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!)