Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Another Year

Image source: Original photo, “Homefire,” 2023.

I’ve been having flashbacks. Last February was so dark for me. Sudden, unrelenting stomach pain led to a CT scan stat, which revealed a necrotic fibroid as large as a 4-month-old fetus. Given my history of breast cancer and Tamoxifen, plus my mom’s recent uterine cancer, we feared the worst.

When I googled whether a fibroid could be cancerous, I didn’t like what I found. Alone one night in my living room before a roaring fire, I bowed myself and begged God for mercy.

Total hysterectomy came on February 27, 2023, just one day shy of the 10-year anniversary of my first breast cancer surgery. Lord, couldn’t You even let me get to ten years?

To our great relief, the doctor saw nothing alarming, and the pathology came back two weeks later all clear. We walked with light steps and joyful hearts.

I still have precious memories of those days, even before our fears were relieved. Praise songs that burst from my soul through my lips. Scriptures that spoke straight to my fears. Friends who encouraged me and brought food and gifts. Our children who called or came from afar to visit. A cozy bed Greg created in our living room where I could enjoy the fire and watch the snow outside. Cats who curled up on the end of that bed, and a dog who slept on the floor by my side.

The other day, Greg and I were discussing cancer survival. “How long has it been?” he asked me. “Ten years?”

“Yes,” I said. Then my eyes grew wide. “No, wait…eleven! It’ll be eleven at the end of this month!” We gazed at each other for a moment, amazed that it had been that long…and that we had almost forgotten.

Of course, I know that cancer could rear its ugly head again at any time. But I’m so thankful for this journey, the ones who walk beside me, and pockets of hope and joy along the way.


Image source: Original photo, 2023.


 

Image source: Original photo, 2023


Image source: Original photo, 2023

Saturday, February 10, 2024

Almost Home

I did it. I finally finished reading Rose From Brier.

Why did it take so long? Almost a year! Starting last March, this book carried me through cancer fears and hysterectomy recovery. It made me feel closer to the grandpa I never knew.

But I couldn’t bring myself to finish reading it. I thought I needed the perfect mindset or setting. Finally, I told myself, “Just read.” So, early one morning, curled up on the couch, with the blinds closed to the world and a lamp lighting the pre-dawn darkness, I turned to the last chapter, “A Door Opened in Heaven.” The chapter begins with a beautiful poem called “Winter,” about the joy that comes after “our falling leaves . . . fall into His hand.”¹ Then Amy Carmichael speaks to those who have no hope of recovery. Hard, beautiful words.

“I was thinking of the long road to the Land at a great distance, and of how very delightful the work of a doctor must be when he can tell one who had expected to have far to walk that the road may be quite short; and of how more than delighted such a traveler must be. . . .”² 

I thought of Grandpa Lloyd as a 28-year-old father who knew he was dying. Did he read this chapter in his own copy of the book? Did he weep as I did? Because I did weep, face crumpled, shoulders shaking, eyes dry as the tears stayed deep in my soul. I wept for those I love who are nearing Home.

Then I went to a funeral. We had two in our church family in the span of 17 days. I don’t enjoy funerals. But Solomon said (and he was the wisest man on earth): “It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.”³ 

The heart is made better! These funerals celebrated life.

The first was for a man who came back to Jesus just weeks before he passed away. His funeral was a comforting testimony of being found by the Shepherd. 

The second was for a 54-year-old man who had inclusion body myositis. Mick lived with this incurable, wasting disease for 13 years. As his uncle described it, “He knew there was no help available, and nothing coming.” But he lived with great faith and a fight for life.

His brother- and sister-in-law sang "Celebrate me Home" by the Perrys, a song that poignantly describes the journey from one place that we love to another.

Then that evening we went to a concert that brought everything to culmination with this song⁴. "Weary traveler, just hold on . . . you won’t be weary long. Someday soon we’re gonna make it Home!” Oh, the power in those words!

Sometimes the road to Heaven seems to stretch on forever, and we long to just be There. Then suddenly we find that Heaven may be just around the bend, and we realize we’re not quite ready. Even then, Jesus never leaves our side.

My friend Carol has just started her own cancer journey. It’s more serious than we all expected. She says, “I have felt an incredible peace throughout all of this; it just has to be the prayers of God’s people! Yes, there were tears this morning after the sobering prognosis from the oncologist, but God is still on the throne and in the miracle-working business. Even though we might not want to go on this journey, He is taking us on this journey and there is no better place to be than with our Savior.”

He is with His children through the breathing half, and all the way Home.


Image source: Nicola O’Boyle, “Rose From Brier,” 2024.


¹ Rose From Brier, p. 202.

² Ibid., p. 203.

³ The Bible, Ecclesiastes 7:2-3 (KJV)

⁴ "Weary Traveler," by Jordan St. Cyr.



Thursday, December 28, 2023

The Final Chapters

My grandfather died at 28 years old, right at Christmastime—December 28, 1948. He was younger than my oldest son is now. His daughter (my mom) was five years old; his son (my uncle) was two.

His God-focus through terminal illness is astounding. He left a lasting impact on the flock he pastored. And his life intersected mine long after he was gone.

In June 2016, I faced my second breast cancer. My friend Tracy, who had survived a brain tumor, gifted me Rose From Briar, Amy Carmichael’s letters “from the ill to the ill (p. 13)” because it had meant so much to her in her own trial. It met me in my darkest place and carried me through the days before and after my surgery like no other book than the Psalms. Written from India in 1933, Brier’s poems and prayerful words are still so pertinent that I pass it along to others who need its peace.

In 2018 we moved to a new home and I unpacked a box of my grandparents’ books. Buried in the stack was an old blue volume with a water lily embossed on the cover. I turned it in my hands. On the spine, gold letters said Rose from Brier—Carmichael. I gasped. Opening it carefully, I read handwritten on the flyleaf: “Presented to Lloyd Smith by the Senior Class of Baptist Bible Seminary, 1942.” The next two pages were filled with signatures of his college classmates, some who had become well-known pastors or professors. Every one added a special Scripture verse. My heart overflowed. The very book that ministered to me had ministered to my grandfather in his own fight for life. I bowed myself and wept.

When my Mom battled uterine cancer in 2021, I gave the book to her, saying, “I think your daddy would want you to have this.” When I faced a total hysterectomy and possible uterine cancer in 2022, I asked to have the book back. Although I had my own paperback, underlined edition, I wanted to hold the hardback my grandpa had read. I kept one copy by my bed, and the other in my devotional basket so that whenever I needed it, it would be close.

As I read the familiar words again, I was struck with the profound insights Amy Carmichael had written almost 90 years before. They soothed my soul, brought me to the foot of the cross. Even after my own pathology came back benign, I kept reading. I wanted to preserve the raw emotions that had thrust me to the heart of God. I didn’t want the book to end.

It has sat unopened for months, the last two chapters unread. Today, as I ponder Grandpa Lloyd’s untimely passing, the last chapter titles seem especially fitting: “Thy Calvary Stills All Our Questions” and “A Door Opened in Heaven.” Even though he left this earth 75 years ago, his legacy lives on. And I’m ready to finish the book.

Saturday, November 04, 2023

Birthdays Look Different

Birthdays look different after cancer.

Many years ago (before my diagnosis), I caught up with a writing mentor who had survived breast cancer twice. She was maybe sixty, which to me seemed pushing old age. “But isn’t every birthday just a joyful celebration?” I asked, thinking she must feel grateful for each year added to her life.

She agreed, but I sensed hesitation. Now I understand.

I turned 56 last week. I’m not happy with the changes and limitations that come with getting older. But I want to be old, because it means I didn’t die young.

And just in case you thought I did, I’ll follow up on my last cliffhanger post.

On March 14, 2023, two weeks after my radical hysterectomy, Greg and I sat in my gynecological oncologist’s office awaiting the pathology results. I knew all too well the fear that fills the sterile room as you wait for the knock on the door, and the words to follow. So I took my knitting and focused on each stitch. Busy hands, calm mind.

A knock. The physician’s assistant entered. I froze, eyes alert to every non-verbal. “Hi!” she said. “I have your results here,” tapping a manila folder. She sat down on a stool, wheeled herself over to me. Then “Oh!” She noticed what was in my hands. “I’m so glad you brought your knitting—or is it crochet?”

“No, it’s knitting.”

She laughed. “Well, I can’t do either.”

“I can knit, but I can’t crochet. My sister crochets, but doesn’t knit. I think maybe different peoples’ brains work differently.”

“One of these days, I’m going to have to learn,” she said.

I held my breath. Why are we talking about knitting? Do I keep this conversation going? She’s killing time, trying to soften the blow…

Then she turned to Greg. “I know Doctor told you he didn’t see anything suspicious.”

Here it comes.

“But it’s still really good news.”

Still?

“It’s all benign.” She opened the folder and painstakingly walked us through all the things they had found in me. My eyes skimmed the page, just in case it said “cancer.” Nothing. Definitely a huge fibroid, and other issues with my endometrium and ovaries, but NO CANCER. Relief came slowly; tears of joy were a bit delayed. A long, painful recovery still lay ahead, but no chemo or radiation. I was walking free! We celebrated with lunch at Cheesecake Factory, and I went home to rest. And knit.

Now, eight months later, I sometimes forget the gift I’ve been given. I take breath for granted. I struggle with life and wish I didn’t have to do hard things.

But I don’t want to forget what God brought me through. I don’t want my story to grow stale. May every birthday, every anniversary, every doctor’s visit, every new scare remind me of my blessings and the privilege of encouraging my fellow travelers on our journey Home.

Monday, March 13, 2023

Choosing Joy

Waiting makes me philosophical. 

Surgery two weeks ago went well. My total abdominal hysterectomy (or TAH) removed a melon-sized fibroid as well as uterus, cervix, tubes, and ovaries. The surgeon announced that he didn't think it looked like cancer. But a cancer diagnosis is pathology-based. Tomorrow we'll get those results.

Moments of intense peace and joy (almost euphoria) have overwhelmed me these past two weeks, brought on perhaps by medication or Divine intervention or both. Deep, cleansing breaths come more naturally, undoubtedly improved by the space my lungs have to expand now that that nasty fibroid (and other things) are gone. I accept these gifts.

But in the back of my mind, never far away, lurks the question, "Is it cancer?" 

I'm reading the devotional Rose From Brier, notes that Amy Carmichael wrote "from the ill to the ill" in 1933.¹ Amy, a missionary in India, was bedridden for months following a serious accident. Her thoughts and poems are brief but deep, easy to read when I feel like reading, and comforting to mull over while I rest.

She says in her introduction: "All these letters have been written . . . at the time the storm fell upon me, not after the coming of the calm."² This is what I hope my blog will be--comfort not just with good reports, but in the waiting, too.

A precious scripture to me in the uncertainty leading up to my surgery was "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."³ In the continued uncertainty since my surgery, I have clung to these additional words: "Because you have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice."⁴

I've imagined a hundred times tomorrow's scene in the surgeon's office. What will he say? If he says "no cancer present" I may weep for joy. If he says "bad news" I may weep with fear. I cannot prepare to rejoice or crumple because I won't know until that moment.

But the truth is, I am under His wings. I keep seeing myself as a little chick, peeking my head out every so often to see if a storm is coming. But no matter what happens, I'm in the safest place. Nothing can touch me here. I can already rejoice.

 

 

¹Amy Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 2015 ed. (Fort Washington, PA: CLC Publications, 2015), 13.

²Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 14.

³Bible, Psalm 91:1 (NKJV)

⁴Bible, Psalm 63:7 (NKJV)

 

 

 

Monday, February 20, 2023

Ten Years

“It s been ten years. And I’m still breathing.”

I mentally composed this opening months ago in preparation for my 10 year anniversary. Ten years ago today, on February 20, 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. You know, ten years after cancer, you’re considered a survivor. And you also know, if you’ve read my past posts, that I haven’t blogged in almost three years. I mean . . . pandemic. And now I'm busy living. I consider myself a survivor.

Perhaps prematurely.

Last month, a serious sinus infection turned into pinkeye which required a round of Augmentin, steroids, and eye drops. When stomach pain flared a week later, I figured it was a reaction to the meds, or maybe the probiotics I was taking to counteract the meds. But the pain persisted, and I felt lumps in my abdomen that concerned me, so I saw my doctor. She sent me for a CT scan. We went looking for diverticulitis, but found a large fibroid instead.  

I’ve known for years I had fibroids. Fibroids are usually benign. But I have variables that put me at risk for uterine cancer, one of them being that in 2021 I walked my mom through uterine cancer, chemo, radiation, and recovery. She’s doing well. Now our doctor is worried about me.

This feels surreal, this worry about cancer again. My total hysterectomy is scheduled for February 27, one day shy of ten years after my breast cancer surgery on February 28, 2013. Back then, they knew the tumor was cancerous. This time, they won’t know ‘til after surgery.

Our emotions come in waves, depending on the day—or the hour. Our daughter Nicola asked, “Is this going to be my life? This fear of impending loss?” Sometimes it feels like that has been life for the past 10 years. For how many biopsies have we awaited the outcome, convinced that death was certain, only to be told that all was well, everything was benign?

We grow weary. We long for open seas, smooth sailing. Bur storm clouds gather, and we wonder if they’ll pass or send us to the depths. Then Jesus comes, just like He did to the disciples caught in a storm on Galilee. Nicola texted: “Was reading in Mark this morning about Jesus calming the storm. The words ‘great calm’ stuck out to me. Praying that over you today.”

God’s Word brings calm. Friends send scriptures that minister. My devotions or a worship song line up, confirming the truth of God’s sovereign care, of His never-ending love.

This is what I know from my times in the valley of the shadow—He is with me. Fear hovers, but I have a choice. My dear husband Greg, who feels each waiting period deeply, put it so well: “Do you find your mind going down into a hole, but you tell yourself, ‘Don’t go there’? And then you come back to a place where you think, 'Everything's ok' . . . but you're not sure that's true, either?”

That’s exactly what I feel. It’s a trick to keep your mind perfectly balanced between fearing the worst and expecting the best. There’s tension as you wait, keeping your mind fixed on what you know is true at this moment.

This afternoon, Greg and I gazed at each other across the table and pondered the fact that it has been ten years since we first heard the words, “It is cancer.” I thought my life was over then, but a decade later we're still here, having watched our kids grow up, having lived so many dreams. I am grateful.

No matter what happens, whether next Monday leads us through the portal marked “benign” or the one marked “cancer,” behind either door is Heaven.

Friday, April 10, 2020

First Person Gospel

Today I finished a six-year project. I finished reading the Gospels in First Person.

I never thought it would take me that long. Nor that I would start it in Canada and finish it after moving back to the States. I didn't even realize that I had launched a life-changing project. I was just desperate for help.

In March 2014 I was overwhelmed. I was five months out from my last cancer treatment, but had just been diagnosed with low thyroid (turned out to be Hashimoto's hypothyroiditis). I was struggling to get back to my "normal" life with homeschooling, housework, and house church. My spirit was dry from giving, giving. I longed to hide myself in a congregation and just worship and be fed.

So one night we did that. We attended the Saturday night service at Harvest Bible Chapel (now Hope Bible Church Markham) where our kids were part of Harvest Youth. And I found a balm for my soul.

My diary entry from March 29 contains no special details: "Tried to prioritize, but the day fell apart in so many ways at the end. Our time at Harvest turned my eyes back to Jesus." Here's what I remember. 

The pastor spoke about Mary and Martha.¹ I've always loved that story,always resonated with Martha, with too much to be done ~ but wished I could be Mary, sitting at Jesus' feet. That night I thought, "I wonder what Jesus was saying to Mary. Was He talking with her alone? Had she asked Him to tell her stories about His life?" 

Suddenly I realized I could do the very same thing. What if I started reading the story of Jesus, but changed the pronouns so He was telling me His story in His own words?

I began in Matthew, and could not believe the window that opened to me. I saw Jesus as a Teacher, saw His compassion as he ministered to hurting people. It was fascinating to look at these too-familiar stories through a new lens. My heart was stirred to be like my Master.

I'm not sure how long it took me, or whether I finished the book before Easter that year. But when I got to the crucifixion story and heard it in my Savior's own words, I saw His death as I'd never seen it before.

As an adult, I've struggled to read about Jesus' death, knowing the agony He went through. Good Friday was a sorrowful day as I pondered His pain and the price He paid for me.

But that year. I saw Him standing outside the story, able to tell me the details of His own death because He had survived it! Of course, I've always known that Jesus came back from the dead. But somehow, whenever I read the story, I pitied Him. Now I saw His death, not as the end of His life, but as an inevitable part of it ~ an eternity-altering break in the breathing half before He picked it up again.

I can't explain what that did for me.

I went on to read all the Gospels the same way. I read in fits and starts, sometimes only a chapter a week, sometimes with months in between. I kept a Gideons New Testament in the drawer of my bedside stand so I could snag a chapter after a nap or before bed. It took me six years to read the story of Jesus, written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John . . . told to me in His own words.

This morning, knowing it was Good Friday, I finished the last two chapters. I read them out loud, under my breath, trying to imagine His voice, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

I was Mary Magdalene, recognizing Him when He calls my name. I was Thomas the Doubter, believing when He provides the proof I need. I was Peter, accepting His provision of a catch on the shore of the sea.

His living, breathing presence amazes me. I can, like Martha, welcome Jesus into my home. I don't even have to wait for Him to show up at my door. He is here all the time! When I am distracted, worried, or upset by all the things that swirl around me, I can choose to sit at His feet and ask Him to speak.

So much of what I do is temporary. Laundry, dishes, cooking, lesson plans, organizing, cleaning, decorating . . . they don't last. They will all perish when I do, if not before. But my times with Jesus and what I learn can never be taken away. They will be with me forever!

What a beautiful, life-changing gift!


¹The Bible, Luke 10:38-42