Auf Wiedersehen, Papa

 My earnest-yet-irreverent, larger-than-life, sincere-yet-witty, gentle giant of a father graduated from the burdens of this earthly life at 6 am on the first day of autumn.

My sister, stepmother, and I were with him.  There is so much to say--about God's mercy, about the timing of it all, about the brutal last hours, about what it feels like now that I have witnessed both of my parents die--and neither were pretty, easy deaths.  But I don't wish to say much at this point.  Only that I believe God is in all our tomorrows.  He is ever-present.  He has experienced a painful, traumatic death.  So I trust Him.

Somehow, through the grace of God, I was able to eulogize my father a week after his death without a meltdown. It was so, so good to do that.  It felt right.

After two weeks in Charleston, I came home to the mountains and found that fall had descended; the door on summer was resoundingly closed.  Crisp mornings, swirling leaves, turning colors.  

The season has, once again, irreversibly shifted.

Auf weidersehen, Papa. Godspeed. And thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rejoicing Always

Today is August 7th, which I realized means it has been nearly an entire month since I last wrote here!

Time flies.  

The children and I spent nine nights in Charleston last month, visiting my sweet Dad and stepmom.  I am so thankful for the flexibility to spend so much time with him, so thankful for the gift of technology so that I can enjoy my daily phone call with him (we talk anywhere from half an hour to over an hour nearly every day!), so thankful for everything I see God doing in this situation.  He is doing so much. He is orchestrating everything.  I just know He's in total control. 

Dad starts two weeks of whole brain radiation tomorrow.  Will you pray for him?  He is a little rattled by the possible side effects--things like memory loss--and I can't blame him.  Even so, his courage inspires me.  And he never complains.  My specific prayer requests are: 1) that the brain radiation has a minimal or zero impact on his memory and personality; 2) that it is effective in eliminating the tumors in his brain so that his life can be extended; 3) that the side effects aren't painful for him.  

I am leaving on Saturday to spend a week in Charleston--just me.  The children will stay home with my husband.  I wanted to have the time *just me* to focus on helping with driving to daily radiation appointments, keeping house, moral support.....again, this is such a blessing and I'm so thankful for all the support I have at home to make this happen.

*  *  * 

Today in church the sermon was on 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18. As soon as the pastor began reading the Scripture my children turned to me and smiled: this is one of our memory verses from last year!  And it is so apropos to our lives right now!  "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." I love this verse because it contains God's will for our lives; as the pastor put it today: be joy-full, prayer-full, and thank-full! 

During a hard time I tend to have little practices I fall back upon to keep myself healthy and high-functioning, and I've been focusing on those this summer: exercise, eating well, *lots* of sleep and rest, not over-extending myself, doing my daily tasks a little slower than normal, and looking for the sweet and joyful aspects of life every day.  Every night I have so much for which I am thankful!  

My children (and I, I guess) have two more weeks of full summer. Then Finn begins two online classes, and Annie will start her math and history work with me.  The week after that, Finn begins Spanish 3, and the week after Labor Day, they both add in two more online classes each.  I think that "slow" start makes a lot of sense for us this year!  The next month, three months, six months....all of it...are just a big question mark.  We are going forward with Normal Life plans: The Nutcracker in December, piano lessons, the boys' Big Trip Out West*. And we are holding it all lightly.  I have lived in this in-between place before and it is sanctifying. 

In the midst of everything, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are growing quickly and are the best entertainment, we are having major landscaping done on our side yard soon, and our children are healthy and growing!

*The Boys' Big Trip Out West: in a couple of months, my husband is taking Finn to Oregon!  They are going to spend two nights in Portland, and then three nights on the coast and three nights in the Hood River area.  If anyone has any recommendations for anything interesting to see or do in northern Oregon, let me know!  My husband has done lots of research and planning already, but it's always nice to hear what others think.  We love Oregon!  We spent a week out there in 2002, but we did the southern part of the state, and the boys won't have time to drive everywhere, so they're focusing on the Cannon Beach area and the Columbia River Gorge. I'm happy for them!

Accept Each Day

 "I always liked routine and rhythm.  They help me recognize the gifts that, quite often, we fail to see as gifts because they seem dull and unimportant--essentially, life itself.  Liberation occurs only through acceptance."

and

"One has to accept each day and everything in it as a gift from God, and transform each day into joy.  If all the details of my life...are not giving joy but are only a burden, then it is really my sin, my selfishness, my laziness."

Oh, how I appreciate Father Alexander Schmemann! 

These quotes, particularly the second one, hit home with me the other night when I was reading through his journals.  I have lived this over and over and over again.  I have lived the joy of every single mundane day as well as the burdensome feeling of joylessness that I can trace back to my own sin. There have been excruciatingly difficult days when I felt completely overwhelmed by joy. There have been relatively "easy" days when I have felt cranky and burdened.  The difference truly always seems to be my own attitude, my own willingness to accept each day as a gift. We are given so many opportunities in life, every day, to take joy.  

I pray that God will always give me the grace to transform each day into joy, no matter what the days bring.  Amen.

Our Daily Bread

I've been reflecting this summer on this phrase from the Lord's Prayer: give us this day our daily bread. What is daily bread?  I think it's what we need, when we need it....no more and no sooner.  Like the wandering Israelites, we need sustenance, but sometimes we need even more to rely on God and trust that He will give us that sustenance as we need it. Just enough for today. Just enough manna, or food, or money, or courage, or faith, or strength, or hope.

I would truly appreciate prayers for my sweet Dad (pictured here with me as a baby and my Grandma Polly...as well as my beloved Madame Alexander doll...I still have her!).  

We learned last week that immunotherapy has failed for him, and the cancer is now back in his liver, and has also spread into his abdomen, spine, and brain.  His oncologist started him back on chemo almost immediately, and yesterday he met with the radiation oncologist, because he'll have two weeks of brain radiation to try to lessen the numerous cancerous lesions in his brain. And last night he had to spend the night in the ER due to a bit of cancer-related fallout.

My children and I were due to go to Charleston on July 13th, and still plan to hold to that date, but it cannot come soon enough, and if I need to, I'll leave sooner.  

Whole brain radiation is no walk in the park.  Please pray for this sweet guy.  Give him, this day and every day, his daily bread.

Summering, So Far

I have gone almost the entire month of June without writing anything here, but it's not for lack of living! Just lack of time to write a blog post about all the living....

Life with Bingley and Darcy is excellent.  We love the gentlemen! They are fully settled-in, and next month, after their rabies shot, they'll be able to frolic outside, too. This is good because Darcy has already proven himself a ready and willing hunter: he loves catching houseflies. 

Finn turned 15 (FIFTEEN!!!) this month.  On my walk this morning I was thinking about my little tow-headed toddler who used to walk down the lane with me, picking Queen Anne's Lace, is now a somewhat tow-headed teenager, asking to drive down the lane!  This month he's finishing math, doing his standardized testing, learning the Arabic alphabet, working a couple times a week on the farm for my cousin, and starting a bit of work as a research assistant for a writer friend.  That's my Finn.

 This week Annie is at a church day camp 15 minutes away; she's enjoying it so far.  But I feel wistful every time I drop her off; she seems so old, so capable, yet still so little (she's 11.5, but pretty dainty for her age).  

My husband's cousin got married last weekend, and it was one of those epic, memorable receptions: a sit-down dinner for 300, a photo booth, fun music, sparklers, a conga line, and hands-down the finest best man's toast I've ever heard, a beautiful tribute by the groom's brother that didn't fail to mention their father, who died nearly two years ago.  I'm not sure anyone listening could have possibly made it through the speech with a dry eye; I know I didn't. 

My Dad is hanging in there, and we return to Charleston on July 13th for a week.  We hope to spend a few days at the beach and a couple days visiting cousins (from opposite sides of my family!) who will serendipitously be in town at the same time!  I'm looking forward to it; I want to see my Dad. He has a PET scan this Friday to check on some bone lesions that were spotted on his most recent CT scan; I appreciate prayers for that. "No cancer in the bones" would be a very acceptable request. :)

I'm reading and thinking and journaling a lot, and working to finish my "light edit" of the first draft of the book I wrote, so I can send it to my First Reader: my college best friend, who is now a professor of English literature, who kindly offered to be my first reader when she heard about my book. It's a scary thing, to have someone read your stuff, and I trust her: she knows literature well, she knows me well, and she has already published her own book, so she understands this process. Finding the time to work on my little novel while also exercising, managing the house, taking care of children, organizing life--well, it's a challenge. But somehow, miraculously, it is happening. 

I met with a landscape company this morning to start discussing a Big Project: landscaping our northeast side yard! The fence line was moved last year, but we were stymied in our plans and progress by the staggering amount of boulders and briars that flourish in that area.  So we've decided to leave it to the professionals (we hope).  We're going to create a plan to grade, move rocks, and landscape--making the area both easy to maintain and yet also still charming and interesting.  The landscape designer said "this will be easy and fun" and I had to laugh, as those are two adjectives my husband and I would NOT apply to our experience with trying to move rocks and deal with briars.  Heavy equipment makes all the difference!

Our children's bathroom is still coming along--well, it was, but we're now waiting for my excellent-but-bad-at-scheduling tile man to tile the walls.  It'll happen eventually; for now, I like to go in every couple of days and enjoy the cool marble on my feet and the prettiness of the blue-grey cabinet. Photos soon!

And above all these things, and better than all these things, I truly believe God is revealing Himself to me in new ways this month.  I have been present and paying attention; I've been asking, seeking, knocking.  I let go of social media for a while which helps quiet the mind (I've found), and I read something really illuminating (which wasn't even in a "religious" book at all!) earlier this month--maybe I'll share it sometime.  The older I get the more I find that my faith, my religious experience, my processes of sanctification, are outside of what anyone might think when they think of "spiritual growth."  Formal Bible studies have their place, but for me it has come less from a highly-organized approach to study and much more from just reading the Bible itself, praying, writing, and sitting still. When I sit still, when I stop overthinking and over-planning and overdoing, and make margin in my life (not to fill the margin up with more stuff, mind you! but to have simple space), that's when the Lord's revelation occurs.

I feel I'll be back to writing more here now!  There's always so much to say--it's just so hard to find the time to say it!

Alvin's Bible

 Our family inherited this tiny little Bible from the estate of a family friend. 

I just love the inscription, from "Mother." I am fairly sure she gave it to him when he went to college.

"Read and study it every opportunity and you will find strength and help for every need." 

Yes and amen. 

The Already and the Not Yet

My husband and I were recently discussing vacation plans for this year, and realizing all the limitations we were bumping up against.  Quebec City?  The kids don't have passports yet.  The Gulf of Mexico?  Our car isn't reliable enough, and have you seen rental car prices lately?*  Utah?  Have you seen flight prices lately?**  Also, there's the unknown of my Dad's condition. We know how he is now.  But how will he be in three months? In six?  We need to stay flexible. My husband will be extremely busy at work this summer.  And both our children will be enrolled in classes next year, so there's that factor: they'll have a more traditional school schedule starting in late August. And, finally, I am already doing lots of traveling back and forth to Charleston. So. We wait. We decided to probably take a "staycation" here in late August, and just see how everything unfolds.  

{my dad's senior portrait!}

We have been in this place before, and I think it's a place of growth.  I do not believe that it's spiritually healthy to be always able to choose what you want to do, all the time.  I have seen this before in times of uncertainty, and I know we will see it again and again: the unique grace of dwelling in the unknown spaces.  It brings to mind the idea of living in the already, but the not yet.  That is a place of faith all believers have to dwell in at various points in life, and my own experience is that it's the place of good, hard growth.  The pruning and the waiting and the believing.  

{spending a late winter day up on the mountain my in-laws own--that's my father-in-law as guide!}

God provides what we need, when we need it.  He goes before us to pave the way.  This has always been the case.  

{sunset at home}

So as badly as I'd like to go Somewhere New and get some wind in my sails, I feel called to contentment in this season of waiting. And I do see what God is doing in all our hearts.  He's making room for the unknown.  He's cultivating faith in us that all things do work for good.  He's turning our minds and hearts to Him: reminding us that life will happen the way He plans it, in His time.  

{quilt top I found in my other grandmother's attic}

So we are devoting ourselves to living well here in the already, and hoping for good and beautiful things in the not yet.  

*This is due to the current car shortage.

**This is due to the extraordinary price of fuel!

Fear Not

 "Fear not, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

Isaiah 41:10

This verse has been in the forefront of my mind lately.  So much is happening, and has happened, here! 

Very late on Tuesday the 18th, my Dad landed in the hospital yet again with hyponatremia--this time it was critically low and he was almost admitted to ICU.  I spoke with him on Wednesday, and quickly packed my bags, made plans for my children, got myself in order, and left at 7am on Thursday morning for Charleston.  While I was en route his liver biopsy results finally came back and he was given a diagnosis that surprised everyone--even the oncologists.  He doesn't have colon cancer that has metastasized to his liver (which was the initial assumption); he has extensive small cell lung carcinoma. SCLC is the most aggressive type of lung cancer.  The oncologists told him his diagnosis on Thursday afternoon and started him on chemotherapy *that night.*

I stayed in the hospital with him for five nights.  For some reason, God has gifted me with the ability and desire to be a very useful person in the hospital. I can sleep virtually anywhere.  I can survive for a while on very little broken sleep.  (I can't do that indefinitely, mind you!)  For whatever reason I have a huge heart for taking care of all the little details of life (lets put this IV tube over here, and you can sit this way.  Let's call the nurse for a bit more of this.  Let me get you that.  Here, I'll put socks on you.  etc) for someone who is ill and suffering.  Time and time again I've found myself in this role. 

The first chemo treatment was at 2:15 am.  My father slept right through it, but when I heard the nurse come in and start putting on her PPE, I was transported back to the days of my husband's chemo. I remember it all so well. I stayed awake.  

He was released last Tuesday in much better shape than he had been the week before. His sodium had gone from 117 to 130, and he was a completely different person--perkier, steadier, less fatigued, less confused.  My Dad is supersmart, so seeing him suffering from mental confusion was extremely disconcerting to me.  It's amazing what the restoration of electrolytes can do! SCLC causes hyponatremia--so it all makes sense now. 

I had that week in Charleston in the hospital to think long and hard about the entire situation.  There was a lot of processing.  There were a lot of tears. There was a lot of gazing out over the Ashley River, thinking things through. I had a really good talk with my Dad during the night of his second chemo treatment--about faith, about fears, about family, about suffering.  He's ok, at least for now.  But this is hard.  

Right now my plan is to live in Charleston 1/3 of the time: about one week out of every three.  Most of the time I'll be there with either both children or my husband and children, and we'll stay in a hotel (my parents' house has one bathroom, and a cancer patient doesn't need to be sharing bathroom space all the time with 4-5 other people!).  From where I live, it's a roughly 8-9 hour drive.  We are going to do Facetime Spanish classes and Zoom ballet on our weeks down south.  I'm going to try to squeeze in as much love and laughter and care as I can.  After 2-3 cycles of chemo (3 days on, 21 days off=1 cycle), he'll have a CT scan to see if the cancer is responding.  And we'll work from there.

I wish I had time to write right now about all the things the Lord is doing during this time in our lives. I wish I had the time to write about how I KNOW He goes before us, how He has paved the way, how He is in all our tomorrows...but I don't have time right now.  

For now I'll just say that my biggest prayer right now, other than a nice long remission for my Dad (SCLC doesn't typically go into remission easily or for long) and stable sodium levels, and safe travels to and from Charleston in the coming weeks and months, is that this time in our lives will be a time where God helps us all grow in mercies, graces, faith, love, charity, and gentleness. Pray for my Dad, my stepmother, my aunt, my uncle, my children, my husband. 

The day I left for Charleston our contractor came in and demolished our bathroom.  Next time I post, I'll post a little bit about that. Going through a total bathroom renovation at the same time as this diagnosis is interesting timing (to say the least!), but I trust that it's all unfolding the way it should.  

Fear not, for I am with you. 

Yes, He always is.

With Glorious Splendor

                                                            Lo, how a rose e'er blooming
                                                            From tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse's lineage coming

As men of old have sung.

It came, a flower bright, 

Amid the cold of winter

When half-gone was the night.

                                                                   Isaiah 'twas foretold it,

The Rose I have in mind:

With Mary we behold it, 

The virgin mother kind.

To show God's love aright

She bore to men a Savior

When half-gone was the night. 

This Flower, who fragrance tender

With sweetness fills the air,

Dispels with glorious splendor

The darkness everywhere.

True man, yet very God,

From sin and death He saves us

And lightens every load. 

*           *          *

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

In Defense of the Ordinary Life

The acronyms "FOMO" and "YOLO" are two little indicators of the type of culture we live in today.  "FOMO" means "fear of missing out" and YOLO means "you only live once."  I dislike both of these acronyms and the things they represent, and I'll tell you why: they undermine the value of an ordinary life. 

"Ordinary" means, among other things: standard, commonplace, normal. 

The rise of social media has somehow catapulted us into a sphere hitherto unknown to humanity.  Suddenly instead of "keeping up with the Joneses"--that is, our nearby neighbors who probably have similar incomes, values, lifestyles, and means (which is bad enough!)--we are keeping up with everyone.  We have windows into the lives of people whose capacity and tolerance for debt may be much higher than our own, or whose incomes are astronomically more than our own, and somehow we may find ourselves thinking that those lives are more satisfying, interesting, or more meaningful than our own.  

Even people who purport to laud domestic life on social media platforms or in magazines are often doing it with an agenda: to sell a book or product, to gain an income through advertising sales or commissions, et cetera.  I'm not saying that this is wrong, but I'm saying that those of us who consume this type of media must be extremely cautious to take it all with a grain of salt.  Annie Dillard once wrote that when she reads some books, she can tell they were really written to become films, and "I smell a rat!"  I feel the same way at times. We live in a capitalist society and I'm glad we do. But the phrase caveat emptor applies to all consumption, including the consumption of other people's lives via media platforms. 

What if:

*you never have a net worth of seven figures?

*you live in an ordinary, unremarkable home?

*your children are, well, typical children?

*you would never win a beauty contest? Or a fitness competition?

*you are not always highly organized, efficient, and motivated?

*you never leave the boundaries of your own country?

*your clothes are primary culled from thrift stores? Or perhaps homemade?

*you don't eat sumptuous, Instagram-worthy meals--you just eat nice, normal food? Maybe from your garden?  That is also not Instagram-worthy, because of weeds? :)

Is your life, then, an unworthy one?  We would all say no--but would we really believe it?

I always return to the question: how did Jesus Christ live?   His life was the most remarkable human life that ever existed, and yet he wasn't born into riches.  He probably grew up in a relatively unremarkable home.  We don't know what he looked like, but most indirect indicators in the Bible would point to the idea that he was a fairly average-looking man.  He never traveled the world.  He did feast on occasion, but more often than not, he was likely eating humble meals.  I don't know what he wore, but given his life circumstances, I'd be surprised if he were richly-robed.

And yet he lived the most meaningful life--he changed the world in a mere 33 years, and he did it through loving and serving others. 

Fear of missing out?  Dave Ramsey says one way people get into debt is that they spend money they don't have to impress people they don't like!  (I'd add: or to impress people they don't even know!) This is a funny saying, but all too true. I think people often pursue things in order to report about it on social media--again, spending money they don't have (or could use elsewhere) to impress people they don't know.  The only "fear of missing out" I have--and I'm being absolutely genuine and honest on this point--is the fear of missing out on loving my family.  If my eyes are fixed elsewhere and my energies directed at chasing down some sort of "ideal" lifestyle, I'll have less time and attention to devote to the thing that matters most to me.  

You only live once?  Well, that is true.  We only live for a short time on this earth, and then our lives are over.  Isn't that a key reason to be intentional and thoughtful about how we spend our years, months, days, and hours?  Isn't that a good reason to enjoy the things that truly matter, and celebrate every day as a gift? I think so! But what "YOLO" in its popular application misses is that the purpose of life is not merely the pursuit of our own pleasures and goals (the "bucket list" phenomenon). And I think it also misses that there is an eternity beyond this life.  Can we make decisions in our lives that impact eternity?  I do believe so. 

I am in no way saying that my values must be the values of everyone else!  But I am a contrarian when it comes to modern culture.  I believe an ordinary life is a gift, and those of us who have them are called to live them with purpose, joy, and dignity.

 I wake up, drink coffee.  I take walks, pick squash bugs off the pumpkin plants. Check the roses for Japanese beetles. I read the Bible and pray for people. I put on an apron and make breakfast. I read to my children from Proverbs.  I make my bed, clean the bathroom. I help a child with math, another with spelling.  I bake banana bread.  I sweep the floor. I teach a child how to use the sewing machine. I clean the windows.  I hang out the laundry.  I harvest lavender.  I make dinner.  I read to someone, correct someone.  I check on a neighbor or friend. I listen to my husband's report of the day.  I decide where to spend money and where to save it.  I help brush teeth with braces.  I tuck children in and try to listen and patiently respond to their concerns when I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I pack my husband's lunch.  I try to read a book.  I go to bed.  And then I get up and do some combination of things all over again the next day! Hundreds of times a year, nothing particularly remarkable about any single day, except that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  

Or, to quote George Eliot--who is my new favorite author right now--

"Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible.  Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth.  But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs."

God bless the unhistoric acts, the hidden lives, the faithful souls living perfectly ordinary lives. 

 I do suspect these lives are, at the end of them, the very best lives of all.  

The Birthday Turtle

Today my mother would be 72 years old.  

Twenty years ago today was her last birthday on this earth.  She turned 52.  She died unexpectedly 10 months later.

I took a beautiful morning walk today, but it wasn't until I sat down with my devotional and looked at the date that I realized today is May 23rd.  "Oh!" I exclaimed to my husband, "it's my mother's birthday!"

Then I got busy with my day.  I am helping my sister with a real estate transaction.  I also have a huge weekend project going: cleaning out and organizing our garage!

As I was working in the garage around lunchtime, Annie came running down to me from the side yard. "Mommy! Come quick! Quick!"

I walked to the front yard, where a little box turtle was making its way from our flower beds to our ornamental shrubs.  We exclaimed over it, picked it up, took video, talked in silly voices, and generally just stood and admired it for a little while.  Then we went inside to have lunch.

Later in the afternoon, my husband had the radio on as I was cleaning in the garage, and a song came on that my mother loved.  "Oh," I thought, "Mom loved this song."  And then like a little breeze that wafted past, I realized again, it's my mother's birthday.

And then I cried.  God had winked at me, and I almost didn't see it.

You see: my mother loved turtles.  She LOVED them!  She would pull over on the side of the road and move them out of the way.  She just thought they were so sweet.  And I've had some strange little turtle instances over the years since her death.  After my miscarriage, a turtle appeared in our yard.  One day in law school I was feeling miserable (not long after she'd died), and a turtle showed up right in front of the school.  Et cetera: this has happened multiple times, so much so that when I am unhappy, I almost long to see a turtle for comfort!

I just couldn't believe that when Annie came to show me the turtle, I didn't make the connection! I was so distracted with my tasks and activities (did you know that there are apparently millions of types of screws in this world?  and that I'm sorting them all? does everyone have a husband who has every type of screw ever known to man in his garage??) that when we were enjoying the turtle, I didn't even think of my mom. We see a turtle in our yard maybe once a year, maybe more like once every two or three or four years! 

And yet, on her 72nd birthday, God gave me this sweet little gift. 

It truly made my day!  

Cast Your Cares (and Make the Bed)

Spring is here!

I have not gotten to take any photos of it yet, but spring has truly arrived: the daffodils, forsythia, quince, and hyacinth are all in bloom. My cute little snowdrops are also blooming.  Yesterday I spent several hours clearing our garden space to prepare it for tilling (it's time to plant potatoes!) and hunting for asparagus (they're not up yet).  I'm almost done with my March flower gardening, too: all I have left to do is get the winter stuff out of one flower bed area, and prune my roses this week.

Domestic work--especially work that is quite physical--is one of the best foils to anxiety, in my experience.  There's something therapeutic about pulling weeds, burning brush, baking bread, cooking supper, folding laundry.  Restoring or maintaining order is powerful. When the entire world is way beyond our control, it's good to remember that we can make our home nice!  Set a table, light a candle, eat a simple bowl of soup, clean up.  It really does help. 

There's a lot of bad news Out There these days and I don't know anyone who hasn't been already affected in some way by the COVID19 virus.  Our own lives have downshifted significantly as all our activities outside the house have been cancelled, but I'm enjoying the change immensely because suddenly our days feel free and wide (although we are spending them all at home!).  My husband still has to go to work, at least for now. We are grateful that our income has not been impacted yet, because we have friends whose incomes and businesses have already destabilized significantly. Strangely, this time reminds me a little bit of my husband's cancer treatment recovery period--a 3- month period when we mostly stayed home and quiet.  It was one of the sweetest times of our lives, although he was extremely sick for a couple of those months.  But there wasn't the underlying, global anxiety that we face now as coronavirus cases rise and the economy tanks. 

And on a very personal level, we are (finally! the testing shortage situation is no joke) awaiting COVID19 test results for a very close loved one.  I dropped groceries off at this person's house today and we FaceTimed this evening, because since their return from another country (with many cases) two weeks ago, we've not been able to see them. We miss them, and they miss us!

I am known around these parts as someone who does not worry.  It's true; in general, I don't.  At a time like this, I think the best things we can do (other than conscientious hand-washing and good hygiene, and of course staying home as much as possible for a little while) are--

praying to God for peace, healing, and joy

and

making things nice for ourselves and our families.

It doesn't take much to make things nice: a lit candle, a quiet time of prayer before bed, fresh laundry, good (even if it's very simple) food, a nicely-set table, a neatly-made bed.  In our culture I believe people tend to scoff at these as unimportant, but they're life-giving!  

Back during my husband's recovery period, every morning after he got up from his fitful night of Not Sleeping, I aired the bedroom.  I changed the pillowcase, aired and then made the bed, and sprayed the room with my favorite air freshener scent. I cleaned the bathroom, cleaning out and sanitizing the suction machine he had to use for his mucositis. I got everything spic-and-span, and tried to keep a little bouquet of something in the bathroom and bedroom--I recall a lot of sage, since I had a lot on hand at that time in the flower beds!  Just the tiny ritual of taking a few minutes to get the room nice and airy and clean made such a difference.  And, even better: it costs very little, or nothing, to do these simple things like making a bed, opening a window, cleaning a bathroom.  But it does a lot for morale!

So I encourage you to just do whatever tiny, inexpensive thing you can think of this week to make life a little nicer for yourself and anyone within your immediate sphere of influence.  Pray about your worries and anxieties. 

"Cast your cares on the Lord

and He will sustain you;

He will never let 

the righteous be shaken."

-Psalm 55:22

The End of Herself

In church last week our pastor was preaching on the woman who had the bleeding illness for 12 years, and was healed after simply touching the bottom of Jesus' garment. During the sermon our pastor was trying to express the severity of this woman's plight: she was outcast from her community, she was sick, probably anemic, she'd spent all her money on doctors and had not gotten better, "she was," our pastor said, "at the end of herself" when she came to Jesus and just tried to touch the hem of his robe, in faith that she'd somehow be healed.  And she was.

This phrase stuck in my mind because I felt it described how I've been recently.  No, I do not have a disease that has caused me to lose all money and hope of cure, so that's not really what I mean. But I have been overwhelmed, exhausted, and confused.

We started school back in July.  This seemed reasonable; we'd missed a lot due to my husband's cancer treatments in 2018, and the long, lazy days of summer seemed to almost beg for a little more structure.  We did a bit of schoolwork and also went to the pool and spent tons of time playing outside, and that was alright. But as August progressed, and our fall schedule loomed, I grew weary. At one point I told my husband "I'm feeling burned out."  And he looked at his watch in jest.  "I KNOW!" I responded. "It's only August! This is not good."

For the first time ever, I was genuinely tired of being both the teacher and the mother.  I just wanted to be the mother! I wanted to be in charge of the fun things, but not responsible for anyone's educational experience.  The idea of school exhausted me. I texted a few friends for prayers.  This isn't good, I noted, because I'm already such a minimalist that I can't cut anything else out!

Contemporaneously with all this, I was diagnosed with a physical issue that had caused some trouble for a few months.  It appears to be relatively minor, but it's annoying.  (I'm being sent to an oncologist next week for a second opinion to be SURE they think it's minor; I feel confident that it is.) So I began to change my diet and sleep routine in an attempt to heal the issue naturally, since the only medical treatment is a major surgery that I definitely want to avoid!

I'm a champion sleeper, but recently I've found myself awake at 3a.m. some nights, blinking into the darkness and not quite sure why. I'm more scattered than usual. I have forgotten things, dropped the ball, and gotten confused. I missed an appointment.  I lose things. I'm highly organized most of the time, and for the past couple of weeks I've been....barely organized!  It's strange, and a little unsettling.  I'm worn out for no apparent reason.

A friend was talking to me about this by the clothesline a couple weeks ago and she reminded me that last year was a very intense year for our family.  Two cancer surgeries, multiple biopsies, multiple PET scans, living out of the state for a couple of months, radiation and its severe side effects, feeding tubes, dealing with insurance, chemotherapy, etc.  It could have been so much worse, and as a Pollyanna-type I always look on the bright side.  We had an amazing support system, our insurance paid for early everything my husband needed without issue (except that sometimes I had to do a few things on my end to get that done)(and this was probably about $1,000,000 worth of treatments), and his employer was wonderful.  So, I felt that although we were going through a hard time, we had so many blessings all around us. I still feel that way. 

My friend pointed out that last year my job was holding space for everyone.  Holding space for my husband's illness and then healing. Being everyone's emotional support.  Running our lives as smoothly as I could. And I did this well--because I cut way, way back on my expectations of myself and others.  And maybe, after all this caring for others, even in a quiet, simplified way--maybe I'm just worn out. 

And in the midst of all this mental scatterbrained behavior, physical jumble of symptoms, and general homeschool burnout, our academic year was starting with many obligations: piano and violin lessons, Spanish class, co-op, ballet lesson, robotics club.  I felt--feel--like I'm drowning and want to just stay home and mulch my flower beds and organize the closet, but these outside activities are things that we genuinely value!

I talked to/emailed a couple of wiser homeschooling mothers who have done this for longer than I have (like Sarah! my kindred spirit in the Pacific Northwest) to get some advice.  Sarah helped a lot, sharing her perspective on what really matters in the years before high school, and how to deal with things when Life Overwhelms (she has been there!).  Everyone says, in essence, do less.  Give yourself grace.  It's alright to feel burned out.  Scale back.  Which is funny because of course this is the advice that I give to others when they're dealing with crises....it's just that I'm not in a crisis. I'm just....tired. 

Last night as I blinked into the darkness at 3am, tears of frustration in my eyes, I felt like I had reached "the end of myself."  Whatever is wrong with me is obviously something that a perfectly-organized home and precise schedule can't solve; in other words, I can't pull myself up by the bootstraps. I can't manage my life to get rid of this problem.  Last year was a year of true surrender for me, and last night I realized--once again--I need to keep that posture of surrender.  So often I throw my energy into tackling my life, but some things can't be solved by working harder.  I think this problem is only solved by elbowing my way through the thick crowd of noisy distractions and touching the hem of the garment of Jesus.

Seriously.  

Last year when we were home from radiation and chemo and my husband was recovering, we had very slow days. I started my chores each morning by listening to hymns, specifically Page CXVI.  Nearly every morning I listening to "Nothing but the Blood" and repeated this refrain, over and over again.....

this is all my hope and peace

this is all my righteousness 

When we were in that sad, quiet time of slow healing and horrible sickness and feeding tubes and painful mouth sores and waiting for December and the PET scan results, singing this is all my hope and peace while I rinsed dishes was my honest worship, and was the best, most therapeutic start to the day.  It was my reminder of where I put my trust and hope. 

Where does that leave me now?  I'm completely re-thinking my priorities for this fall.  It's funny that I started to write a couple posts on Charlotte Mason minimalism, because it looks like I'm not out of that season at all just yet!  I will continue to write more on that as the year progresses.  

My priorities for this fall are: 

*reading/quiet time every day. Devotional. Journal. Bible.  Thinking. Praying.

*Exercise a few days a week. In my ideal world I work out daily for an hour or more.  And I've done that before! But it's probably not realistic this fall.   I'll give myself grace and aim for 4 days or so per week. 

*taking care of the house in a "good enough" way, not a "perfection" way

*minimalist homeschooling (more on this in another post)

*sleep

...and everything else will just have to get filled in around these priorities.  Or not done at all. :) 

My husband said recently that he really wants to ENJOY this fall. He loves autumn and was so sick last year that he couldn't enjoy it at all.  So pumpkin-carving, leaf-jumping, cider-sipping, gingerbread-eating, and hikes take priority over schoolwork (and, if I'm honest, housework).  After all, he's healthy and he's alive!  We must take time to celebrate this and relish the reality of his healing.  

Last year one practice I had was to try to slow down intentionally all the time. Instead of rushing through my chores, I tried to slowly do them.  Slow down and enjoy fluffing the duvet.  Slow down and enjoy folding laundry.  Slow down while washing dishes.  I suppose I get less done this way, but I definitely feel better when purposefully moving slowly.  As life has normalized for us, my pace has increased.  So I'm dialing it back. Way back!

I'm going to try to be kind and gentle to myself, to sit on the deck or porch each day for a few minutes, get fresh air, knit a dishcloth. Simple things. And I'm going to do them in a spirit of gratitude and thanksgiving, remembering that my hope and peace don't come from my planner (as great as my planner is) or my management skills, they come from leaning on my Savior and turning to Him when I'm feeling discouraged, exhausted, and overwhelmed.  

And that is how I hope to hold onto the hem of His garment.  

The Antidote to Greed

"There is more value in a study of humility and in a single act of it than in all the knowledge in the world. The voice of greed inside us will tell us that there is a lot to do, that if we are going to achieve, to get the promotion, to expand our empire, we will need to keep working. But the voice of God tells us something different. That voice tells us to slow down, to be happy, just to be, to slowly learn the great art of doing not very much and feeling fine about it. This takes some learning, but when we do learn it, it is one of the best antidotes to greed there is." 

  --Graham Tomlin

The view from our deck, where I like to sit and "just be" and feel fine about it!

For the Hungry Soul

A True Lent

by Robert Herrick

Is this a fast, to keep

The larder lean,

And clean

From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still

To fill 

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,

Or Ragg'd to go,

Or show

A downcast look and sour?

No: 'tis a fast to dole

Thy sheaf of wheat 

And meat

Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife,

From old debate 

And hate;

To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent; 

To starve thy sin;

Not bin: 

And that's to keep thy Lent. 

Lent began last week and the daffodils are blooming.  My husband continues to be cancer-free.  I lost my darling grandfather three weeks ago.  My cousin just had her third baby last week.  Life in all of its joys and sorrows continues, and in the midst of it, Lent and the promise of resurrection and eternity.  

Resting at Cherith

I wrote this recently as part of an update on my husband's health for our friends and family, and want to re-post it here in case it speaks to anyone else who is "resting at Cherith" right now.

*               *             * 

Back in 1 Kings Elijah hides himself by the brook Cherith.  This story is in 1 Kings 17, and occurs after Elijah tells evil King Ahab that there will be a drought. God directs Elijah to go hide out by Cherith for a while, and God provides bread, meat and water.  And then, due to the drought, the brook dries up.  Elijah journeys on, at the command of God, to Zarephath.

In my devotional earlier this month I read this:

"The education of our faith is incomplete if we have not learned that there is a providence of loss, a ministry of failing and of fading things, a gift of emptiness....The dwindling stream by which Elijah sat and mused is a true picture of the life of each of us. 'It came to pass...that the brook dried up'--that is the history of our yesterday, and a prophecy of our morrows.

"In some way or other we will have to learn the difference between trusting in the gift and trusting in the Giver. The gift may be good for a while, but the Giver is the eternal love.

"Cherith was a difficult problem to Elijah until he got to Zarephath, and then it was all as clear as daylight.  God's hard words are never his last words.  The woe and the waste and the tears of life belong to the interlude and not to the finale. 

"Had Elijah been led straight to Zarephath he would have missed something that helped to make him a wiser prophet and a better man.  He lived by faith at Cherith.  And whensoever in your life and mine some spring of earthly and outward resource has dried up, it has been that we might learn that our hope and help are in God who made heaven and earth."

--F.B. Meyer, quoted in Streams in the Desert (October 5)(emphasis mine)

I type this, even now, having read it so many times, with tears in my eyes.

I have to trust in God, not in the gifts He gives me. These gifts are lovely and can be good--material things, earthly relationships, good health, etc. but they are the gifts, and "in some way or other" I have to learn the difference between trusting in the gift and trusting in the Giver. It brings tears to my eyes because it is so true! I have to live by faith, believing that "all things work together for good to them that love God." (Romans 8:28)  I have seen this over and over again, not just this year, but over the course of four decades of life.

Right now we rest at Cherith.  We aren't relying on ravens to bring us bread and meat, like Elijah was, and we are materially bursting at the seams (as most Americans are), with more than sufficient food and shelter and clothing.  But I still feel we are living by faith right now.  There are many, many unknowns.  When will my husband be able to eat again? Speak clearly? Taste sweet things? Taste anything? Sleep more than a couple hours at a time? Run? Work? 

And then the bigger looming issue: did it work? Did the three months of surgery, radiation, and chemo do what they were supposed to do?

These are all unanswerable questions right now.  We just have to wait and see.  Like Elijah, we are biding our time here, trusting that this whole situation is unfolding as it should.  I want the gifts very badly (the ability to speak, eat, and sleep--such simple gifts; and complete healing, restoration, renewed health--the bigger gifts). But I truly want to trust the Giver in this process. 

So we rest, we wait, and we trust that God is doing a bigger work here than we can imagine right now. This is our Cherith. And our hope and help are found in God alone. 

Though the Fig Tree

After a tense weekend of waiting, we got the call at 8:30 this morning: the PET scan showed cancer. The doctor wanted us in his office for a biopsy at 3:00 (the biopsy confirms cancer, to be sure the PET scan didn't give a false positive). We talked for a long time, and then he performed the biopsy.

We'll get those results back sometime this week, and we go back to the doctor in a week for further discussion and probably for a needle lymph node biopsy because the PET scan lit up not just in my husband's mouth but also on his neck.  And we can, in fact, feel a mass on his neck.

This is such a surreal time.  In the elevator today I told my husband "I never thought I'd come here again."  When we left the surgeon's office in February I figured I was done with him; we all anticipated that. His surgeon is surprised.  We're all just stunned.  After a six-hour surgery with clean margins, a perfectly healthy 42 year old man with no risk factors comes back into the office 3 months later with cancer on his tongue again *and* in the lymph nodes?!  

Earlier this month I was looking at June, July, and August as an idyllic era of drifting between the garden and the swimming pool. Suddenly it is looking like radiation and chemotherapy.  This cancer appears more aggressive and tenacious than anticipated.  But I have news for it: my husband is the most tenacious human I know! He ran a 4:30 mile in high school, he ran Division 1 track and cross-country in college, he's no stranger to tackling challenges, and he's smart and determined.  

So today I was thinking about how we respond to disappointments, and the phrase "though the fig tree" kept surfacing in my mind.

"Though the fig tree does not bud

and there are no grapes on the vines,

though the olive crop fails

and the fields produce no food,

though there are no sheep in the pen

and no cattle in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength;

he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,

he enables me to tread on the heights."

--Habakkuk 3:17-19

I will be joyful in God my Savior. Yes. I will. 

The Most Exquisite Work

"'Did it ever seem strange to you that good people have so much trouble in this world?' said Courtland, voicing his same old doubting thought.

'Well, now why? What's trouble going to be in the resurrection?  We won't mind then what we passed through, and this world isn't forever, thank the Lord!  If it's serving His plan any for me to get more than what seems my share of trouble, why, I'm willing.  Aren't you?  The trouble is we can't see the plan, and so we go fretting because it doesn't fit our ideas.  If it was our plan now we'd patiently bear everything, I suppose, to make it come out right.  We aren't up high enough to get the whole view of the finished plan, so of course lots of things look like mistakes.  But if we trust Him at all, we know they aren't.  And some time, I suppose, we'll see the whole and then we'll understand why it was.  But I never was one to do much fretting because I didn't understand.  I always know what my job is, and that's enough. I'm content to trust the rest to God. It's a God-size job to run the universe, and I know I'm not equal to it.'"

                                         --The Witness, Grace Livingston Hill

From my devotional reading yesterday: a description of how lace is made in Brussels; the spinning room is darkened, except for a light from one very small window, which falls directly upon the lace pattern that is being spun.  The lace is more delicately and beautifully woven when the worker himself is in the dark and only the pattern is in the light. The devotional goes on to say:

"May it not be the same with us in our weaving?  Sometimes it is very dark.  We cannot understand what we are doing.  We do not see the web we are weaving.  We are not able to discover any beauty, any possible good in our experience.  Yet if we are faithful and fail not and faint not, we shall someday know that the most exquisite work of all our life was done in those days when it was so dark. 

"If you are in the deep shadows because of some strange, mysterious providence, do not be afraid.  Simply go on in faith and love, never doubting.  God is watching, and He will bring good and beauty out of all your pain and tears."

                                          --J.R. Miller, as quoted in Streams in the Desert

Love and Delight

Our folksong this term is "Simple Gifts," an old Shaker song that I've heard plenty of times before, but when we listened to this version of it I found my face wet with tears. 

My children are used to this happening at random moments, but Finn still teased me for crying. 

Why did I cry? Maybe it's the cello, which always gets me. Or perhaps it's Alison Krauss, whose voice I love (we danced to one of her songs as our "first dance" at our wedding reception nearly 18 years ago!). 

But actually I think it's because I realized that my whole life could be summarized by these eight lines. My story, like most stories, is a little complex, and I would not have imagined twenty years ago that it would have led me here. But I did, in fact, come down to where I ought to be. 

Through some truly undeserved and unearned grace I'm here in the valley of love and delight.  Every single day I wake with immense gratitude for it.  

 And yes, our backyard valley is beautiful, but I'm talking metaphorically as well.  I joke that I have stray dog syndrome: you know how the stray dog is so fearful, and then it's always the one most grateful when it finds a home?  

It's like that. Every day.  

Total Eclipse

Sometime in my late teens or early twenties, I read Annie Dillard's essay "Total Eclipse", which is about the eclipse she witnessed in the northwest corner of the country in the late 1970s.  That essay stuck with me for years and years; sometimes I'd dip back into the book and read it again. 

So earlier this year when I realized a total solar eclipse was cutting its way across our country, and that totality would cross South Carolina, I kicked into gear: thinking logistics, contacting relatives for advice, making plans, ordering glasses. My aunt and uncle in upstate South Carolina offered to host us; they live in the path of totality, and we adore them, so that was the perfect solution. 

I had heard several people say "well, it'll be 90% [or 95%, or more] totality here, so I'm not traveling....that's close enough."  From the essay I did not think it was the same thing...but now I know from experience.  

On Monday afternoon I witnessed the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my entire life.  And, as I told my children, I've seen many amazing things.

 I was completely prepared (had read the science, read the essay, knew what to watch for) but nothing could have prepared me for what we witnessed. 

How can you possibly describe it?  

The partial eclipse was interesting in its own right; we stared up at the sun as it slowly disappeared into a thick crescent, and then into a thin one.  Observing the way the sunlight changed was neat.  

But the moments before totality were like nothing else.  The light became weird, silvery, almost eerie.  It was surreal. The air seemed to shift.  The streetlights came on, the cicadas began to chirp...around 2:30 in the afternoon. My skin seemed different: almost like the light in a photograph's negative, or in an old memory. 

Finn and I watched the asphalt on the street in my aunt and uncle's cul-de-sac, searching for the elusive shimmering shadow bands, and we saw them.  That was weird; they were shadows from nowhere, phantom shadows, shaking shadows. 

But when totality hit I was demolished.  I remember staring at the shadow bands, and suddenly things got dark and my husband said "is this it?" and I looked up.  And I definitely gasped, and maybe shouted.  

The deep, dark blue sky surrounded a black circle with the stunning corona glowing around it: truly, like nothing I've ever seen in person.  I shook.  The air was electric with awe.  We could hear others in the neighborhood shouting, and someone set off fireworks a few streets away.  There was an orangey-pink sunset at  all horizons.  My heart raced, and I desperately tried to look, look, look everywhere, before it all disappeared. Everything was a blur: we were all chattering, exclaiming. 

I was filled with both an overwhelming sense of wonder and a heart-wrenching feeling of being totally humbled.  I remember thinking--please, please, let heaven be like this. 

It ended too quickly.  Finn and I saw the shadow race away from us and then we had to put our eclipse glasses back on.  Soon the light returned.  The streetlights went dark again.  The day settled back into itself, business as usual: chatting and sipping lemonade on the front porch swing, reminiscing over photo albums, salmon for supper.

But it took a long time for me to stop shaking.  And I still have tears in my eyes when I think about it. 

My husband, who is impressed with almost nothing, immediately said "we're going to see the eclipse in 2024."  I agreed; I desperately want to see that again.  

The heavens declare the glory of God; 

the skies proclaim the work of His hands. 

Yes. Yes they do.