A Beaver, a Lion & Mr. Hue

Leon Hue joined IUP biology’s department after teaching at State College High School back in the day, about the same time I arrived here as a college student. He soon found certain faculty members regarded him as “that high school teacher.” Years later, he told me the following story with obvious delight.

Walking through White’s Woods, Leon had discovered a small, new beaver dam. A nature lover, he reported his find to his colleagues who laughed and said, “He doesn’t know a beaver from a ground hog!”

Leon returned to the woods and found the dam expanding over White’s Run, with more downed foliage as evidence. He stuffed wood chips into his pockets and deposited a smattering in the mailbox of each biology faculty member who had laughed at his find. One by one, they reached for their mail and said, “What’s this?”

“Look for the teeth marks!” Leon said. “Don’t you recognize beaver marks when you see them?”

I came across Mr. Hue’s story in one of my old journals and laughed. I remember him as a naturalist, a bird and animal lover, and a wood carver. That those qualifications weren’t enough for his colleagues to believe him when he said found a beaver dam isn’t surprising. It’s often hard to see truth when it’s smack dab in front of our noses. Sometimes we ignore evidence and later wonder how we overlooked it. Other times, we fail to recognize people for who they really are.

In the biblical story of Easter, Mary went to the tomb on Sunday morning and at first didn’t recognize her rabbi and Lord. Until He broke bread with them, other followers failed to realize who He was as He walked with them on the road to Emmaus. Thomas demanded he touch Christ’s wounded hands and side before he would believe the outlandish tale of a “Risen Christ” that his friends blurted like mad men. I most likely would have been among the doubters. Show me evidence—beaver teeth marks—and then I’ll believe.

This Lent our family has engaged in a new battle with metastatic breast cancer, but don’t think for a moment that makes the season one jot less joyful. I recall the wonder of stepping into a cold, empty tomb in a Jerusalem garden where a large circular stone had been rolled away. The Good News doesn’t become less when we face a crisis, it becomes more.

More needed. For the dawning of every new day.

More startling. In a world that no longer believes miracles happen, the Good News is a well that never runs dry.

More anticipated. Winds may wail at night, yet the undeniable fragrance of spring is in the air, setting my future and yours against the vast backdrop of eternity.

In precariousness times, the Good News proclaims this unwavering certainty: He lives. The Risen Lord reigns on His throne. Of what then, should I fear?

In The Chronicles of Narnia a creature named Mr. Beaver answers a child who asks if the terrifying Lion, Aslan (who typifies Jesus), is safe to be around.

“Safe?” Mr. Beaver said; “… Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

Many a night that Lion has trotted with majesty into my semi-conscious when I’m on the edge of sleep. He comes as the Lion of Judah, encompassing my field of vision, His fierce goodness filling my being as I drift off.

It’s risky business to follow One who calls us to nothing less than total surrender. St. Paul wrote from jail, “Fellow believers, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14).

I’ll never fully grasp what it means to be apprehended by the love of God, wrapped in the unending fabric of His care. I found a note in my old journal saying it’s not what we do for Christ, but what we do with Him that determines our grace walk.

How do I recognize the Lion of Judah? Not by His roar, but by His silence. If I were to look, I’d see rope burns on His paws. He pads into my life as both Lion and King when I’m most tired and vulnerable, reminding I have more than human helpers. Ten thousand times ten thousand angels stand with us, friends.

Do I feel safe in His presence?

Not always.

Do I feel loved?

Completely.

He’s the King, I tell you.

All will be well.

TextingThruRecovery/Indiana Gazette

(empty tomb image accessed from fineartamerica.com from Pixel, Lions accessed through Pixel 4.20.19)

Body of Christ, Broken for All

Body of Christ,

broken for you, for me,

Life Blood of Jesus,

shed for you, for me

for once, for all

for every kind

of brokenness

of flesh and spirit

that obstruct our

union with His Father

and each other.

Christ’s earthy presence

is clothed again in flesh

as we become

broken bread,

crushed grapes,

poured out for others,

following His steps

up the Via Dolorosa,

the Way of Suffering,

the Way of the Cross.

*****

We are His Body,

A family, gathered,

mourning, praising

our Broken Healer.

Sacred Three,

Creator. Sustainer. Redeemer.

The God who heals

these temporary

fragile dwellings.

His sanctuary,

and abiding place,

where Fullness dwells

when we abide in Him.

These selves of ours,

clothed, body and soul,

in the Oneness and

Goodness of God,

so St. Julian said.

*****

Thank you, body of mine,

these eyes

that see beyond myself;

feet that serve me well.

Thank you, hands—gnarled, yet strong,

and mind (despite your lapses),

and beating heart,

more tender with time.

Thank you, broken parts,

that struggle now,

to keep to your

appointed tasks,

bathed in prayer and

gratitude and hope.

*****

This holiest of weeks,

we, His Body,

feed on Jesus,

Bread of Life,

united with all

who persevere in faith.

Receive the broken

Body of Christ

and pass it on –

this Holy Mystery

that makes us whole.

He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5 KJV)

All will be well.

(Celtic cross, Princeton Cemetery, 2016)

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

What’s Happening . . .

What’s Happening 4.25.19

More good news!

My cancer markers again DROPPED – this time by 70 points, down to 202. (They were 332 in February.)

I’m now on three forms of chemo and they, combined with prayer, are working, praise God!

More good news: three of my liver enzymes are normal and the one that is high dropped from 227 to 210. My chest CAT scan shows a few tiny tumors in my lungs that are not growing and have not increased in number. ZAP them, Lord God!

Two weeks ago I started on daily Ibrance, a form of oral chemo and am doing okay, except my white and red blood cell counts are below normal. Please pray for protection from infections and strength for the day because I’m told to expect my blood counts to keep falling way below normal. This I know: God is in control.

Last night I attended Divine Destiny’s Bible study on healing and came home so encouraged by Pastor Scott’s teaching: my healing was purchased on the cross and in God’s eyes was accomplished by the work of His son. I find I keep returning to Exodus 15:36 which says God’s names is Jehovah Rophe: “I AM the Lord who heals thee.”

Psalm 103 is also written on my heart:

Praise the Lord, my soul;
    all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
2 Praise the Lord, my soul,
    and forget not all his benefits—
3 who forgives all your sins
    and heals all your diseases,
4 who redeems your life from the pit
    and crowns you with love and compassion,
5 who satisfies your desires with good things
    so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. Psalm 103:1-5

April 9

Prayer Warriors – I’M THANKFUL FOR YOUR PRAYERS!

Tests last Friday confirmed cancer markers in my blood DECREASED after treatments of two types of chemo on March 22. (One liver enzyme went up – boo!!!- but three are normal, praise God!!!)

I begin oral chemo Wednesday that could lower my red blood cells (needed for energy) and white blood cells (needed to fight infection).

I’m also waiting for results of my chest CT Scan, today. My spiritual enemy wants me to be scared – Lord, I trust You to be my energy, protector, healer and peace.

S/he who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 91:1-2 )

April 8, 2019

Then came Jerusalem

An Asian graduate student who grew up in a bustling city said she never saw trees until she arrived in Pennsylvania (aptly meaning, “Penn’s Woods”). She boarded a bus at Pittsburgh airport headed to our rural college town and pressed her face against the glass, taking in the wild beauty of forested hillsides.

“There were trees the whole way from the airport to Indiana. And look where you live – trees everywhere!” she said when she joined us one year for Easter dinner.

Lately, I’ve been remembering a bus ride up to Jerusalem. My coworkers and I had been in Galilee, all green and lovely with the rolling sea and the scent of honeysuckle in the air. We’d also traveled through the bone-dry Judean desert, where Jesus fasted and was tempted by the evil one.

Then came Jerusalem. The Spirit brushed over us as our bus approached the Holy City. I felt the pull of history and geography as an unexpected yearning, a homing instinct deep in my spiritual DNA. Anticipation hovered as we sang “Sanctuary,” a new song for me:

“Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary, for you!” (Thompson & Scruggs)

There was a heaviness in the air in Jerusalem I’ve never felt elsewhere, not even in the DMZ. Christians were still allowed to enter the golden Dome of the Rock back then, and I reached my hand toward the rock where Abraham was ready to offer his son to God, if God demanded it. He didn’t, but later God’s own Son laid down His life on a nearby hill.

We removed our shoes before entering the ancient Al-Asqa Mosque, built on the Temple Mount above the only remaining bit of temple wall, sacred to Jews including some ancestors of mine.

Inside, I saw a glass wall cabinet containing a hand grenade and the words “Made in Saltsburg, Pennsylvania.” Many have died at the mosque over the thousand years since it was constructed; some hoped to incite a holy war at this, the third holiest place in Islam, but whoever entered with that hand-held instrument of terror made here in Indiana County didn’t get far.

It shook me to know how intertwined the stories of this ancient conflict are with my own. I had a friend who worked in that Saltsburg plant. We are more closely interconnected with life and death than we know.

That night, while friends were out, I remained alone in my Jerusalem hotel room, needing some quiet time. I prayed in bed in the semi-darkness, feeling the weight of ages suspended over the city. I rose at dawn and wandered around to the back of Seven Arches Hotel, aching over the broken lives entwined in that land. Through barbed wire, I heard a rooster crow and asked God to help me remain faithful through whatever trials I would face in coming years.

Although I’d heard about Jerusalem all my life, being there was as different as a faded sepia photograph is from a contemporary one, bursting with color. Vehicles crowded noisy streets; one rear license plate announced, “I’m a student driver” along the winding road leading up to the Holy City. I felt like a student too, immersed in this sacred place that seemed somehow familiar, like a dream from the distant past.

I wonder if Heaven will be like that.

When we arrive will we each feel like a tourist, a student, a newbie?

Or will the embrace of the Father’s holy love overtake every thought and quivering emotion, bringing us to our knees to sing: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty. . . !”

My twin sister noted that my Asian student’s story is similar to mine, both travelers in a far country. Her wonder at the beauty of trees foreshadows awakening on the other side of eternity. We’ve heard ideas about it, seen faint hints as we plod along, but until we arrive we have no idea what delights await us.

I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit I’m shaky about the stretch of road ahead, jaunting across the minefield of metastatic breast cancer. I’m trusting God in His grace grants me bright days to enjoy this green planet and precious people—our grandsons who are moving here arrived from New Zealand Friday night—knowing the day will come when the heavenly dimensions of love will far exceed all that presently keeps me earthbound.

Meanwhile, I have miles to go before I sleep. Most likely, you do, too.

All will be well.

TextingThruRecovery/IndianaGazette

What’s Happening . . . 4.4.19

Health update: I’m having three sessions of radiation this week and two next to continue to shrink the tumor in my pelvis. I’m feeling much better, walking more, enjoying people and sunshine, but tired.

Expect I’ll be a little more tired after our grandboys and their parents arrive tomorrow from New Zealand, but oh – I’ll take it! They’ll be with us until closing on their home in Fox Chapel school district, later this month.

I’m having two types of chemo on Friday (Zometa and Faslodex) and on Monday a lung/upper body CT scan is scheduled. Yeah– that’s a lot – but then there’s all the support, love, visits, prayers … hope is a beautiful thing!

Please pray too for Amy, Lynne & Larry, who also battle cancer.

One day at a time, sweet Jesus.

Hope on the cellular level

I almost did something I would have regretted the other night. I was searching for a website with helpful information on metastatic breast cancer and almost tripped over figures that estimate how long I have to live.

Almost, but stopped; I didn’t want to open that door to fear. I’m holding onto something facts and figures won’t show me, or you. I have hope.

What a powerful word it is.

Hope energized my heart after seeing a breast cancer specialist at McGee Women’s Hospital who others call the best in the country. He says there’s a chance we can get this thing under control and extend my life in meaningful ways.

Sounds like hope, to me.

I completed cancer treatments in 2017 but I never said I was cancer free or cured. That vocabulary made me uncomfortable and was unnecessary to feel fully alive. Instead I said, “I’m a survivor.”

I still am.

Fred, a State High classmate, wrote: “I learned so much as an oncology nurse. One being, don’t live by numbers. So many times I heard my favorite doctor say to a patient, ‘Clinically, according to your numbers, you should be sick’ then he’d throw the lab reports out and say ‘This is why I say I don’t treat by numbers all the time.’”

Thanks, Fred. I’m trying hard not to let stats and reports pull me down. Hope doesn’t ignore reality but I feel like there are greater forces at work on the cellular level, forces for good (faith) and for evil (fear).

As a believer in life on both sides of the grave, faith always wins.

My medical team hopes to zonk lesions by decreasing hormones this kind of breast cancer cell feeds upon. There are possible side effects that sound scary but friends remind me nothing surprises God. No contingency will arise where the Three-in-One is not already there, waiting for me, cheering me on.

I’m skimming The Biology of Belief, by Bruce Lipton, PhD, a cellular biologist who says what happens in my mind and spirit profoundly influences what happens on a cellular level. So I’m telling tumors they’re shrinking because my doctors, my treatments and my faith tell me this can happen. An Old Testament song says of Jehovah Rophe, “I am the God who healeth thee, I am the God your healer.” My times are in His hands.

Right after we first learned about the tumors some church folks prayed verses from a psalm over Jim and me. A few days later I messaged my hairdresser (who invited us to that church before I received the bad news): “Brenda, one of the Scriptures you all prayed was Psalm 103. I took my travel Bible to Blue Spruce Park, opened to the bookmark, and it was Psalm 103. What a powerful God we have!”

Taste the hope packed into this mighty psalm:

“Praise the Lord, my soul;
all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the Lord, my soul,
and forget not all his benefits—
who forgives all your sins
and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
and crowns you with love and compassion,
who satisfies your desires with good things
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s” (103:1-5 NIV).

I’m not exactly soaring eagle-style, but my spirit is flying high and steady. I’m soon starting five doses of radiation to help with pain control and posted this on my blog (janwoodard.com):

“Relieved and hopeful after our appointment yesterday with Dr. Adam Brufsky at McGee Women’s Hospital! A few weeks ago I thought I had a UTI, only to learn breast cancer fractured my pelvis and spread to my liver and elsewhere. . . but the nurse practitioner says I can expect to be around for a long time! The goal is to starve tumors scattered through my body by eliminating estrogen and progesterone with injections and an oral pill. An infusion every three months will strengthen my bones against further breaks and help fight cancer cells in my bones. I started treatments right away. And I get to keep my hair.”

Thanks for every single prayer prayed and thought sent my way. God gathers them all in a bowl and is blessed by their fragrance. So am I.

Sending prayers and love to fellow breast cancer warrior, Louise. You’ve encouraged me to be my own advocate – to make calls, ask questions, request treatments and expect answers. Your hope, laugh and courage are contagious.

To the little girl next door who wrote, “God is watching over you, always! ‘The Lord did not give a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind,’” – God bless you, dear. You’re right.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette 3.30.19

3-23-19 what’s happening: my own advocate

Relieved and hopeful after our appointment yesterday with breast cancer specialist Dr. Adam Brufsky at McGee Women’s Hospital! A few weeks ago I thought I had a UTI, only to learn BC fractured my pelvis and has spread to my liver and elsewhere. It’s scary to learn my cancer antigen is 332 (normal is 38), but the nurse practitioner says I can expect to be around for a long time. Amen & thanks for your prayers & good thoughts! 🙏🏻The goal is to starve tumors scattered through my body by eliminating estrogen and progesterone with injections and an oral pill. An infusion every three months will strengthen my bones against further breaks and help fight cancer cells in my bones. I started treatments right away. And I get to keep my hair. 💕

He suggests only five radiation treatments to reduce the tumors in my pelvis that caused the fracture and is causing my pain. Hope to begin those, ASAP.

I’VE LEARNED I HAVE TO BE MY OWN ADVOCATE! Encouraged by my friend Louise who has lived with metastatic breast cancer for 11 years, this week I did that in three ways:

• Changed the appointment with an orthopedic oncologist from April 3 to March 18, seeing Dr. Richard Mcgough when it would have taken weeks to get in with Dr. Kurt Weiss – then learned Dr. Mcgough trained Dr. Weiss and is the director of the ortho unit at Shadyside! Dr. Mcgough wants me walking to strengthen my bones; my fractured pelvis really hurts so when I’m out, I’m using a wheelchair.
• Scheduled an appointment (with Louise’s help) with Dr. Brufsky for a second opinion. He’s one of the top metastatic BC researchers in the country and the director of the Cancer Center at McGee. I’m now his patient and can make appointments with him when we want his opinion on anything. Yeah!
• Requested an infusion right away instead of waiting until after my appointment with my dear Dr. Ramineni on Tuesday. I already have a dose of hormone-fighting drug circulating in my body. Dr. Brufsky & he are close colleagues.

Most of these “what’s happening” posts will be shorter, I promise . . .

To God be the glory,

All will be well.

What’s Happening . . .

This daughter of ours has been a tremendous help this week. ❤️ Friday is a very important day for me, meeting with Dr. Adam Brufsky at McGee Women’s Hospital, a specialist in metastatic breast cancer, at noon. The appointment will be 2-3 hours long. . . I’m taking a soft pillow to sit on! Glad she & Jim will be at my side, as are all of you. Thanks for your prayers, love, good thoughts & support :>)

All will be well, and all will be well…

Every cancer survivor knows a remote shadow may be hiding within a secret place in her body, waiting to be exposed. A distant possibility, an easy thought to brush aside. A few days ago I read a CAT scan report and understood why my pelvis hurts—a tumor, or tumors, fractured my sacrum. There are other lesions scattered about, too much data for this little brain to absorb. I hated to show the report to Jim but rode the stair chair down to him in the basement, laptop in hand.

He turned off the evening news, sat beside me and we read each word in dried-mouth disbelief. “This can’t be happening!” he groaned. It felt like being hit in the head with a bowling ball. I’m infinitely glad we received this news in the privacy of each other’s arms, where we didn’t have to disguise our initial grief from anyone else.

We know little about how to navigate a second journey thru cancer, but we know this—prayers carried us when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer and we covet them, again.

All will be well.

It’s 5 am and I’m sitting in my fluffy white robe at the kitchen table. A burning vanilla Yankee candle, a cuppa tea and a swooping bat (yes, you read that right) are my companions.

Hours earlier, just before I opened that report, my hairdresser Brenda invited us to her church for a healing service. I had to do something. To take control. To battle this. Within in an hour of our world crumbling, praying people surrounded Jim and me, bathing us in the Spirit’s peace.

Afterward, I needed the comfort of familiar, loving arms. We sat on the sofa of my mentor and friend, Sue, who shared wisdom as a retired nurse navigator. “There is hope,” she said, adding as we walked out their door, “You will live. Jesus is with you, above you, below you, beside you . . .”

Her affirmation echoed the prayer of St. Patrick, Ireland’s patron saint: God is everywhere. There is nowhere He is not.

All will be well.

The hard part, what hurts my heart, is sharing a bad report with my family.

I love them so.

God knows this. I must trust them to Him, and they must trust me to Him.

Strangely, my joy in living intensifies, like stars grow brighter in the dark. On Monday, Pastor Denny stopped by and anointed me with oil for healing. I’ve been smeared with the oil of the Spirit—“to smear with oil” is what anointing means, in Greek. I don’t understand it, but I want it.

All will be well.

In the 14^th century, Julian of Norwich, the first woman to author a book in English, described Jesus revealing mystical dreams of divine love. I’m reading her story now. Julian fell deathly ill at 30. Her priest came to minister the last rites and told her to fix her eyes on Christ, suffering on the cross. As she did, she was healed. She is best remembered for words close to my heart, “All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

Words born out of suffering speak truth into mine.

Eugene Peterson said that our lives consist of either list-making or story-making. I’ve never been much for making lists, at checking off chores and accomplishments. I get distracted by stories that poke through life’s cellophane, claiming my attention. A shattering of bone brings an unwelcome chapter to my own story I had hoped never to write. I know the book ends in the enveloping love of God, but not the path that leads me there.

All will be well.

With all my prayers, one thing I didn’t pray about was that darn bat, a confused and frightened creature flying in the dark, much like me.

Google says bats symbolize death and rebirth because they live in the belly of the earth. I released an unholy holler when it circled me in the stairwell; I think some of my anguish over of what is happening within my body was expelled in that scream. With a calming sip of tea, I came to see this poor thing as a winged messenger that I will someday die and be reborn into the fullness of God’s presence.

But not yet.

When I led activities at St. Andrew’s Village, it was an honor for my staff and me to help residents live well. As their end drew near, it was an equal honor to help them die well.

I have more living to do, friends. Please pray I do it with grace.

All will be well.

Jan Woodard shares thoughts on faith, life and recovery.

Contact her at janwoodard.com

Indiana Gazette