“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