Real

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Tonight, his four-year-old self said the words I’ve been dreading to hear, the words I had not braced myself for and certainly had not expected to hear until, at least, puberty.

“You’re not my real parents. I miss my real parents.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face as I sit next to him, in the dark, as we drive home from dinner. I can’t breathe. It feels as if time suddenly froze as headlights graze over our faces and I scramble to find words, enough of the right ones to string into an appropriate sentence, a sentence that wouldn’t give away the hurt that has its bony fingers wrapped tight around my neck.

What do I say?

Headlights continue to cut in and out of our back row seat and I see tears stream down his cheeks as his face twists and contorts in his four-year-old effort to hide his pain. His restrained whimpers as he cries for his “real parents” in Korea churn a pain in my gut that I fear will explode. I’m thankful for the dark that covers us and in this moment, it is just the two of us, in a world of heart pain that we are desperately trying to hide from the other.

I lay my hand on his and tell him it’s okay to miss them and that I understand he is sad. I remind him that we are his real parents and always will be, but he rejects this truth.

We cry together in the dark as the headlights flash by, our tears the realest things we have to give to the night.

From the archives, 10/21/16

My only boast

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I have a love/hate relationship with January. Mostly love, but there is a little hate.

And it stems from my sin.

Let’s start with the good stuff: new beginnings. Oh, how I love a new beginning. Who can resist its fresh, virgin white pages? No mistakes to make up for. No failures to wear in shame. Nothing but a clean, empty space to fill up with a new set of dreams.

The hope of spring is another good one. The electric madness of the holidays over and the hope of spring’s coming blossoms, warmth, gentler days. It’s sweet.

The biggest qualm I have with January, though, is the expectation it holds to form resolutions. January takes me by the hand to a place of remembering my fear of being left behind while everyone else is doing, accomplishing, gaining, growing, contributing. It is on this cliff of temptation that my sin blows through on a blistering breeze. I look over the cliff into the valley–the world around me–and compare myself to what I see. And my sin blows all around me, whispering into my ear all the things I need to do this year to make sure my life is measuring up to the rest of the world, and re-arranging the picture in my mind of what it means to live a “significant life.”

Those whispers get to me. Every cell in my body yearns to write list after list of All The Things I want to accomplish this year and a detailed game plan for each one. All of these ideas that swim in my head at the start of each year, including the small and seemingly innocent ones, when dissected all the way down to its core are really for one person’s glory: me.

My flesh is so frail in January.

I think of the rich young ruler described in Matthew 19. The account paints a picture of a man who sought to live a righteous life and earnestly believed himself to be righteous. When he approaches Jesus to ask, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?,” I think he asked it in both earnestness and confidence. He probably thought he was a shoo-in. My heart aches to picture his response to Jesus’ answer–leave it all behind, and follow me–as he turns his back sadly on Jesus, and walks away. This was a man who placed more value in his earthy accomplishments and things, than a personal invitation from God himself to trash it all and intimately abide with him instead.

What a tragedy.

For someone like me, it’s good to remember the rich young ruler this time of year, when I’m so tempted to treasure the very things I should be throwing away. This man’s account gently reminds me that the things I do are neither my greatest treasure nor the basis of my identity; rather, it is what Christ has done. How is it even possible to feel left behind on January’s terrain when Christ pursued me to the cross and remains with me forever?

As I ran my hell-bound race, indifferent to the cost
You looked upon my helpless state and led me to the cross
And I beheld your love displayed, you suffered in my place
And bore the wrath reserved for me; now all I know is grace

Hallelujah! All I have is Christ
Hallelujah! Jesus is my life

And Lord, I would be yours alone to live so all might see
The strength to follow your command could never come from me
Oh Father, use this ransomed life in any way you choose
And let my song forever be my only boast is you

Oh January, I long to love you fully! May the Lord use the remainder of your days to remind me that he makes all things new. Lord, let me pursue you with reckless abandon; renew my heart each day that the song of my ransomed life forever be: my only boast is you.

Remembrance

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I broke down after lunch today. I know you were watching. The trickle started with my guilt of lacking warm emotions towards my son and the abundance of impatience in my heart, then surged when fear of my last chemo crashed over me. The future feels so scary, Lord. All my failures, all the time that keeps slipping through my fingers like hot desert sand, new beginnings when I feel like the old ones never came to proper ends.

I can’t believe it’s 2019…I can’t believe we’re here.

You have been so faithful to me, sheltering me with mercy and kindness through the wilderness of 2018. I spent some time yesterday reading through my old blogs from Rwanda and Azerbaijan and was reminded of how your faithfulness is not unfamiliar to me, yet each mercy is new with each day, each trial, each season. You reminded me of how you come in a whisper to the doorstep of my weariness and pain; you reminded me of your unchanging nature—your goodness—throughout every season of this life; you reminded me that it isn’t so much about how quickly I can get to my next destination as it is about choosing the right stops in obedience along the way.

You have been faithful through all my years. You have been unchanging in your patience, your goodness, your mercy, your love. You have never left me; you have not forsaken me. You have shown me more of who you are.

So as I think about these weights that heavily drape my shoulders, I think about these truths and pray that you will grow my strength to be able to lay them down at your feet as I heed your call to come to you in my weariness and seek your rest. Help me trust fully that your yoke is light.

Lord, I trust in you.

2019

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Dear God,

Please give me words, Lord, that my humble story may bring you radiant glory.
Strike the rock of my barren heart and let rivers flow from its depths, gathering to great pools at the foot of your throne.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

New words

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It is morning.

Night’s current spits me onto morning’s shore, and I wake twisted in black seaweed that is my hair. Dead hair abounds: limp, black squiggles across my white pillowcase, between my fingers, strung on my sleeves.

It’s wet and gray outside my window and I note how my insides feel the same. I try brushing myself free from the hair, judging each strand for betraying me like this, then make my way slowly to the bathroom. At the sink, the water running, there is an image that stares back at me of a girl I know of but do not recognize, like a character in a good novel whose story soaks your heart but whose face remains a blur.

My scalp is clearly visible through my hair. I feel like an alien.

The hair that’s still on my head, though sparse, provides me a sense of normalcy through cancer treatment. How merciful such a simple, superficial thing as the appearance of normalcy can be in the quest for survival, bobbling one’s head to the surface here and there for air.

Please, Lord, let my hair hang on. These are the words I’ve muttered daily, half a prayer, half a pep-talk to the sad little strands. But today, as I stare at the face in my bathroom mirror as the strands float into the sink like silent fall leaves, I find myself whispering new words.  Words I never dreamed of uttering before.

If losing all my hair would bring you more glory, Lord, have your way with me.

Bedtime prayers

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*Snippets that I managed to type out on my cell phone midway through his prayer, trying to be as discreet as possible to capture as much genuineness of his 6-year-old-ness. Thank you, Lord–that I can be here to witness this sweet, honest moment.

Dear God,

Thank you for books and TV.

You created the whole universe! There is no one that is more powerful than you.

You are 3 in 1. It’s kind of hard to understand, though. Is it like you have three heads? (long pause) No…well, I guess we’ll just find out when we get to heaven, where we will worship you forever.

You made all of these things on earth. On day 1 you created day and night. On days 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6, you made the rest of the world. On the 7th day, you rested.

You knew we were gonna be sinful when you made us. We all sin. We do not deserve to be called your children. But you still love us. Thank you for loving us.

In Jesus’ name I pray,

Amen.

–S, 6 y/o, at bedtime tonight.

Bob Ross’ endorphins

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There’s a difference between the thought of mortality and the thought of life being fleeting. At least in my mind space, there is. Mortality is darker.

Most days, I don’t think about mortality. But it snuck into my mind last night–like a dark, eerie fog–while we were watching Bob Ross paint his happy trees on screen. We invite him into our room almost every night, lights dimmed, watching him do his magic as he lulls us to sleep with his sweeping strokes, soothing voice.

J handed me my melatonin pills, which I chased down with warm water, and I tucked myself into bed. Bob was painting a mountain scene tonight, a darker color palate than his usual but his face was as smiley as ever. I just love the joy that radiates from his eyes.

I wondered what it would be like to hang out with him for a day. A hipster-ish coffee shop and a squirrel came together in my mind. And his calming smile.

“Bob is still alive, right?” I floated the question into the air, to no one in particular.

“I don’t think so…I think he passed away a while ago from cancer.”

My eyes moved from the screen to J, who was getting ready to climb into bed. I couldn’t tell if he was just guessing, or if the comment came from a place of knowledge. I sat up in bed.

“What? But he’s not even that old! How old was he?” My face felt a little warm.

“In his 50’s, I think?”

I sunk back down under the covers. The room started fading to dark.

Will I live to see 50?

The thought took over my headspace and filled my veins before I even had a chance, a moment, to contain it. I closed my eyes. My mind instantly flickering images of my widowed husband, my motherless child.

No, no, nonono NO.  But–Bob’s so happy! Why didn’t his endorphins help keep cancer at bay? He of all people shouldn’t have died from cancer. What does this mean for me?

It’s a ridiculous thought, I know, that whole endorphins thing. But my mind kept rolling with the crazy and the nonsense and fear was now racing through my veins.

There’s this thing my therapist had taught me at our last session, where I picture my fears floating on leaves down a quiet river to watch them drift gently away from me, creating mental distance between my fears and my reality. He taught me this technique to use in situations like this, where I become paralyzed by the Big Dark Things my mind dreams up.

Lying in bed with my eyes still shut and now wet, I float my mortality leaf down the Eno River of my mind. I speak slowly into my mind space and my quivering heart.

“Death by cancer” is just a thought.

It is not my present reality.

Float away, fear.

I watch my fear–a blackish blob on a little green leaf–float down the river until out of view. I leave the riverbank and walk my mortal legs to the throne of my Savior, falling at His feet with no words, only tears.

Mortal legs, immortal spirit. Cling, cling to Him.

Float those fears to Jesus.

Elections and cancer

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Well, folks–the “election of our lifetime” has come and gone. Many of the measures and candidates that I’d voted for didn’t win.

As passionate as I am about these kinds of things, I’m not upset that the majority of my votes weren’t winners. I think cancer has a lot to do with this.

I’m not trying to be facetious in correlating elections with cancer. But as I refreshed my screen every 10 minutes as the results were streaming in, I found myself wondering what impact my vote has, in the grand scheme of things. How I can read up on the issues and the stances of candidates and fill the bubble next to the one who most closely represents what I hope for our nation, but in the end, no candidate ever perfectly represents all my values, and all of it is really just a crapshoot. I think about what my vote means in a district like mine, where the overwhelming majority of its constituents are unlike me, a foreigner on my own turf. I think about how each measure isn’t as clear as its advocates–and enemies–make it seem, and how there is a cost to both sides. There is always a cost, and never any guarantees.

And as I thought about these things, I felt I was treading on familiar turf. Cancerland is filled with so many moving parts, pros and cons; and each one has a cost. There is no single absolute answer or cure to the issue. I can educate myself until the cows come home and try to choose the best treatment for me, but in the end, it’s all a crapshoot.

All I can do as a cancer patient, and a citizen of this country, is to do the best I can with the information I have. Do the best with what you’ve got. And leave the rest in the hands of God.

Discomfort on familiar turf. It may sound crazy, but I’m thankful.

When the evening comes

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O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am! Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths, and my lifetime is as nothing before you. Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath! Selah

Psalm 39:4-5

Breakfast is my favorite meal
+
Fall is my favorite season
=
Fall deepens my love for breakfast.

Ta-da!

I don’t get how some people have no love for breakfast. I’m talking to you, coffee-and-protein-bar-on-the-run people, and you, I’m-just-not-hungry-in-the-morning-so-what’s-the-point? folks. We just can’t be friends, sorry.

Anyway, after my 9AM PT appointment this morning, I was majorly craving breakfast and made my way to Chick-Fil-A. With the warm bag of food on my lap, I parked in a small patch of morning sun beside a sprawling red maple.

It’s a crisp fall morning outside my heated aluminum cocoon. The sky is blue, the trees in the lot are red and yellow, its abandoned leaves chasing one another across the asphalt lot. I left my engine running, radio on, and stretched in the sun’s rays as melodies danced into my space. Enveloped in warmth and words so beautifully strung, it hit me:

What a blessing it is to have cancer.

Pausing here—please don’t get me wrong. There is nothing inherently good about cancer, and I would trade in my cancer for my health in a heartbeat. And I don’t mean to undermine anyone else’s cancer diagnosis or experience.

But as I sang along with the lyrics, my mouth full of greasy fast food and my eyes dripping, I thought of my future and my Savior who carries me there. I became undone.

He’s coming on the clouds, kings and kingdoms will bow down
And every chain will break, as broken hearts declare his praise
Who can stop the Lord Almighty?

Our God is a Lion, the Lion of Judah
He’s roaring with power and fighting our battles
And every knee will bow before you

Our God is a Lamb, the Lamb that was slain
For the sin of the world, his blood breaks the chains
And every knee will bow before the Lion and the Lamb

Can you imagine it? It’s beautiful to try.

You’re rich in love and you’re slow to anger
Your name is great and your heart is kind
For all your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

And on that day when my strength is failing
The end draws near and my time has come
Still my soul will sing your praise unending
Ten thousand years and then forevermore!

The magnitude of my weakened health and strength cannot be forgotten in my day-to-day living. It is front and center, leaving me crippled by the hour with pain, failures, abandoned dreams, failing relationships, guilt, nausea,  insomnia, anxiety, and so much fear. Everything that was once strong and confident in myself has, as sandcastles along the shore, been washed into the foam of the sea.

But, Jesus. My Lion and Lamb. He’s coming back for his weak and weary child.  He’s coming back for ME. Oh, what hope. What hope! Oh death, where is your sting? The future is so bright for those of us who believe! There is no tragic end for this wretched soul, regardless of how cancer plays out in my life. My soul will sing his praise unending; 10,000 years and then forevermore!  Christ has never been my hope and joy to the capacity that he is now…it’s almost as if I’ve been born again, again–and as a woman who’s known Christ for so long, I am so ashamed by this honesty.

We are all dying, friends. Not just folks with cancer or disease. It’s only a matter of a few more breaths before our time on this side of eternity is up, and the trials of our lives will end at the gates of eternal joy or eternal hell. Regardless of how hard, or dark, or lonely this life gets, my fate is secure. And God is still–always–good.

I wish it didn’t have to take cancer for me to have these truths sink in properly.  Urgently.  Completely.  But God knew what I needed, and he wrote it into my story.  I’m so thankful.

Bless the Lord, O my soul.  Let me be singing when the evening comes.

Dreams

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March was a big month for me. 

My job contract was coming to an end, and though bittersweet, I was mostly excited. It had been a grueling two years and I yearned for rest.

Hubs and I sat down together in early March to discuss my plan for the remainder of the year. 

  • April: rest! 
  • Summer: quality family time. invest in developing my art and spend more time experimenting in the kitchen 
  • Fall: open an etsy shop and see if it’s something worth investing in long-term
  • Next spring: possibly prepare for bar exam

Ah. March was a month of dreams. A field of dreams.

Six months later, fall blows brown into our yard and here we are, in a house ruled by cancer. 

It came out of left field, blind-sighting our little family of three as we ran around knee-deep in the wild flowers that covered our field of dreams. 

I mourn the life and dreams we had to leave behind to fight cancer full-time.  All the time off J’s work for the never-ending appointments; all the back-to-school events my body wouldn’t allow me to attend; all the medication and supplements, face masks, hand sanitizer, medical bills strewn around the house; all the hours spent in bed staring at my ceiling, unable to move; all the strands of my long, dark hair on my pillow, carpet, clothes, bathroom tile that just won’t quit. 

All of it seems like one enormous waste. 

Several months ago, when the doorframes  and foundation of our lives started crumbling around us, I holed myself in the house and spent a chunk of each day crying. On one of those days, I sat in my room with my knees hugged tight to my chest as a song I’d never heard gently tiptoed in through my speakers.

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope’s a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It’s from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what’s lost will be found again

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

When hope is more than you can bear
And it’s too hard to believe it could be true
And your strength fails you halfway there
You can lean on me and I’ll believe for you
And in time you will believe it too

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
Sometimes we are waiting
In sorrow we have tasted
But joy will replace it
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted*

These beautifully woven words moved me deeply. My trickle of sadness turned into a rushing current of sorrow subterranean twisted with hope effervescent.  A flood of tears.  I remember. I clung to the words I did not fully understand but had faith to be true and I accepted its warm embrace. That is faith, isn’t it? Gripping white-knuckled the truth of what we hope for, even when we do not understand.

As I sit here now surveying the rubble around me, I remember this truth, and hope returns.

Nothing is wasted. 

—–

*Jason Gray, Nothing is Wasted.