Milkweed

After watching the sunset over the Muhlenberg Brigade Huts at Valley Forge National Park, my son and I started back towards the car. I kept stopping to take pictures along the way. Brett slowed to a stop so the dog could take care of some personal business and I waited, continuously looking for things to photograph. Across the path from us, the milkweed was turning to seed and I thought how some of them resembled an animal's ears. At one point, I convinced myself that if I stared hard enough, I could even imagine a face between two of them. I kept staring, finally whispering to Brett to look. I pointed, asking if he could see how those two particular milkweed seed pods kind of looked like ears. He was just starting to see where I was pointing when the "pods" moved, turned to the side, giving us a clear view of its body. It paused for a few seconds, then ran into the brush, disappearing from sight. Brett and I looked at each other to make sure we both saw it. What I thought was my imagination actually turned out to be a live animal. Later I spoke to a park ranger and described what we saw, asking if it was more likely a gray fox or a coyote and she told me it was probably a coyote, as gray foxes aren't common in that habitat. She said they had seen a litter of young coyotes in the park. I am so thankful my son saw it as well or I would always assume my imagination had turned into a hallucination at that moment. I'm also thankful for confirmation from a park ranger who knew all about the park and the wildlife that inhabits it.

I had the opportunity to return to South Carolina for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. Since leaving in 1989 as a newlywed, I rarely get back there. Spending time with friends and relatives was so wonderful. One of my high school best friends said something that completely warmed my heart. She said she had always liked my dad. Sometimes the simplest statements can have the most profound effect on a person. This is someone who knows me. Really knows me.

Most of my friends in Pennsylvania know I grew up in South Carolina but they don't know what high school I went to. They don't know who my homeroom teacher was. They don't know which English teacher taught us the word pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. They don't know what I did after school or what kind of music I liked.

And they didn't know my dad.

Even my kids didn't know my dad. He passed away before they were born. Some people stay in the same community all their lives and won't know this feeling, but there is something very special about being around loved ones who knew you "when".

But even those who knew me as a child / teen / tomboy / animal lover / Cyndi Lauper fan / goofball - don't know me completely. They don't know what I do from day to day, what my home looks like, or what car I drive.

There were lots of questions about my cancer journey. I was asked if I mind questions about it and I said definitely not. I am always happy to talk about my experience. Sometimes I worry I'm talking about it too much and boring people. Those who knew me "when" don't really know me now. So we catch up.

Nobody is ever going to be an expert on who I am. Except for the One who created me. He knows my past, present, future, every thought, every feeling, every intention. And He loves me through all of them.

"O Lord, You have searched me and known me.

You know my sitting down and my rising up;

You understand my thought from afar off.

You comprehend my path and my lying down,

and are acquainted with all my ways.

For there is not a word on my tongue,

but behold, O Lord, You know it altogether." 

Psalm 139:1-4

Sunrise Paddle

I shivered as I lowered my kayak into the water at the lake's edge. It wasn't so much the coolness in the air but the nervous anticipation. This would be my first time going out by myself on the lake and it was still fairly dark. Once situated, I pushed off with my paddle and began to make my way towards the middle of the lake where I thought the view of sunrise would be best. My whole body tensed up every time I bounced over the many ripples coming at me. Not only was it my first time out alone, it was also only my third time in a kayak at all. My husband was on the opposite side of the lake. I knew he could sort of see me, in the dim predawn light - a small, unsteady silhouette of nerves and determination wobbling in his direction. He didn't want a kayak because of persistent back problems that would have made it less of an adventure and more of a torture. But even if he were in his own kayak next to me, every paddle that inched me along had to be up to me. This was something I needed to do on my own.

Cancer. Just saying the word sounded wrong. That's something other people get. Everyone knows something about it and when you share the news of a new diagnosis, whoever is hearing it immediately thinks of someone they know. In fact, when I first heard the news, I immediately thought of a former coworker and friend who had passed away from breast cancer. She wasn't the only person I knew who'd had it, but she was the one who came to mind first. The interesting thing about that is, most of the people I told were reminded of people they knew who survived. Could that be because I was hearing the news from a place of fear and others were hearing it prepared to encourage? Who knows?

No matter how familiar we are with a similar situation, there are some parts of every journey that must be travelled alone. Going into surgery for my double mastectomy, I asked a dear older lady from church to come wait with me until I was taken back. We didn't know each other well but she had been on this journey and she was the one I wanted with me. But even she, as much as she understood, could not go into surgery with me.

People want to help. They try. And sometimes they feel pain and loss at just not knowing how to make you feel better. I remember after each of my chemo treatments feeling so miserable but not knowing how to even describe the feeling. My husband would rub my back and helplessly ask, "what hurts?" I didn't have an answer. It wasn't a feeling that had a description. It wasn't really pain. It wasn't really nausea. I just didn't feel... right. I still can't describe it even though I remember exactly how it felt.

And that's how it is sometimes on our solo journeys. It is so specific to us that sometimes, it just can't be explained. But just because we're on a journey of our own, that doesn't mean we aren't seen and heard - even those things we can't put into words.

"Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." Romans 8:26

Unprepared

I tried to follow him through the stream but I lost my balance and took an impromptu seat in the water. He helped me to my feet, hastily offering me his own pants and boots in an effort to salvage the situation. He's the only hunting guide I'd ever worked with but I'm pretty sure that's above and beyond normal expectations.


Once I was settled in my blind, he left me alone in the woods. As his truck drove away, I shook my head. What a comedy of errors this afternoon had been so far. Our hunting camp was an hour away so when I noticed that I had forgotten my phone, there was no going back. Then I realized I had also forgotten my flashlight. Thankfully my husband gave me his spare. Then I dropped my Thermacell at some point on the trail and had to look for it in the woods.

I took a deep breath and leaned back as the mud beneath my chair began to give way. As I slowly sank, tilting to the side, I realized I forgot one more thing. My hunting license. Only 3-4 hours to wait until he returns for me.

My husband and I planned our 30th anniversary trip sixteen months in advance. We went to The Great American Outdoor Show, knowing exactly what we were looking for. We had our list of questions and a deposit ready to hand over to some lucky outfitter. We left that day with an official reservation and a year and a half of anticipation ahead of us.

Less than a week later, I sat in a dark room wearing a paper gown and hearing words I never prepared for... "I think it's cancer."

I wasn't prepared for those words. I wasn't prepared for the rush of questions that followed the initial stunned silence. I didn't ask them. How do you verbalize those questions? How do you even form words? I forget...

I wasn't prepared to spend all my time thinking about cancer. I wanted to spend the next year and a half thinking about my bear hunt!

I just started a new job a month ago. I wasn't prepared to take time off for doctor appointments and chemo treatments. I wasn't prepared to call in sick. I haven't had time to prove myself yet!

Shhhh… be still...  Deep breath... Is this meant to prepare me for something?

When my stony path took that unexpected turn, I noticed a few things:

1. Worry is a waste of time. Worrying comes naturally to me. I can spend hours - days worrying if I really set my mind to it. One thing I noticed recently - worry doesn't prevent bad things from happening. In fact, sometimes the worry can be worse than the actual thing you're worried about. For a while before my diagnosis, I would occasionally have this unsettled feeling that something bad was going to happen. After the news of my diagnosis set in, I felt an odd sense of relief. Like - oh, this is the bad thing. Okay now I can do something about it.

2. Community can be comforting. One thing I wanted to do right away was talk to other people who have been on this journey. It's comforting to talk to someone who knows exactly what you mean when you describe a weird side effect or complicated procedure. It's nice to talk to someone who isn't going to get tired of you always talking about cancer. I was blessed with a pen pal of sorts - my friend's aunt who I've never met in person but was going through the exact same treatment regimen with the exact same diagnosis at the exact same time. We texted each other frequently, comparing notes, encouraging each other, and just being there for each other. Neither of us knew more than the other about how to be a cancer patient. We just navigated it together. I'm thankful for her.

3. Kindness can come from unexpected places. It's uncomfortable going out in public when your head is bald and a bandana does little to disguise it. It's easy to think people are staring at you or feeling sorry for you. I don't like feeling like that. But one time a woman approached me and said "I just felt like God wanted me to tell you He sees you and He loves you." Then she prayed for me right there on the sidewalk. Another time, as my husband and I were having dinner at a restaurant, another family paid for our dinner on their way out. We didn't know until they were gone! So even if some are staring, there's a good chance they are also caring.

I wasn't prepared for this journey. But I'm on it and I'm not alone.

"For I am the Lord your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, do not fear; I will help you." Isaiah 41:13

Butterfly

Identity

There was a lovely butterfly with brightly colored wings
who flew above the flower tops, and other pretty things.

He knew that he was beautiful and that he was adored,
as he was a reflection of his majestic Lord.

One day he overheard a thought that traveled through his head
that maybe he was not so grand as everybody said.

He folded up his lovely wings, decided not to fly,
crawled beneath a maple leaf and there began to cry.

The shadows became comfortable and felt a lot like home.
he crawled around beneath the leaves where wings should never roam.

Soon he heard a voice above - another butterfly -
My friend, why are you hiding here, and what has made you cry?"

He peeked his head out and replied: "I don't know what to do.
It's easier to hide down here than fly up there with you."

The sympathetic butterfly saw he'd traveled far
and said "it looks to me like you've forgotten who you are.

Your wings were made for soaring high - remember what is real.
You'll always be a butterfly, no matter how you feel.

Come out and spread your wings again and let all creatures see
the grand reflection that you are of God's great majesty."

Feeling better from these words and knowing they were true,
he shook off all the dirt and leaves, spread his wings, and flew.

Hibernation

I held a thorny branch to the side to let my daughter pass and pointed to the rock ridge ahead. "We're going to sit right up there." I whispered. Stopping after a few feet, I showed her the ground where the bear had been. You could still see evidence of the kill - a little blood and some scratch marks where we believe another bear had come to investigate afterwards. I hesitated a bit before continuing on. The place we planned to sit for small game was on top of an outcropping of rocks. I knew there was not enough room below them for a bear den but the writer in me was convinced there was, and that we might just wake it from hibernation. 

It's the middle of winter and I'm sick of it. "It" being basically everything. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm completely depleted. I want to hibernate from the cold and from the heaviness of life.

I'm tired of having one-sided conversations where I am the listener, patiently listening to version after version of the same old stories while someone else tries to work through some emotional crisis. I'm tired of being strong for those people and encountering a closed door when I'm ready to share my own struggles or fears.

I'm tired of knowing that some of the people who are supposed to care about me and support me will not be available when I really need something - even if it's just a sympathetic ear or shoulder to cry on.

I'm tired of what I've come to call "combat conversations" where every word I try to speak is interrupted or ignored and I wind up feeling physically exhausted and out of breath for the effort. Then to have to answer the inane question when my frustrated silence is finally noticed: "why are you so quiet?"

I'm tired of being everyone's "yes" girl. I'm tired of taking on tasks that others don't "feel like" doing, only to be told NO when I finally express a need for help.

 I'm tired of being pushed around, ignored, taken advantage of, used, and cast aside.

and I'm sick and tired of that (*^&^$^%$ woodpecker interrupting my thoughts!!!!

 I'm tired of people. I'm tired of being cold. That's all.

Darkness

I turned off my alarm at 5:15 and considered canceling my morning walk with my friend. I was tired. I was unmotivated. It was cold outside. But I didn't want to let her down.  We were unaware of what this day would bring as we walked along. I complained a lot about the cold as we navigated the still-dark and quiet neighborhood streets. We were unaware of what had already taken place  just a few blocks over. After a half hour, we parted ways, wishing each other a good day—completely unprepared for what was to come.

There were two reasons my husband and I moved to Pennsylvania. The first and most important to us was that we wanted to raise our children close to family. We dreamed of big holiday parties and fun outings and picnics—the things large families do. Big dreams are always nice but not to be confused with reality. Things don't always go the way you hope they will.

But that's a story for another day.

The second reason was that there was a shooting in the apartment complex next to ours. In our minds, we were leaving a 'dangerous' area and going to a 'safe' one.

But evil can find it's way into any community.

Several years ago a young girl was brutally murdered two blocks away from us. That had a profound effect on me.

A few months ago a neighbor was shot in the leg right behind our garage. It's scary to think these things can happen so close to your home.

And this week, as I whined about waking up early and whined about the weather, and talked about trivial things with a friend, an unthinkable crime—a domestic dispute-turned-mass-murder—was already in progress just down the road. Hearing the story made me fearful. Later, when the victims' names were released, I felt sick. Two were students at my daughter's school. They rode her bus with her every day. They were kind to her. She considered them friends. One was killed. The other survived.

Waterfalls

We stopped in the middle of the wooden bridge and leaned on the railing, taking in the breathtaking sight. The slight mist in the air wrapped around us, inviting us into the moment, as we watched the water cascading before us. It was beautiful, majestic, persistent and powerful. The water dropped heavily and noisily into a churning, foamy pool below. At the bottom of that waterfall, it was complete chaos. And that kind of chaos is where this story begins...

It was Friday evening. I arrived home from a stressful week at work with nothing on my mind but escaping into some TV crime drama with witty banter and a problem that is solved within an hour. That is not the evening that followed.

Around noon that day we'd had our oil tank filled, and sometime between then and our arrival in the evening, the tank's legs had given out and it tipped over, shearing off the valve and pouring every drop onto the floor. Our basement floor had a drain in it and the majority of the oil began arriving at the wastewater treatment plant well before we knew any of this was happening.

$900 of oil. Gone. And we hadn't even paid for it yet.

That tank might as well have fallen directly on me from the weight I felt. And the darkness. I felt dizzy and sick - at first simply because of the waste of $900. I had no idea how long this dark tunnel was going to be.

I learned a lot of lessons within the first few days of this.

1. People you consider friends may refuse your request for help when disaster strikes, if helping is inconvenient for them.

2. People you think are allies may turn on you when you most need them to be understanding.

3. People you think are your enemies may surprise you by not trying to capitalize on your disaster.

4. And people you don't even know may just surprise you in ways you could never imagine.

I'll only tell one of those stories.

I was at work when I got a call from the chief of police. Already feeling defeated and terrified about what was happening and all its unknowns, I listened with dread to what he had to say. I knew my spill had affected -and angered - one neighbor, so my mind raced ahead of his words, assuming something else had gone wrong; someone else had complained. He introduced himself and said he was proud to serve as chief of police in our community. He said as the chief of police, the concerns of the people in his community become his concerns. My heart was sinking with every word. I was sure this was leading somewhere very bad. Someone he cared about was angry.  He went on to say that he'd heard about our oil spill and that he and some of his "friends in the community" were concerned about our family. Did they think our kids weren't safe? I only heard every few words for a moment while I felt a waterfall hitting me relentlessly, depriving me of oxygen. Until he said something I'll never forget: "we would like to help you - and send you some oil when your tank is ready."

I was suddenly drowning under waves of various powerful emotions: relief that I wasn't in some kind of trouble; astonishment that someone who knew nothing about us wanted to help; gratitude for the unexpected show of concern for our well-being; and an unfamiliar sense of belonging and acceptance in our community.

There were other good things that have happened - and are still happening - in this story. But I hold on to that moment as confirmation that there really are good people in this world.

And they are not always where you expect to find them.