thanks to You in every form of praise. May her delight in You cause her to shine like the sun, even in dark places, and her life be a dance that brings You honor and glory. (Psalm 147:1, Prayer Point Press, adapted)

I’m yours, Babe.

All will be well.

Mindlessness to Mindfulness

June 22, 2019June 22, 2019
by Jan Woodard

“The Christian life . . . is a continual discovery of Christ in new and unexpected places” – Thomas Merton (“Sign of Jonah”).

Life was on a sunny track until a few months ago, with cloudless skies and an unobstructed view of the future.

Or so I thought.

Now I’m attempting to live intentionally, a benefit of knowing I don’t have forever to dilly dally.

Sometimes, surprises come. The dog was barking like wild. There was a fellow I didn’t immediately recognize, standing on our porch at dusk, smiling. It was Doug; I taught his vacation Bible school class when he was 12, he’s now the grandfather of nine. When did we all grow older?

“I came to pray for Jan,” he said, adding he felt the Spirit nudge him three times that evening to stop by. Rather than shrug it off, he listened. It’s humbling to have someone tune into the Spirit on my behalf like that.

After small talk, Doug lifted me before our Father. We sat on the sofa and held hands as he prayed; our 70-pound golden doodle –my self-assigned protector-– put his furry paw in my other hand. I imagine the angels smiled at that.

I didn’t say it, but I tried to hear the Spirit as I pondered what to write about this week. All I heard was static.

Then, Tuesday afternoon, I came across something about mindfulness I wrote last June. It caught my attention; that very morning I received an unexpected invitation to attend a retreat focused on mindfulness.

Coincidence, or a holy nudge?

A description of the retreat says: “We often go through our days on ‘autopilot,’ rushing from one task to another without any awareness. In this presentation, we examine the research of Ellen Langer, Harvard psychology professor whose research since the 1970’s shows that mindful thought can lead to better brain and physical health.”

Definitely sounds like I need to be there.

In “Anti Cancer: A New Way of Life,” author David Servan-Schreiber says research shows living attentively changes how our brains work. Mindfulness combined with controlled breathing slows down hurried mental ramblings, contributing to better overall health.

Being mindful means living in the moment without dragging dusty baggage along. It helps me notice what’s happening around me without judging others or myself, detached from the need to form opinions about everything. That’s harder than it sounds! Will a retreat help me move from mindlessness to mindfulness? We’ll see.

What I gleaned from my initial practice of mindfulness a decade ago is that we all breathe the same air. We’re all created by the same God. There is a spark of His reflection in all of us, making everyone alive worthy of dignity and respect.

Romans 15:7 says, “Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.” If I treat people the way Jesus did, I can’t go wrong.

Twentieth century Franciscan monk Thomas Merton learned to value others one afternoon, standing on a busy city intersection. He wrote:

“I was suddenly overwhelmed with love for all those people, that they were mine and I was theirs, we could not be alien although total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is an illusion… Such a commonplace realization should seem like news that one holds the winning ticket in a cosmic sweepstakes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are.” (Condensed from “Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander.”)

Despite our brokenness, Merton said it’s our glorious destiny to be human and to know, “At the center of our being is a point untouched by sin and by illusions, a little point that is the pure glory of God in everybody. It is His name written in all of us. The gate of heaven is everywhere.” (Condensed.)

I worked for Marilyn Dilg when she directed CareNet, an Indiana County ministry to senior adults. Marilyn, who is now face to face with Jesus, saw Christ in everyone and loved people with an openness I envied. That’s how she treated me and everyone who walked through our door. She messaged me after I shared Merton’s comments:

Marilyn: “I have thought this way for many, many years.”

Me: “And you helped me think this way too, Marilyn.”

Marilyn: “Thank you for saying that!”

Philippians 2 says have the same mindset as Christ Jesus. That’s a powerful statement; Oh Lord, help me replace worn out attitudes with life-giving ones!

Jesus practiced mindfulness better than anyone. Periods of solitary silence with His Father equipped Him to totally center on the people He was with, offering acceptance and love to those who never felt worthy of anything but crumbs until they encountered His grace.

He offers the same to you and to me.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette 6.22.19

Walking on Water & the Fourth Watch

June 15, 2019June 15, 2019
by Jan Woodard

Water skiing is as close as I’ve come to walking on water. I was finally strong enough by age nine to be pulled out of the river on broad, white wooden skies. From that brief exhilarating ride, I was hooked.

Every August my parents rented a cottage at Raystown Dam on the Juniata, down a country back road in central Pennsylvania. Those were lazy days of swimming off a dock, reading books borrowed from our hometown library and boat rides that lulled me to sleep, wrapped in a beach towel.

Daddy taught us four kids to ski behind our first small wooden boat, all of ten feet long. We had role models – a couple times Florida’s Cyprus Gardens ski team performed on the river. I was in awe of their Rockette-style costumes, daring ramp jumps and human pyramids. Following their lead, my brother learned to ski barefoot.

Dad used to haul us twins the length of the navigational Juniata. One girl would ski up river several miles and the other would ski home, our legs wobbly toward the end. We never doubted if Daddy would circle back to pick us up if we fell.

For a kid whose athletic ability was zilch, water skiing boosted my confidence. I felt totally free on a single ski, crossing back and forth over the waves, my swimsuit drying in the rush of air.

I felt free and in control. In reality, water skiers are totally dependent upon the driver and boat pulling them to have a successful ride. The illusion of freedom is just that – an illusion.

In late 2017, I was recovering from chemo and radiation when we flew to New Zealand to visit our family. After I posted a pic of me edging across a swinging bridge near Rivendell, where “Lord of the Rings” was filmed, my friend Lea messaged: … the bridge is there, a little wobbly, swaying as we cross, testing and then affirming our courage, while the sun and trees delight in our journey and are always there with us. Keep crossing, hang on tight, and then let go when you realize you really are secure.

Jesus spoke steadiness like this into His followers after walking on the Sea of Galilee. They were terrified to see a figure coming toward them in the middle of a tempest until they recognized His voice saying: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid!”

He modeled how to walk without fear and how to love your friends, even if it means taking an extraordinary step in their direction. Impetuous Peter jumped overboard, attempting to reach Jesus; we know how that turned out! Jesus didn’t throw him a rope but stretched out His hand, which was even better. Once they were in the boat, the sea calmed. Ever notice when we relax into God’s presence how peace comes?

The Gospel of Matthew says Jesus walked on water during the fourth watch of the night. That’s three to six a.m., Roman military time. Hours earlier, the disciples set off on a spiritual high after Jesus fed the five-thousand. Their faith fizzled as the waves increased.

Three a.m. is the darkest hour. When things look their worst. When hope is dimmest and miracles seem unlikely.

I’m in unfamiliar waters, now. Living with stage four cancer feels a lot like being a soldier assigned to the fourth watch. I can’t see the far side of the lake and my boat is taking on water – not much, but I have to pay attention. Ancient travelers depended on stars as their compass; I turn my eyes upon Jesus and relief floods over me.

Strategic moments of spiritual triumph often come during the fourth watch. Jacob wrestled the Angel of the Lord, the Jordan parted before Moses, and Jesus walked out of a tomb on Resurrection Morning, robed in the Light of day.

I don’t control external circumstances. I can’t predict when the next storm will hit, but I’m wrapped in the strength of my Father’s love, like I was in a beach towel on childhood boat rides.

I’m thinking of my Dad, this Father’s Day weekend. He’s no longer here to circle round and throw me a rope, but hope is my lifeline. Why do I trust that the rope will hold when I’m in deep waters? Because the essence of God is love. When I’m holding onto God, I’m caught in the embrace of His great love.

I John 3:1 (NIV) says, “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called the children of God.”

Stronger than a three-cord ski rope, this love never fails.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

Learning to reside in the mundane

June 8, 2019June 9, 2019
by Jan Woodard

I love the Lord! He heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. He turned his ear to me, I’ll call on him as long as I live. (Psalm 116:1-2 NIV, adapted)

I wish everyone with cancer heard what my breast cancer specialist said at my last appointment. I asked if I’m a candidate for any experimental trial therapies and he replied, “You’re way too healthy for that!”

He said they have patients who’ve been on my daily chemo for as long as two years.

“And then what?” Jim asked, because we both overthink everything.

“We have lots of options!”

I left McGee’s Cancer Center feeling like I could breathe again.

Our God is full of compassion. The Lord protects the unwary; when I was brought low, he saved me. (116:5b-6)

There’s also good news about my white cell count, which fights germs. Although it has dropped into the hazardous zone, white cells called neutrophils are only mildly low. One doctor told me my “super white cells must be strong.” I didn’t ask what that means but told her prayer has a lot to do with my doing so well.

Return to your rest, my soul, for the Lord has been good to you. For you, Lord, have delivered me from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before you in the land of the living. (116:8-9 adapted)

L. R. Knost was abused as a girl, lost a son, battles cancer and authors Gentle Parenting books. She writes out of her own anguish and abiding peace: “Life is amazing…and then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again…and in between the amazing and the awful it is ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing…hold on through the awful…and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living. Heartbreaking…soul-healing…amazing…awful…ordinary life. And it’s breathtakingly beautiful!” (goodreads.com)

Amazing. Awful. Ordinary. Beautiful. To express what it means to find beauty in the mundane, consider the liturgical church calendar. Along with holy seasons, most of the year is comprised of Ordinary Time that holds a sense of the Divine simply because all time is a gift from God.

Mary Ann, a writing friend, posted: “Right after I retired, I was hit by sciatica in my left leg. It was only . . . when I first got up. By mid morning, I almost forgot about it and I could still go to the gym, take a long walk, garden. In the big scheme of medical problems, sciatica is not at the top of the list. Still, there was much pain in that first hour of the day. For reasons I’m not sure of, the problem disappeared about two weeks ago. And so yesterday I got up at 7 a.m., went downstairs, fed two hungry cats, made coffee, fried eggs, all without any pain. No big deal maybe but I say now that each day is a gift.”

I know what it’s like to wake up with pain. People with serious issues would give anything for ordinary days that are no big deal. Days when their souls find rest, as the psalmist says. Fatigue is one of my biggest challenges. Some days require extra energy but create memories worth the effort.

Last weekend we invited our grandboys for Nature Palooza at Blue Spruce Park. Josiah caught four blue gill, thanks to Grandpa’s assistance, and two more when we returned Sunday afternoon. Who knew cicada make good bait! Horseback riding, snakes, petting a crocodile – what more could a boy ask?

“It was a blast!” Eli said. My sentiments, exactly.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m the one with abundant hope right now. Many people who suffer have others who pray. Dan, a friend who died from cancer this week, reminds me that easy answers fade in the face of the eternal.

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints. (116:15)

Living with hope while living with cancer doesn’t mean I’m never afraid –it stretches my faith to trust deeply. I messaged a former co-worker who was having a biopsy that it’s normal to feel scared. Step by step, prayer by prayer, we stumble into ways to live today and place tomorrow in God’s hands. Even so, by nightfall I feel like a drooping peony, still fragrant but with a few less petals.

Paul Tripp is credited with saying, “If God doesn’t rule your mundane, then he doesn’t rule you. Because that’s where you live.” (pinterest.com)

I respond with an overflowing heart, like the psalmist, What shall I return to the Lord for all his goodness to me? I’ll lift up the cup of salvation and call on his name.” (116:12-13, adapted)

Sweet Jesus, be near to all who call to You, this ordinary day.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

Thanks to Anthony Frazier for the use of two of his photos.

1800s postcard stirs thoughts of family

June 1, 2019June 12, 2019
by Jan Woodard

During the Civil War some ladies in Boalsburg, PA placed flowers on the graves of Civil War heroes. Ever since, families have gathered the last weekend in May to pause and remember those who served.

My great-grandfather Sheldon Watrous, born in the 1830s, fought for the Union army. I have a picture of him in uniform with his wife, Carrie. It was in a shoe box with others that Grandma Watrous gave me as a young woman as we sat at her dining room table, discussing photos from the past.

Another shows a large family Grandma couldn’t identify, printed on an 1800’s sepia postcard. They’re spread across a porch, I imagine enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. Were the men Civil War veterans? A young girl who could be my sister or daughter leans against a porch pillar. Women wear long white summer dresses with puffy sleeves. Their hair is piled stylishly but you can tell from the make-shift porch the family wasn’t well-to-do.

The postcard may be a birth announcement that was never mailed, because there’s a tuft of copper-colored hair with a rumpled blue ribbon attached to it. We might assume it celebrated a baby boy, but the Smithsonian Institute says our pink and blue gender preferences didn’t take hold until the 1940s. Earlier generations said pink, a shade of red, was for boys and blue for supposedly quieter girls, but most babies of the Victorian era wore white.

This week I had DNA sampling to consider possible future cancer treatments, although I’m presently doing well. What I’d really like is a DNA sample of that baby hair. My siblings have children with copper highlights. When our Julie’s peach fuzz grew into shiny ginger curls like her cousin Kristen’s, I asked my Dad, “What’s the story with these red heads?” He said he had seven red-headed cousins and numerous carrot-tops preceded them.

*Our ginger-curled toddler holding a bunny in Florida*

I wish I’d asked him if he knew which mama might have clipped this heirloom lock of hair. Are her birth and death listed on the genealogy pages in the family Bible that Grandma also gave me? Could this be the farm where he spent his summers as a lad?

*****

Jumping forward over a hundred years, my daughter Tara says she was a free range child. Her boys giggled, but that describes many a childhood spent playing outdoors, biking and creating hiding places.

I remember my own Mother blowing a whistle when the summer sun finally set, calling her free range children home. I resisted, yet my little legs were quickly ready to climb into bed.

This all led my thoughts to a poem Ray Jones posted on Facebook that his Grandmother Jones recited to him as a boy, “Are All the Children In?” Written by Florence Jones Haley, it was published in the Louisville Courier Journal, March 14, 1947. Here are a few verses:

I think oft times as the night draws nigh
Of an old house on a hill,
Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred,
Where the children played at will.
And when the deep night at last came down,
Hushing the merry din,
Mother would look all around and ask,
“Are all the children in?”

. . .I wonder if, when those shadows fall,
On the last short earthly day,
When we say goodbye to the world outside,
All tired of our childish play.
When we meet the Lover of boys and girls,
Who died to save them from sin,
Will we hear Him ask as mother did
“Are all the children in?”

(http://nyobbc.org/html/resources/poems/all_children.htm)

*****

After my Mother died we found a note asking us to share the following, her legacy of faith: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” (Galatians 5: 22-23)

And this: When you speak, ask, “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?”

A month after we said good-bye to her, we welcomed our grandson Elias Daniel. There is a bitter-sweetness in the natural progression of generations that pulls at my heart. Eli, now eight, pranced with squeals through a water hose this Memorial Day. Jim and I enjoyed a picnic at our daughter and son-in-law’s new home in Pittsburgh, the first time all our offspring were together since breast cancer entered our lives.

*Eli, who like me, has a touch of copper highlights,*
*& Papa*

Henri Nouwen says faith is radically trusting that home is a place where we can always return, like a prodigal son. It’s our true abode, no matter how far we roam. Home, from a child’s perspective, is where parents live. Spiritually, home is dwelling with our heavenly Father.

He invites us in as if He’s been waiting for us– like a mother at sunset – because He has.

All will be well.

“All your children will be taught by God, and great will be the peace of your children.” (Isaiah 54:13)

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

Back of Victorian Mother’s Day card,
that Julie sent to me, this year

Tending the Fire within

May 25, 2019May 26, 2019
by Jan Woodard

I learned Friday my white cell count has dipped dangerously low, because of the oral chemo I take daily (with one week off, out of every four). It’s hard to say no to hugs and handshakes, to avoid kids with runny noses and skip fresh fruits and veggies because they may be contaminated. Be my balance, Lord! On that note, here’s my thoughts written earlier this week:

It’s 10:15 am. Too early, you say, to savor a bit of dark chocolate. Yet here I am, indulging in its smoothness, lingering over each nibble. It’s a free trade product and 85 percent cacao, packed with cancer-fighting antioxidants. Its goodness comes directly from its darkness, not from gooey corn syrup or processed sugar.

Maybe its caffeine will spark my energy when I’d rather crawl back in bed. On low-energy days, my dog-eared books are like old friends – always welcome. A fellow recently returned Henri Nouwen’s The Way of the Heart, providing me with the opportunity to re-visit my margin notes and underlining in this little gem.

Nouwen says we need solitude, silence and prayer for a robust spiritual life. The word robust sounds like a robin with an overflowing heart, her red breast nearly bursting as she sings.

He quotes Vincent van Gogh, who wrote, “There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it. . . the passerby only sees a wisp of smoke coming through the chimney. One must tend the inner fire, have salt in oneself, wait patiently … for when someone will come and sit down…” (The Way of the Heart p. 85)

Nouwen says our task is to faithfully care for the fire within so at the right time we can offer “warmth and light to lost travelers.” Like writing, fire-tending is often a solitary pursuit. The constant clatter of contemporary life lowers when I’m alone with God. In the silence, I’m more likely to hear His voice.

It’s His Spirit, bent down, that breathes life into the fire within. The more solitary time in God’s presence, the more warmth I pass on. God gives grace to open the door to those who most need the flames He stirs within.

A woman told me she knows all about me because of reading my column, but added lightheartedly I know nothing about her. After spending an evening together, I know her a bit better, but later I pondered the first part of her comment.

How much of myself do I give away? Is it wise to reveal my journey through this harrowing stretch? And, am I tending the inner fire with enough care to have something precious to share?

In Anti Cancer, A New Way of Life, David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD, says there is evidence that how we deal with social and psychological factors may impact if healthy people develop cancer and if people with advanced cancer survive (p.157). A dear friend arrived at my door one night with this hope-filled book and suggested we read it together. Her kindness is a gift all its own.

Many folks have reached out to us in amazing ways since our renewed battle with breast cancer. I say our battle because my hubby, family, church, friends and even strangers battle with me. My sister in State College said her neighbors, former Indiana residents, told her they’re praying. When I’m out to shop, to vote or wherever, others say they’re praying, too.

Thank you for every note, gift, kindness, word and prayer!

Although I never would have chosen this path, I messaged a former roommate who completed her breast cancer treatments to say I’m richer in this moment because of cancer’s unexpected return. The heart of God is compassion and I’ve received more than my share; all this love makes me passionate about extending compassion to others.

Still, the fire of my passion is modest, enough perhaps to keep us comfy within these walls, but flames of hope and courage could easily be smothered by negligence or worry. Only daily private time with my Lord ensures enough coals burning to make it through another night.

The goal of solitude is two-fold — to rest in the Lord’s strength, and to have enough coals when morning comes to carry some fire to my neighbor. In centuries past, Celtic women who burned peat dug out of the ground did just that, with loving concern for those who lived down the road.

Joy, at this juncture, often comes from unexpected sources. Little delights, like enjoying chocolate, have an accumulative impact. This is the most beautiful spring I can remember – I see God’s hand, everywhere. I was surprised to discover columbine I planted over 20 years ago has finally bloomed, with lovely drooping coral bells. If I’d given up and yanked the plants out, I would have missed their fragile beauty.

My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy

will follow me

all the days of my life,

and I will dwell

in the house

of the Lord, forever.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/ Indiana Gazette

Stronger than the Storm

May 18, 2019May 18, 2019
by Jan Woodard

Former neighbor Candy gave me a leather bracelet with BE STRONGER THAN THE STORM engraved on a metal plate. It tells me that my friend, caught in her own whirlwind, stands with me. Many do. Beyond this sphere, the Three-in-One hold me close when my world tilts upside down.

Friend to friend: “We all go through storms. Good to know God’s got this!”

Praise You, Creator God.

Praise You, Redeemer Jesus.

Praise You, Sustainer Spirit.

Entwined together, we’re stronger than the storm. Right now for me, the skies are clearing. My breast cancer antigens continue to drop – another 62 points – which is great. I’m largely able to keep on with things that in former times I took for granted.

Out the window, a doe-gray cardinal with her bright orange beak and red tail feathers pecks at the feeder. She tilts her head from side to side, considering what to do next.

I’m a lot like her.

I peck at bits and pieces of life, unsure what I most want to do with this precious gift of time, beginning with how to spend the singular gift of a sunny May afternoon.

Fatigue is one my biggest hurdles. Do I huddle in a shaded bedroom and snooze? Read one of the books piled by my chair? Or take a walk and catch the scent of honeysuckle in the air?

At a Bible study, Pastor Scott at Divine Destiny discussed Jesus’ parable about two builders. Sounds like one fellow was in a rush or lazy, he settled for constructing his house upon shifting sands. When rain fell and winds blew, it crumbled and great was its fall. I shiver at that phrase – deadly hurricanes, mud slides, and homes slipping into the sea come to mind.

The other homeowner dug deep and built upon a solid foundation. When the rains fell and winds blew, it withstood the tempest. Both builders heard the same Word, but responded differently.

To endure crises, I need to hear and heed the Word. Although Jesus is my Rock and foundation, often I, like the first builder, settle for less than God’s best. My pastor said sin is an archery term that means missing the mark. One way or another, I miss the mark every day, yet by His grace, guilt and condemnation don’t batter me.

There is no condemnation for those are in Christ Jesus.

Natalie Glaser of Indiana wrote a wonderful book about her cancer journey, Don’t Call Me Brave; I was not alone. I know what my friend means, even though I sometimes feel alone. Waves of anxiety are most likely to strike when evening fades into night, especially if no one is around except the dog.

At the new Sunday night service at Grace Church, youth director Drew Whaley spoke about storms. I was glad the lights were low; my eyes stung as he spoke. I wanted to race out of Fellowship Hall, run away from a God who sometimes allows us to walk through storms and, in the process, help guide others through the dark.

The Bible is full of stories like that. Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego stories, where followers of the Lord God Most High went through fire. They were certainly not alone. Jesus stood with them through suffering and persecution. To survive, we all best set our eyes on Jesus, not on gales raging within and without.

*****

I look at the clock. I need to leave in an hour for a haircut. (My hair’s still growing, despite chemo. Praise the God who counts our hairs.) It’s time to set this blog aside, stash piles of laundry, and chose stuff to donate to St. Vincent dePaul. Maybe there’s even time to pull a few weeds.

Thank You Lord, for work and the energy and strength to accomplish it. This is a good day.

*****

Sometimes I give away cherished gifts, like the plush throw my son gave me. A pottery mug from a cousin that spoke stillness into my mornings. The blue and white tea set my twin sister presented me on our fiftieth birthday. Giving away treasured objects spreads the joy, enlarging the circle of love.

I wore the leather bracelet with its engraved message from Candy daily, taking comfort in its message and its connection to a dear friend. Then one evening a brave mom hugged me. I knew I had to slip it onto her wrist. She’s going through parenting storms I’ve already weathered; it will remind her that she’s not alone, that she will make it to the other side, that friends stand with her.

And the Three-in-One.

Thank You, Creator God.

Thank You, Redeemer Jesus.

Thank You, Sustainer Spirit.

Together, we’re stronger than the storm.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

A Leper’s Story, & Mine

May 11, 2019June 12, 2019
by Jan Woodard

A trembling leper came to Jesus. Imagine some raggedy outcast daring to speak to this amazing Rabbi. People said He healed everyone, without exception.

But will He heal me? the man wondered, then did what we’d all do in Christ’s presence– fell on his knees.

“If You want, Jesus, You can make me whole.”

“I want to! Be clean.”

I love this guy’s courage! Weary from a life condemned to living with lepers, forced to wear filthy clothes, he was required to cry out to anyone approaching, “Leper! Leper!”

And I love Christ’s response: Of course I want to!

Hear His unwavering voice, see the fire in His eyes, looking on this beloved child of God. Jesus broke every law in the book when He reached out and touched someone with a numbing, flesh-destroying disease.

And the man was healed.

Does Christ still do this, today?

If He’s the same yesterday, today and forever, He does. The Unchanging One bore all our dirt, grief and sorrow, so we could be whole in body, soul and spirit. There’s no record of His turning a single hurting person away, whatever tumor, tick or tremor they bore.

I read the leper’s story in the book of Luke, written by a physician. I’m reading through Luke’s gospel, noting all the healings he describes. Churches often skirt around this question: is Jesus willing to extend to us what He offered the leper?

*****

Lilies of the Valley, a fragrant centerpiece from the
Clymer CMA folks when I shared my story at Hoss’s

I’ve shared glimpses of God’s grace with a few audiences recently; this blog is for friends who said they were sorry to miss it. I view what’s happening to me the only way I know how, through a kaleidoscope of faith. The leper’s story and the questions it stirs seem a good way to start.

After I completed radical treatments to remove breast cancer in 2017, I began daily hormone therapy. I called them my anti-cancer pills. They didn’t work.

This February, I thought I had a UTI. An antibiotic didn’t help. Aching pain increased to where I struggled to walk and needed Jim’s help to get out of bed or a chair. I thought it must be kidney stones, They hurt a lot, right?

On a Sunday evening in early March I sat in my living room, reading the results of a CAT scan, unable to comprehend what it said, medical jargon describing lesions in my liver and pelvic bone. And my pain? It was from a fracture of my sacrum caused by tumors.

Emotionally devastated, my sweet Jim and I wept in each other’s arms. Then we responded to an invite to Divine Destiny Church, where they happened to be teaching on divine healing.

What are the chances of that?

People surrounded us, laid hands upon us, prayed for us. Someone prayed to Jehovah Rohpe, the God who heals all our diseases. I learned this Hebrew name in a song some 40 years ago at Bobbie Yagel’s Bible study at Graystone church. It has run through my brain, ever since.
(https://genius.com/Don-moen-i-am-the-god-that-healeth-thee-lyrics )

More tests showed more lesions. I try to focus on the peace of Jesus. Sometimes I do that better than others. So many folks stand with us, but at moments I feel numb and distant, like a leper must feel.

We have a great cancer center a few miles from home where I usually go for treatments. A friend with advanced breast cancer helped me get in to see her doctor in Pittsburgh for a second opinion. He’s one of the best oncologists for metastatic breast cancer, anywhere.

He said, “I think we have a chance of beating this thing!”

I said, “Can we start today?”

“I don’t know why not!”

What are the chances of that?

My pastor asks, what are the chances I’d see the best doc in the country 12 days after learning cancer is messing with me? What are the chances that our kids living in New Zealand would move to Pittsburgh right when we need family close?

There is something bigger than chance at work, here.

My fracture is healing. I push myself to keep active. I returned the wheelchair we borrowed from Calvary Presbyterian Church, myself. Somebody else may need it; I don’t.

Some say I’m an optimist. I say I’m a beloved child of God, like that leper. Jesus says we’re all worth dying for.

You can’t talk about healing without doubts filling the air. We don’t always see physical healing result when we pray, but that doesn’t mean we stop praying. A life verse of mine, Romans 8:28, says all things work together for good for those who love God and are called according to His purposes.

All things.

Sometimes, that has to be enough.

People say, “Jan, you’ve got this!”

Really, I don’t. But God is bigger than cancer. The Unchanging One has this.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette 5-11-19

Suffering & the Compassionate Life

May 4, 2019June 12, 2019
by Jan Woodard

“Compassion: to suffer with” (from my journal, April, 2015, San Mateo, CA. Visiting my brother and his wife, Millie, who suffered from ALS)

My windows are splattered with a few remaining drops as clouds scurry toward distant hills, but light promises to win the day. Sleepy sassafras leaves yawn their way out of damp branches, a maple lifts aging arms in praise, and another rainy afternoon unfolds into a pleasant spring evening.

Neighbors tell me they watched a burly black bear ramble down our road last week and disappear across the street. A towhee sang its distinctive song when Jim and I strolled last night. In addition to cardinals, pairs of downy woodpeckers and gold finch now visit our deck, and hummingbirds have returned.

I have no desire to be anywhere but here. Now, and as far as I can see into the future. Perhaps my lowered immune system is in cahoots with Indiana County Tourist Bureau to convince me right here is the best place in the world for me to be.

My pelvic fracture has healed so I gardened early, one morning. I read in Anti Cancer, A New Way of Life that I need 30-minute walks, six times a week to stay as well as I feel now. So I walked the dog, then raked last autumn’s brown leftovers from under a spruce, allowing tender ferns space to unfurl.

I’m discovering I need more space for things of the spirit, as well. New sprouts of compassion for those who suffer from hardships shoot forth like buried bulbs that have chosen this spring of all springs to unfurl from the depths of my being.

The word “patient” is also rooted in “to suffer.” When we learned my pain was due to tumors, my devout brother told me the Catholic church believes suffering allows us to enter into the suffering of Jesus for the salvation of the world. It changes how I view suffering when I see my own as an invitation to spread Christ’s love to a hurting world.

Jesus said, “Apart from me, you can do nothing.”

He is the vine, we are the branches. Somehow, fruit results from this loving entanglement. You could call it many things – I call it the compassionate life. I have no desire to do anything apart from the One who makes me whole, who compassionately softens the sharpness of my being with His pumice stone.

*****

My maple in the meadow below isn’t the only one with aging arms. My sagging skin would embarrass me, if I thought it mattered. But to who? Or is it to whom? A little girl I know asked her grandparent, touching her drooping upper arm, “Did you put Jello in there, Grandma?”

If what you’re reading seems discombobulated, blame it on chemo brain. It messes with my perceptions. Josiah took a box of cocoa out of the pantry and I said, “Coca Cola!” We both giggled.

At the dinner table my daughter called me the family matriarch and asked the boys what that means. Eli said, “A leader. A really old leader.” Thank God for kids and smiles, medicine for the soul.

Last fall, Jim took down a blue spruce that weathered forty-three winters, overshadowing our entryway. Perched on a ladder to remove dying branches, he noticed a nest with hatchlings in a high crook. He waited to complete his task until days later, when young doves flew away. I think our offspring are glad they have this house to return to from time to time; it may be empty of young ones, but it’s still their childhood home.

*****

Maybe, without even leaving the premises, I can defy cancer’s grip and enter into the suffering of others through praying for those in similar battles. It sounds lighthearted, but I picture prayers and praises pouring out like Hundreds-and-Thousands, the delightful New Zealand name for candy sprinkles. The extravagant abundance it implies appeals to me. Who should ever bear a weight of worry when there are thousands of prayers lifted to God Most High?

Our God owns the cattle on a thousand hills. My lack of passion to visit more of those hills intrigues me. Perhaps there are pilgrimages of a different nature in my future, and inner landscape to explore.

I mentioned this to a cancer warrior, who responded, “. . . at some point . . . I reached the same conclusion. I would rather be home than anywhere and I continue to work on making my space comforting to me. My (at-home) projects are my travel destinations . . .”

I’m thinking my mantra, “All will be well” should be upgraded to “All is well.”

Because it is.

May hundreds and thousands of blessings follow you across the hills and valleys that lead you home. Light promises to win the day.

All will be well.

Indiana Gazette, 5-4-19

‘Coming to America saved my life’

April 28, 2019June 12, 2019
by Jan Woodard

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind and Love your neighbor as you love yourself” – Jesus (Parable of the Good Samaritan)

A friend said she thought of me last fall while she prayed for a young Ugandan mother with breast cancer.

“I think you’re supposed to meet her.”

She wasn’t free to say the woman’s name but compassion flooded through me and I felt our paths would cross.

Jhanet Sebunya was introduced at IRMC’s breast cancer support group in November, invited by a member into our fold. We learned she’d planned to come to IUP and work as a graduate assistant to pay for tuition. Then, last August, a week before leaving Uganda, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

That changed everything.

“Coming to America saved my life,” she says. Cancer is basically a death sentence in her country, so it’s vital she retains her student visa and continues her treatments here.

“My name’s Janet, too,” I told her that night. “I’ve prayed for you without knowing your name. I think we’re supposed to meet.”

I told her we had adopted a Kenyan family as our own and she said wistfully, “I wish someone would adopt me . . .”

I’ve since learned more of Jhanet’s story. Her mother died when she was six; her elderly father had other wives and children; she felt orphaned most of her life. She’s now married with a son, almost three. Her husband is visiting right now but will soon return to Uganda to his job; her little boy is staying here with his mama.

Jhanet hopes to earn a degree in non-profit management and return to Uganda to help address extreme poverty. First though, she needs to recover. IUP helped her connect with Indiana Regional Medical Center and the local Hillman Cancer Center. They immediately began to aggressively treat tumors in both breasts. Unfortunately, chemo made her nauseated and weak, which are ongoing problems.

With her gentle ways, she is a magnet to other women who encircle and support her, including one kind lady who invited Jhanet into her home to recover following a double mastectomy in February. The good news is that her first round of treatments eliminated all the original tumors. The not-so-good news is that two malignant lymph nodes were discovered.

I’ve tried to be there for her since we met; now Jhanet is here for me – a fierce prayer warrior, encouraging me to trust God even as she continues to feel nauseated from chemo.

She’s amazed at American kindness and generosity. The Refugee Working Group of Indiana, St. Vincent dePaul, CMA Church and others have stood with her. Now she has a God-sized problem that will take a miracle to resolve. She owes the university for tuition and as I understand it, can only resume classes if an enormous debt of $16,000 is paid. Too weak to tackle a full schedule of classes again next fall, she plans to take a medical leave for a year to complete chemo and radiation treatments.

*****

Someone asked me on Good Friday how I approach advanced cancer. I’m embraced by thousands of prayers, a healing God, a wounded, risen Savior, and a great medical team. The Easter season is about resurrection power—the Bible says the same dynamite power that raised Christ from the dead dwells in us who love Him. (Romans 8:11)

I responded that God has a plan for me and equips me through grace to fulfill it. Part of that plan is to complete a few books and to love on people, including Jhanet. I believe He’ll keep us both around until our earthly assignments are complete. I’ve prayed this verse for my children and now claim it for Jhanet and me: “… He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 1:6 NIV)

Jesus tells a story that has profoundly influenced my life about the Good Samaritan, who assisted an injured stranger while others passed by. The example of this foreigner, a despised Samaritan, inspires us to see the stranger in our midst and be the helping hands of Christ.

Jhanet’s friends have established a GoFundMe page, to enable her to complete her classes when she is healthy. If you feel nudged to help, please visit Jhanet Sebunya’s GoFundMe page at https://www.gofundme.com/f/cancer-care-for-jhanet ? or contact me personally for details. Every single gift will help; I’m prayerfully asking some readers to make sizable donations.

With God’s help and ours, I trust my newest African daughter will heal, live to raise her child and be a Good Samaritan to others in Uganda, fulfilling His purposes for her.

All will be well.

Women who have lived with cancer are welcome to the IRMC Breast Cancer Support Group, which meets 6 pm, the fourth Thursday of the month in the Women’s Imaging Center. Contact Dena at ddiehl@indianarmc.org for more information.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

https://www.gofundme.com/f/cancer-care-for-jhanet?