“More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered prayers.”-Truman Capote

The route to my son’s school goes down a road with a now closed factory. The fence is lined with Bradford Pear trees that snow blossoms on my windshield in the spring, and lay a ruby carpet in the fall. The factory once made those relics of a bygone era, cassette tapes. (Children of the ’80s remove your caps for a moment of silence, and then be grateful that you will never again have to re-spool one with a ballpoint pen.)

One morning on the trip to school I saw a police officer lying in wait for the speeding unsuspecting, hidden beside the old guard shack at the entrance; no doubt hoping to nab one of the late to schoolers flying by. As luck would have it I was going the speed limit (or at least I was by the time I got even with him), and drove by without incident.

On the way back, I remembered that he was there and carefully maintained the correct speed as I approached that stretch of road. Behind me, a car began to follow very closely, the driver growing more and more agitated. I could almost see the veins bulging out on his forehead. He veered over slightly to assess his chances of passing me on the double yellow lines. My eye caught his in the rear view mirror and he threw up his hand in the universal gesture of frustration. I held up one finger (no, not that finger) and shook my head. He gave me a disgusted look and stayed on my bumper.

Just at that moment we came around a curve and there was Mr. Officer, parked beside the guard shack. We passed him uneventfully, and parted ways at the traffic light, him to go left, me to continue on straight. As he passed me, he gave me a wave and a sheepish grin, realizing that I’d probably saved him from getting a ticket. I gave him a smile and a thumbs up.

And it got me to thinking, how many times I am impatient, riding life’s bumper, looking for a way to pass any frustration on the double yellow lines. Heaving sighs of frustration as I look for a shortcut to get where I’ve decided I need to go.

And all the time, it’s God in the car ahead of me, fully aware of the danger ahead that I don’t yet see. Not trying to slow me down, trying to spare me avoidable pain and suffering.

Sometimes, when I get past the guard shack and see what I was spared, I flash my maker a wave and a sheepish grin. I go my way and vow to remember it next time. And sometimes, I’m so full of self will and pride, or plain old spiritual blindness, that I just won’t be spared. I blow past the warnings and right into the speed trap. And when I do, He patiently walks with me to pay my ticket, and I vow to remember it and never try to pass Him on the double yellow lines again. With mixed success.

And either way, He gives me a smile and a thumbs up.

“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”-Romans 8:26

The year was 2002. I had a 5 year old, a 3 year old and a new baby. I was the kind of tired that only a new baby brings. The kind where your skin hurts, and you can barely put a sentence together. I’d been meeting the needs of my baby, but the other two had had a lot of time on autopilot, in front of Thomas the Tank Engine videos.

So, in a moment of caffeinated bravado, infused with guilt, I decided to try and be “good Mom”. You know her, she is able to meet emotional needs and the requirements of early childhood development instead of just preventing death by misadventure. And so in pursuit of her, I made the greatest sacrificial offering in the Mothering world. I decided to let them paint.

So we dragged out the art box, blew off the dust and began to set up. They were excited to have some of my time and attention. Even the baby was a part, sitting on the table in his bouncy seat. (I know he shouldn’t have been on the table, hush.) Finally, little smocks in place, paper and brushes out, I began to set out the paint. Since it had been awhile I had to shake it up before pouring. Blue, then green, then yellow, then red.

As it turned out the lid on the red paint was not on very securely. I gave it one good shake, said lid flew off, and red paint went everywhere. Everywhere. On me, the table, the chairs, the walls, the upholstery, the rug. Everywhere. My “good Mom” impulse had just turned into an hour long clean up in addition to everything else that needed to be done. If a car had pulled up the the door and honked the horn at that moment, I like to think I wouldn’t have gotten in and driven away from my life, but I can’t be sure.

For a long moment it was as though time stopped. Everyone froze, even the baby, and turned to look at me. If I’ve ever sent up a Mayday prayer it was at that moment. I knew I didn’t have it in me to have the right response and that I was about to blow it. I was dangling by a tattered fiber from the end of my rope.

And in the silence of that moment, I felt the Lord whisper a word to me. One word.

“Laugh.”

There was nothing in me that wanted to laugh at that moment. I wanted to scream and throw things and cry my eyes out. But I looked around that table, at those little faces looking at me, waiting to see what I would do. And I saw the one thing on them that I never hoped to see, fear.

And so, I laughed. I didn’t mean it, but I did it. As an act of love. I saw the relief shoot across their faces and then they laughed too, and they did mean it. The moment passed and they began to paint and I began to clean up.

I doubt they even remember that day, but I count it as one of my parenting “wins”. There have been many more times I’ve blown it and maybe I’ll blog about them too one day.

All these years later there is still a little red paint in the woodwork of one of my dining room chairs. I decided to leave it there. To remind me of the day the God of the Universe heard an S.O.S. prayer and reached down into my dining room and saved the day. To remind me that at least once in a while I got it right, that sometimes in life, no matter how careful we are, red paint goes everywhere, and when it does we clean it up. And we laugh.

Exchange of the Day: (re. Shopping for new apartment)

Me: “Nick do I even need to buy you a mop, will you use it?”

Nick: “Yes…but not for months. We’ve got plenty of time.”

So, my 21 and 19 year olds are moving into their own apartments next week. I offered to take them to Walmart to help them get the things they will need. They both managed to look very affronted that I thought my presence would be required, they are after all, legal adults. I may or may not have seen surreptitious eye-rolling. They liked the idea of of it being on my credit card however, so in the end I went.

I was very glad I did because as we cruised the aisles I began to suggest that they avail themselves of items such as dishes, utensils, pots and pans, towels, mats. This was met with looks of wonder as though it had not crossed their minds that one might need to purchase such items. Apparently, they had come to the conclusion that since all of those items were present in MY house that they must be standard to all places of living. That one merely opened drawers and forks appeared, that shower curtains rose from the drain and hung themselves on rods that came down from Heaven. I was happy to be able to share with them the information that if you don’t bring these things with you, you won’t have them. Who knew?

Once they grasped that concept the idea of this Walmart visit began to make more sense and they threw themselves into selecting all kinds of things, including some trippy looking flatware, that looked like it came from the Jerry Garcia Collection. I do wonder a bit what they had thought we were there to buy? What essentials of apartment living they would’ve bought? Posters? Pizza rolls? The Camo Black Bear soap dispenser that I made them put back?

After this success we moved on to advanced concepts such as dry goods, dish drainers and trash cans. But just as it appeared we we’re making progress I came upon them on aisle 7 using their carts to joust with their new brooms.

This is what I’m unleashing on an unsuspecting world next week, incomplete frontal lobe development and all. World, brace yourself.

Memorial (n.)-created or done to honor a person who has died.

I have a friend whose Father was killed in Vietnam when she was a little girl. Forty eight years later she can still tell you everything about that day, about that moment, when the soldier came to the door with the envelope in his hand.

She can tell you what the weather was like, what she was wearing, the way her baby brother’s foot looked hanging from her Mother’s hip, about the strangled sound her Mother made and then the wailing.

She wonders what she was doing at the exact moment her big, strong Daddy laid down his life in a rice Paddy far away.

She tells me all of it, with tears in her eyes. Her tears are frozen at her eyelids as that moment is frozen in time. Her shoulders drawn in as though to ward off blows on a place still tender. After all these years.

Today, maybe even at this moment, somewhere in the world, someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s friend, someone’s someone will die for our country. It will probably be in a desert rather than a jungle, but still, alone, afraid, miles away from anything that feels like home. We will be eating BBQ when this happens, or lounging by the pool, or binging Netflix.

May we all stop for a moment and remember that somewhere in this country, a soldier is coming to the door with an envelope in his hand and drawing a line of demarcation down the middle of a life, across which all events will now be placed in time as either “before” or “after”.

And in a moment, I will send my friend a text, as I always do on Memorial Day, to let her know that I am thinking of her…and that I remember.

“Oh the overwhelming, never ending, reckless love of God.

Oh it chases me down, fights ’til I’m found, leaves the ninety-nine.”-Reckless Love, Cory Asbury, Bethel Music

So, I stumbled across an article in a Christian magazine the other day, inspired by the song quoted above. The title was “Do We Really Believe in Reckless Love?” It went on to question whether it is theologically correct to say God’s love is reckless. Many learned people weighed in on the subject, and after much discussion, decided that it was not.

First of all, really church? Really. That’s how we want to spend our time and energy, practicing semantic nitpicking and taking shots at our brothers who poured their heart out in worship to God? They had people like that in Jesus’ time. Synagogues full of them. They were called Pharisees. Part of why He came the first time was to let them know that they were seriously off-task. That they had gotten so wrapped up in the letter of the law that they had forgotten the spirit.

If statistics are to be believed, in the time it took me to read the article, thirty children starved to death across the world, and this is what we want to be caught doing when Jesus comes back? Just a reminder, He is coming back. Look busy. Busy doing something else.

I looked up the definition of reckless. (On the dictionary app on my phone, because I’m a total nerd, if you must know.) I found some that fit their arguments, but I also found one, that to my theologically untrained eye, fits the spirit of the song.

Reckless (adj.)-having or showing no regard for consequences or danger.

It’s reckless to leave ninety-nine perfectly good sheep behind to go looking for the one. The one that’s lost probably because of something foolish it did. Got its fleece caught in a thornbush because it wandered away, and now can’t get free, or fell into a swiftly moving stream because it didn’t see the current, or got stuck on a high rock ledge because it didn’t realize it would be trapped, with no idea how to get down.

The world would tell that Shepherd

“You’ve got ninety-nine. Forget that one. It made it’s bed, let it lie in it.”

But instead, that Shepherd puts on His cloak, picks up His rod and staff and goes out searching, until He finds the one. He patiently untangles it’s fleece, or pulls it out of the stream or gently coaxes it down and takes it home on His shoulders to join the ninety-nine. I’ve been that sheep…a bunch of times. And when I was running away from Him as hard as I could, He was rearranging all the walls of the maze so that I was headed straight back to Him. I couldn’t earn it and I didnt deserve it, and yet, when I cried out He came. There’s a word for that, Grace.

My God forgives sinners who are just going to sin again, and He knows it. He loves people who are never going to love Him back, or will blame Him for everything that’s wrong in their lives. He rescues people that will never acknowledge that it was Him. He helps people who fight Him every step of the way. And still, He goes out and looks down the road every day hoping He will see us coming. He never stops wooing, never stops calling, never gives up on us, always hoping, always loving. Again and again and again. There’s a word for that too, Savior.

I call that reckless.

“The days are long but the years are short.”-Unknown

I sit at a red light on a route I don’t usually take anymore. I look to my left and see in a field, an ocean of red clover, undulating gently in the breeze. And suddenly I am hit with a wave of sadness, so visceral, so sharp, that it takes my breath away. And then the memory of a thousand trips on this road, that leads to my children’s elementary school, flood in. The school is not even there anymore. And for just a moment I feel such a feeling of panicky loss that I would give anything to be back in that time again.

A time where I was the sun and they were my planets. Always underfoot, always dirty, always needing a bandaid, tumbling around me like puppies, vying for my attention. All the minutiae of life with little boys comes back to me in a rush, crazy mornings, eating lunch with them in the cafeteria when they were little enough that when they saw me their faces would light up. Kindergarten graduations and Science fairs and Spring Flings and so many costumes for so many things. Endless creations of construction paper and cotton balls and pipe cleaners, that weren’t endless after all as it turns out. And in the Spring, Awards Day. And I was always late, racing down this road; but I always noticed the beautiful red clover in this field. And the sight of it this day is enough to take me back instantly and make my heart ache with the loss of it all. A door to the past firmly shut.

Red clover, red clover, send my babies back over.

Then the light changes and I drive on, leaving the nostalgia behind me in the intersection, because I must. It’s the way of it. From the very first one, every step they take, is a step away from you. And as a parent, if I do it right, I am supposed to be working myself out of a job.
And I think of the men they are becoming. They are walking away from me now into their lives, one cautiously, one without a backwards glance, and one, it remains to be seen. For them it feels like a light step into the next thing, but to me it feels like tearing. They must increase and I must decrease. It’s the way of it.

But even bittersweet, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. For the refining fire that is being a Mother. They have shown me the limits and limitlessness in myself. They been my greatest teachers. Of all I have been and done I am proudest of them. My face still lights up when I see them.

I am drinking the last of the cup of Motherhood. It is joy, sorrow, fear, longing, hope, pride, and the slightest bit bitter, but in my mouth, it tastes just like love.

I’ve been to two funerals recently. Two “good” funerals. Both were for good people who left us too soon. Both of whom would still be here if it were a matter of who deserves a long life based on merit. I left both services wanting to be a better person.

The first was for Tom, a man I never really knew. The brain tumor that would take his life had already taken his ability to speak and move freely by the time I knew him. I mostly knew him through his wife, who was devoted to him and a wonderful person in her own right. You could see how loved he was though. After he got sick the men in his church small group, that he had poured so much into, brought the group to his home every week, right up to the week he died. Even though he couldn’t speak, they wanted him to feel community.

At his service people who had known him in many different ways spoke, and as they did, they painted me a picture of the teammate, church member, husband, father, brother and friend he was to them. And I could see for the myself the wonderful man he had been. The one thing said about him that has really stayed with me, was that he could always see when someone felt left out and knew how to draw them in. What a lovely gift.

And then I began to realize that I had known him, maybe not the stone itself, but the ripples the stone had caused, that are still going out. His wife’s kindness to me, drawing me in at a difficult time. The families of those men in his small group still diligently serving and living others. The way even in his death he inspired people to be better.

And then there was Rhoda, whom I did know and whom I loved. Who left us a week before her 60th birthday, after fighting two kinds of cancer. I heard so many good things about her yesterday, all of them true and yet somehow not enough to convey her sweet, serene spirit. She would’ve been amazed at the accolades and depth of love poured out for her yesterday, and probably feel she didn’t deserve it. Because part of why she was so wonderful was that she didn’t know how wonderful she was. Many people who knew her in many different ways, all saying the same thing. That from her closest family, to friends, to the custodian at her school, she saw them, that she touched them, that she cared.

And that was when I realized what it was about her. She was really good at loving people, and she just started with the people in front of her, whoever they were. And if you do that for 59 years you can touch a lot of lives and leave a lot of ripples behind you.

So today as I head out into this rainy Saturday, the first of the rest of my life, be it long or be it short, may I remember the lessons. Look for the one who is is left out and bring them in, and love the one who is in front of me, whoever that may be, with everything I’ve got.

I’ve had this post building in me for some time. I only hesitated because it is a tender spot for us women, and the last thing I’d want to do is to imply any criticism of how any woman navigates her path. But, the other day, in the car, my son’s 14 year old girlfriend sighed and said that she was fat. She is of course, beautiful, inside and out, and definitely not fat. I felt an instant and intense despair and wanted to pull over on the side of the road and bawl my eyes out and beg her not to do it. Not to pick her appearance apart for the next 40 years. Not to let the world tell her how she gets to feel about herself, because it never ends, and you’re never good enough. To use that energy to live her life and not listen to the world. As I thought that might be alarming, I did not, but tried to give some words of encouragement, which I’m sure fell on deaf ears. The world being so much louder you see.

“But trying to pass for younger is like a gay person trying to pass for straight, or a person of color for white. These behaviors are rooted in shame over something that shouldn’t be shameful. And they give a pass to the underlying discrimination that makes them necessary.”-Ashton Applewhite

So, I turned 50 this year, and I’ve been thinking alot about getting older. For the most part, I’ve never felt more like myself than now. I know what is important, and what is not. I know that everyone is not going to like me no matter what I do. I know what’s worth my time (the people in my life) and what’s not (almost everything else). I know who I am, and who I’m never going to be now, and I’m okay with it. On balance, I’ll do. And I have a wonderful, rich, satisfying life.

On the other hand, the aging process has accelerated in a way that’s undeniable. I’ve crossed some line away from youth and beauty, and will never be on the other side of it again. It has been a bitter pill to swallow. Hard in a way I never expected. I was an ugly duckling, that became a swan in college. There was a season when my looks were the first thing people noticed about me. I grew to like the attention. I liked the power. I liked the pretty girl perks. That’s really a thing, and you get used to it. And then one day, it’s gone. Eventually, it’s gone no matter what you do. There comes a day when no one looks good in a swimsuit anymore. Then where are you? Do you let go gracefully or leave claw marks on it as it goes? Because it is going. That’s the choice. I remember an older friend telling me long ago that it was a blessing when her looks were finally gone, when female attractiveness was completely off the table. That it was the first time she ever felt that she was just herself. I begin to see what she means now, and I see it in myself. The panicky flurries of activity towards preserving, seeing if I’ve still “got it”. But longer stretches now of just being okay with letting it go. I had my turn. It’s their turn now. To hold on seems sad and somehow ungrateful. And it turns out none of that stuff was really me anyhow.

And what about the world, always telling me to try a little harder? Don’t let it go. It’s okay to be 50, as long as you’re actively trying to look 30. What’s wrong with looking 50? Getting older is a blessing, not a crime. As an oncology nurse for 21 years, I’ve had a front row seat watching people die that would’ve loved the privilege of growing old.

And then there’s this. Part of what makes my life so wonderful is that I am surrounded by a tribe of women. Many of whom are younger women, who right or wrong, think of me as an example. They look to me and my friends to see how we do this thing called life. Their eyes are on me, and if I’m going to be an example, then let me be a good one. A brave, unflinching, unapologetic one. Let me walk into my old age shoulders back, head held high. Still as much me, as I ever was. Maybe more so.

So I’ve decided to just be 50. The way it looks on me. Warts and all. My self imposed rule is that I can adorn and accentuate but not alter, and not pretend. I stopped coloring my hair after my 50th birthday bash. I have a couple of inches of gray shot through my hair now. And it does make me look older. But you know what? I’ve earned them. And I have a Mom bod, because well, I’m a Mom. I made, carried, birthed and fed three babies. This old body brought three wonderful human beings safely to the planet. The thing I’m proudest of in my life, my children. Truthfully, I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret model before all that, and that ship has definitely sailed now. But I can run and I can dance and hike and skate and play. I will continue to exercise so that I will be able to play in the floor with my grandchildren, should I have that privilege. And so that I can have a joyful old age like my Mother-in-law Jean, and my Grandmother Magdalene. And when the face in the mirror catches me off guard and tempts me to feel sorrow for what is lost? May I remember that I have lines on my face because I laughed, and because I played in the pool with my kids, and spent sunny days in the park and at the ballfield. I wouldn’t take anything for that.

My aging face and body are a road map of the wonderful years I’ve spent on the planet and the inexorable work of the nature that I love so much. It will one day require me to return to it this wonderful home for my soul that my body has been, and I hope to do so with grace. So, I’ve decided. This IS 50. I’m going to own it. Besides, trying to be young and beautiful is alot of work anyway, and I’m tired. Can I just quit holding in my stomach now?

“Every single person has at least one secret that would break your heart.”-Frank Warren

I sat across from someone recently and she told me something about herself that I didn’t know. And as she did, everything about her suddenly made sense, her approach to the world, the way she carries herself, the things that matter to her. That one truth made everything about her fall into place like tumblers in a lock. Click, click, click, click. A door swung open into her life and I could see her then. All forward motion, trudging through life holding the edges of her wound together and dabbing quickly at the few drops of blood that came through. Always on her feet, enduring. A brave little girl, strong and fierce.

She walked out of the room, and you could see that she was lighter. She left it in my lap when she did and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I felt pinned to my chair by the weight of it, unable to move until I cried the tears she never got to, and acknowledged the sorrow that wasn’t allowed expression. Secrets are heavy. You’d think between being a nurse and being in recovery for this long that I could no longer be surprised by what people go through, by what we do to each other. Maybe not surprised, but I’m always still sad. But wounds can be healed, and heavy things can be set down. There is nothing better than being a part of that process. The only thing better than having the miracle happen for you, is to watch it happen for someone else. It’s sweet and it tastes just like redemption.

As I walked away, I thought of all the people I see every day, with one thing I could know that would help me understand them. And I don’t always get to know what their one thing is. In fact, I won’t get to know it for most people, but it’s there. So many, bravely walking through the world holding themselves together, and doing the best they can. Each, a precious child of God, to be loved as much as possible, or at the very least treated with gentleness and respect. Because God loves them, and so must I. Because even when I don’t, He always knows the one thing you could know.

“I can see Your heart eight billion different ways. Every precious one a soul you died to save. If You gave Your life to love them so will I.”-Hillsong

“And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.”-The Beatles

Jackson had his last chemotherapy on a cold day in 2012. We hit the five years off of therapy mark this past January. That’s the point where they start to use the other “C” word, the good one. I just content myself with watching him grow and say to myself: 

“It’s a good day.”

 

February 14, 2012-CBJ

“So pack your bags, head out the door. You don’t need chemo anymore.”-Clinic 8 Nurses End of Chemo Song

Well, a procrastinator by nature, I have put off making this entry, perhaps because I don’t know how to sum up this experience in mere words. Still, I must try because this will be our last Caring bridge update. I have decided to turn my face to the future and go forward. It is time to think about something else, to BE something else than “that family that has a child with cancer”.

As we neared the end of treatment I wrestled with the angel over my fear of being “off therapy”. Even though the chemo is hard, you feel like you are doing something. As usual, God eventually gave me peace about it and by the time we finished I was able to be as excited as he was.

We had a wonderful celebration trip to Disneyworld with all of our family. Several of us, including me, ran the half Marathon there in Jack’s honor for LLS Team In Training. It was so symbolic and moving to finish the race and cross that finish line as my baby crossed his. All the fundraising that my family has done for LLS is in the neighborhood of $65,000, all for research. All in the hopes that maybe one day there will be a cure. We call that paying it forward. It was such a wonderful time of fun and family. In fact, the day of the race, the whole joyful day, I count as one of the happiest days of my life. Rarely in life is something as good as you hoped it would be, but this was. And didn’t we ALL deserve it?

By the time he took his last pills on Friday, January 13^th, it was kind of anti-climactic. He has felt great and I notice that he is already starting to have color again. We go for our first monthly check up on Friday, and I feel that all will be well. We will have monthly visits for the first year, then every 2 months for the second year, every 3 months for the third year and so on. He will be considered cured 5 years after the end of treatment.

So, now we come to the end of the road. How can we ever thank you? We could never have survived this all so well without the love, prayers and many kindnesses shown us. How could we completely regret this ordeal when it introduced us to so many wonderful people and organizations that we would never have gotten to experience otherwise? We can’t imagine our lives now without our “c” family friends, Make A Wish and Camp SAM. We got a chance to see God’s real presence in our lives and His love in action through all of you. Yes, it’s been a million dollar experience, but I wouldn’t give you a nickel for another one just like it!

So, from now on no news is good news. You can assume that we will be out devouring life. We have learned nothing else, if not this, to enjoy every moment of every day. I will continue to pray for you all and thank God for you. And I hope that we will meet you along the road as we go.

God bless you,

Mary

“May the LORD repay you for what you have done.”-Ruth 2:12

 

 

Epilogue

April 24, 2015-North Sokol Park

Tonight baseball practice has run long. When we get home there will be the homework, shower, bed gauntlet to be run. All around me parents are beginning to grumble.

But as for me, it is a warm spring night and I sit under a blanket of stars. A breeze rolls in from behind the trees, and with it the smell of fresh cut grass, and red dirt and sweaty little boys. I hear crickets, and bats clanging and children shouting.

And in right field I see him, my little boy, the one that almost got away. He is running, running, running away from me now, looking over his shoulder and laughing. I could stay here all night.