Category Archives: cancer volume 4

a well-lived word {a lesson from "Frindle"}

I finished reading the book Frindle with Jadon and Amelia last night. It’s been a family favorite since my first reading it to Nick and Colton many years ago. I don’t remember shedding any tears the first go around, but this time was different. Last night, I cried with Frindle’s conclusion.

There wasn’t a reason to cry. The book is humorous, well-written, and delightfully entertaining. It finished well. Happy endings. The way I like it. But there was something about that final chapter and the way it ended that ministered to me, pushing my tears downward to drop as wet comfort on the pages I held in my hand. It was a note, written by Mrs. Granger to her bright and challenging fifth-grade student, Nicholas Allen. Nicholas wouldn’t receive that letter until he was a junior in college, even though the note was written in those beginning days of 5th grade.

A lot of history passed between his being a boy at eleven and growing into manhood at twenty-one. That’s really not the focus of the book, but I suppose I brought that meaning to the story. Something about watching a decade pass between my own two generations of kids. Something about reading that book in an earlier season to a fifth grade boy named Nick and a third grade boy named Colton. Something about the growth that’s taken place and the notes that they might one day receive from a teacher or two who took the time to value them and believe in them beyond the challenges they brought to the classroom.

And I started thinking about my teaching years. The ones I spent in a third grade classroom. The ones I’ve spent and continue to spend in other classrooms. Every single place I’ve left a boot print. The words I’ve spoken, the lectures I’ve given, and the actions that speak a witness all their own. After time slips away into history, what letter will remain for the kids I’ve taught, the family I’ve raised, and the friends I’ve loved? A decade or two or ten from now, what of my witness will serve as an encouragement to those who walk behind me?

Perhaps Mrs. Granger says best in her letter to Nick. Perhaps the reason for my tears last night:

“The world has changed in a million ways. That is why I have always tried to teach children something that would be useful no matter what. So many things have gone out of date. But after all these years, words are still important. Words are still needed by everyone. Words are used to think with, to write with, to dream with, to hope and pray with. And that is why I love the dictionary. It endures. It works. And as you now know, it also changes and grows.” (Andrew Clements, Frindle, Aladdin Books, 1996, p. 100)

Oh the power of a well-spoken, well-written, well-lived word! We’ve all got a few left in us. Some more valuable than others, but all them… every last one of them, are writing a story and leaving a witness. Our story. Our witness. Our letter left behind for the world to read as time slips away into history.

Last summer, I wrote a letter to the world about my cancer—some 60,000 words in the span of forty days. They’ve been simmering at a low boil these last six months. Today, I had them bound at Office Depot and shipped them to a dear friend for his assessment. They’re going to print in the near future, and I’m counting on them mattering to someone down the road. In Mrs. Granger’s assessment, some “words to think with, to write with, to dream with, to hope and pray with.”

If that happens—if the words I’ve written causes others to think, write, dream, hope, and pray—then this chapter in my story will have served the kingdom well. To discard them, not include them, not give them to the world as a witness to the strength and healing from Jesus Christ that I’ve experienced, is to finish my race lesser than how God intends.

Some words are meant to breathe. These are some of mine. By God’s grace and in his timing, I will give them to you.

In the meantime, keep writing your stories, friends. Keep living and speaking words of truth to one another in love. Make them count. Words are still important. Words are needed by everyone. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: Sassy Granny, because of your affection for Webster’s and all things word-related, a copy of Frindle is on it’s way to your doorstep. Maybe you can read it with your grandkids!

when a friend crosses to Canaan ahead of you…

Judith made it home to Jesus on Thanksgiving Day. I’ve been living with her absence since then. Four days is hardly enough time to displace my grief. I don’t have a place to put my grief, not really. I can’t send a casserole to the West Coast… can’t stop by the family living room to offer my condolences. I wouldn’t even recognize her family members if I saw one of them on the street. I’ve never met any of them face-to-face. Not even her—my Judith friend. Our lives didn’t connect the regular way. Our lives connected here … in this place, this space that I have reserved for the public sharing of thoughts. A domain named “Peace for the Journey.” A home for my words and the birthplace of some rich, kindred friendships.

Judith was one of the first of you, extending our relationship beyond customary comments to include nearly four years’ worth of phone conversations, e-mails, snail mails, all kinds of communication that move a friendship past common courtesy. In doing so, I’ve experienced one of the truest, most honest and encouraging relationships of my lifetime. Judith has been my mentor, my cancer sister, my sounding board, my “middle-of-the-night” friend who listened to me and understood me when others couldn’t. She was the second person I called after receiving my diagnosis and almost always the first person I called when I was hunkered down in the middle of my pain. These last years with Judith have strengthened my heart and my faith in a way that furthers the cause of Jesus Christ.

Judith sometimes worried about her doing enough for the kingdom. She wanted to be used by God but often didn’t recognize the weightiness of her witness to others. Who I am today, in part, is a direct reflection of the time that Judith Guerino invested in me. She was never too busy, too sick, too tired, or too perfect to take me on. She was just willing, and that willingness, friends, is an extraordinary gift to receive. I recognized its worthiness early on in our friendship, and I cherished each moment that I was able to share with my beloved friend. One of those moments came six weeks prior to Thanksgiving.

While out for an afternoon walk, I felt strongly that I should try and call Judith. She’d been in and out of the hospital, not able to take calls most days, so I was uncertain about her availability to speak with me. One of our great concerns for each other (especially during our sick days) was not to wear one another out with conversation. We made a deal. If we couldn’t talk (for whatever reason), we wouldn’t answer the phone, and we wouldn’t be mad about it … we’d just understand.

Six weeks ago was not one of those moments. Instead, six weeks ago hosted a God-ordained moment for both of us.

“Judith, if this needs to be our good-bye, then let’s do it right. Let’s say everything we need to say, and let’s do so with great clarity. This could be our hand-holding, bedside release.”

And so it was. Our final conversation. We talked for over an hour … laughed, cried, prayed, and tenderly released one another to the roads in front of us. We knew where hers was heading, and while it seemed that my road was taking a detour or two that would eventually catch up with hers, I couldn’t escape the fact that no matter the path in front of both of us, we would stay connected because of our kinship in Jesus Christ.

“Wherever I go, Judith, from this point forward, you’ll be with me. I’ll keep your story as a part of my own. I’ll wear this mantle you have given me and place it on the shoulders of other cancer patients who need the love and encouragement of a friend like you. I will do so in honor of you. I’ll carry it for both of us.”

It’s not easy to speak words like these … not easy to articulate the inevitabilities of our up-and-coming departures, but when it happens, it’s a sacred gift to those who are standing at the portal of heaven and to those who are left behind to wonder, to imagine, to believe and to grieve. Judith may have crossed the Jordan River into Canaan ahead of me, but she didn’t do so without me. She carried my story with her and, in return, she left her story with me. This is the unity we share as believers in Jesus Christ—the eternal thread that links us together and that pulls our heartstrings forward in faith.

We don’t enter into the presence of Jesus Christ without the present witness of others. Those we love and those who have loved us, well, I believe they’re part of the cargo that we’ll carry with us into our forevers. When our crossing-over day comes and we arrive on the shores of Canaan, not only will we step forward into the arms of our Father, but also the testimony of a great many heart-investors will step with us. It’s just how it works, friends, this investing of love. Eternal love rooted in Christ’s love plants seeds, and all eternal seeds harvest hugely for the kingdom.

It matters what we do here, how we love here. How we give and share God here. And while we aren’t privy to the arrival of others when they finally meet our Father face-to-face, wouldn’t it be wonderful to know that a part of us arrives there with them as a lasting witness to our willingness to love on the front side of heaven?

Yes, Judith went home to Jesus on Thanksgiving Day. Part of me did as well, friends, and I cannot tell you the joy this brings to my sadness—knowing that as she steps in glory, so do I. A little bit of my faith, a little bit of my heart is already dancing in heaven, alongside my kindred friend. Oh that I… that we would take each step, live each day, love this way with eternity in mind!

Our stories belong to one another, and I can’t think of a finer group of people I’d rather carry with me into Canaan when my crossing-over day arrives. Until then, let’s keep planting God’s eternal seed into the hearts of those we love, and let us celebrate the thread that binds us all together as one–Jesus Christ.

Let’s do it right … say everything we need to say and do so with God’s great clarity while today is still today. It’s the best we can do. I love you each one.

Peace for the journey,

~elaine
PS: To read the guest post that Judith wrote for me last summer, click on this link.

When Cancer Comes Calling…

She called me to tell me that her cancer had returned. Truthfully, neither one of us thought it had gone anywhere, but we didn’t mention it. Instead, we just held the moment together. Paused long enough to breathe in and out a time or two and then continued in our conversation. Inwardly, I was gasping for air … careful not to fill the moment with my fret. It wouldn’t have been fair to her, to her news, her disappointment, the painful reality that was about to unfold for her … again.

More chemo. More testing. More spreading of the disease she’s fought against so valiantly in the eight months I’ve known her. I don’t really have the words to give to her. She doesn’t need empty promises or half-truths based on sentimental notions. She certainly doesn’t need false hope or a casual toss of faith-speak in her direction. No, she needs more. Something solid, real, tender, and truthful. A safe place to place her trust. A refuge in which to plant her seeds of pain. A retreat from the cruelty of blood draws, intravenous drips, and the stale taste of poison in her mouth.

She needs a friend, and she chose me. Silently, I struggle for the right words, questioning my qualifications. How can I mend this one, love this one, help this one through the struggle this go around? There are so many of us, Lord. So many cancer friends.

  • One who’s just finished her chemo.
  • Another one just getting started.
  • A mentor beautifully gracing the stage of her Stage IV.
  • Another fourth grade mom swollen with lymphedema.
  • A farmer who buried his daughter—my friend—and who now wages the cancer battle himself.
  • One of my “ancients” struggling in isolation from the rest of them, from me.
  • Several of us in a holding pattern—caught between our last year and the year to come. All of us quietly wondering if maybe the cancer’s just napping beneath our scars.

Yes, so many of us walking the ribboned road. Trying to be brave. Trying to hold the banner of hope high so that others won’t worry. Trying to be friends, be comforters, be supporters, and be the hands and feet of Jesus to those who need to be touched by truth. It’s a weighty responsibility, yet one gladly accepted by most of us. One I willingly accepted just over a year ago.

Entrusted. Remember?

Every time I want to quit, want to pull away and pretend that I am someone without a story, I look down at my wrist and think on that word. That charge. That privilege given to me—to be trusted with so much. When I go there with my thoughts, I almost always go to my knees, and I say “yes” all over again to the story that is mine, come what may.

Cancer will always be coming for someone. Fifty percent of all men and one-third of all women will personally experience the disease at some point in their journeys. Cancer doesn’t seem in a hurry to retreat, so neither must I. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.

To stay. To stand closely to cancer. To straddle the fence with one foot in the path of healing and one foot in the path of pain, with faith as the sturdy post in between. I will not leave the wounded behind. I will wait with them; walk with them; wonder with them; weep with them. It’s what I choose to do, because I believe it’s what my Father chooses to do every time his children come crawling to the threshold of heaven extending their personal pain in the direction of his heart.

God never fills those moments with his fret. Instead, he offers something solid, real, tender, and truthful in return. He offers his presence. A staying, standing-close-by promise of personal involvement. Why? Because he was the first one ever entrusted with a story. A cross. A red ribbon embedded into his brow, tied to his hands, threaded through to his side, cascading downward to his feet. A ribbon that threads through to our hearts and that pulls tightly on his every time our tears shed their witness.

When we need a safe place, a refuge, a retreat, a friend … we have one in Jesus. Every time he thinks about us … looks down at his wrists and reads the truth written behind the scars imprinted there … he goes to his knees on our behalf and says “yes” again to the story that is his. A weighty responsibility to be sure, a worthy gain for all eternity.

Oh to be like Jesus … even a little bit!

There will be no quitting today, not for me. Just more of the road in front of me and more of the ribbon behind me. If you need to, grab on friends. I’m heading in the right and good direction. I’m heading home. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine

Thus far…

“Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, ‘Thus far has the LORD helped us.’” (1 Samuel 7:12)

I thought, perhaps, that it might just slip by. But it didn’t. It hasn’t. It’s here.

Today. A mile-marker in my fight against cancer. An anniversary. One year of survivorship. One year of wearing the pink ribbon. One year beyond hearing those first words of initiation from my doctor…

Mrs. Olsen, the tumor is cancerous … Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

Her words are as vivid to me today as they were 365 days ago. Not as shocking as they were back then, but just as real. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget that moment. I don’t suppose I’m meant to forget. Some moments in our journeys are intended for remembrance. Not to serve as an idol but rather as a memorial. A stone or two gathered in our pockets that, from time to time, can be touched, felt, held, and raised in honor to the one God who’s been faithful to walk the road with us.

Thus far, the Lord has helped us. Thus far, the Lord has helped me.

As I’ve thought about Samuel and his “Ebenezer”—his stone marking the place of God’s deliverance—I’ve looked around my house for what might serve as mine. What stone, what tangible “holding” can serve to bookmark this milestone in my survivorship? Seems like there should be something, some way of  honoring this occasion with the respect that it deserves. Some sort of celebration to acknowledge the accomplishment.

Alas, no parties. No balloons. No etchings in marble. No altar of stone.

Just life. A new day to live with the rich perspective afforded to me because of a year’s worth of struggle. A few words of remembrance from my pen. A few words of prayerful pause from my heart given to God in thanks for the deliverance I have known. A few moments of looking back at the journey and believing God for the next 365 days that will follow this one.

When I began my cancer survivorship on August 23, 2010, I did so with one overriding prayer in my heart. Knowing what was coming, knowing something about the requirements of my disease, I asked the Lord for his enabling strength to keep me writing from time to time. I knew there would come a “look back” day—a season when I would want to reflect upon the fullness of my walk through cancer. Today, a year down the road with nearly 100 posts written since that time, I’m able to look back and to trace the love and faithfulness of God that has been present in my pain. And therein, I find my “Ebenezer.”

Today I raise this collection of remembrances to God and call them grace. Call them mercy. Call them deliverance. Call them enough. The beauty in my “Ebenezer” is that it is a stone you can gather around as well. Because of God’s empowering Spirit within me, I’ve been able to chronicle some of my journey. Lovingly, you’ve come alongside me and shared in my struggle. Together, today, we can gather around this collection of words … stand around my story, and raise our voices to the Father in thanksgiving for what he has done in the last 365 days.

Thus far, the Lord has helped me. Continuing forward, he will do the same. I am a child of promise. A child of the kingdom. A child who knows who her Father is and a child who trusts him to walk her safely home.

I pray you know the same. As you look back on your previous 365 days, I hope that you are able to trace the hand of God’s faithfulness in your life. Most likely, it wasn’t evident to you on a daily basis. But I imagine that in its entirety, this last year has afforded you some moments of knowing and living the promises of God. Today is a good day for reflecting, for remembering and for speaking the truest witness of your faith.

Thus far, the Lord has helped us all. Continuing forward, he will do the same. As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

what crowd are you running with?

She lapped me twice yesterday. Twice. She an avid marathon runner. Me an avid “hope I get through this jaunt without tripping on a rock” walker. My lap around the neighborhood is about a mile in lengt

h. Her lap a bit further than mine. We made our cursory nods at one another the first time she passed me. She’s not much of a talker. Running is serious business for this gal. But when I heard her steps encroaching upon my territory the second go around, I decided to break our customary silence.

“I’m going to ‘facebook’ that you lapped me twice today! I used to run, but I can’t anymore. I’ve been through cancer, and it’s slow

 

ed my pace. You’re my inspiration!”

It was then that she did something I’ve never seen her do before. She stopped running (she was now several paces ahead of me), turned around and said…

“No, you’re my inspiration. Look at you. You’re jogging slowly. Someday we’ll run together.”

I nodded my thanks, and we departed company. It’s highly unlikely that I will ever be able to keep pace with her stride, but I liked her idea—this “running together.” It started me thinking about the men and women with whom I currently keep pace. Those who are stepping the path of cancer and who are moving forward with their healing. There are many of us. Too many to name in one post. Another 1.5 million will be added to the roll call this year alone.

And while I may not be able to run with the marathon momma in our neighborhood, I’ve been privileged to run with many valiant cancer-warriors in the course of my last year. Some of them I was able to meet face-to-face this weekend.

All of us cancer survivors. Three of us breast cancer survivors. One a momma-survivor—her precious son, Andrew, marking the path home to heaven increasing our hopeful expectation for what awaits us all at the end of the road. I am honored to call these women friends; they have stood with me, prayed for me, touched me with their love—all from a distance, and just this past weekend, in the flesh. As I recently wrote in my book proposal…

“Suffering need, needs a suffering friend. Not just any friend, but a friend who has walked a similar road.”

Certainly, we need a variety of friendships. But there is something uniquely special about having a “come-alongside” friend who grasps the fullness of our pain, whether that pain issues forth from cancer or from some other type of “disease” that is eating away at our flesh. We need those who will keep pace with our stride, not move ahead of us or lag behind but who willingly enter into our struggles because their stories mirror ours. Out of the comfort we have known we must, in turn, offer comforting comfort to others (see 2 Cor. 1:3-5).

I don’t know what that will look like for you in the days to come, but I imagine there will surface a person in the next week who will need the benefit of your comfort. Perhaps a “suffering need” with which you are well familiar. Promises regarding a “future run together” fall flat to a heart that is suffering. What proffers hope is an offer of willing participation, a decision to stop running ahead and to start keeping pace with personal pain. A slowing down so that the hurting heart might catch up, look up, live up in the midst of trial.

God needs you to minister his comfort to his children. You cannot be all things to all people, but you can be a friend to one. Would you be willing to pay attention to the lives that cross your path today? There is someone who needs the tenderness and kindness of heaven. God has entrusted you with the privilege of this glorious dispensation. Suffering need, needs a suffering friend. Out of the comfort you have known, minister comfort. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine
PS: According to random.org, the winner of Glynnis Whitwer’s I Used to Be So Organized is Kathy S. And because my friend, Cindy, is the queen of organization and simplicity, I’m sending her a copy as well. Leave a comment today to be entered into a give-away for Michael O’Brien’s CD Be Still My Soul.

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