When Van and I moved to Philadelphia in 2002, we decided that a proper initiation into the City of Brotherly Love meant reenacting the famous scene from Rocky in which Sylvester Stalone sprints up the steps of the Art Museum. I know what you are thinking: what a novel, unique idea, right?!

At the top of that grand stairway sat a bronze statue of Rocky with arms held high in victory. Once we caught our breath, we snapped a photo with the iconic figure, then spent the next several Friday nights watching all 17 Rocky films.

Cue the theme song to Rocky.

Today I’m stepping into the ring for my last chemo round. LAST round. My boxing gloves are laced. I’m punching the air with my opponent in sight. Dancing around the ring. Deep breath through my (pink) mouth guard. Pep talks from loved ones in my corner.

Did I mention it is the LAST round? (Music now changes to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus.)

Rocky Balboa isn’t known for his eloquence, but he had a handful of memorable lines. One that particularly resonates: “The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows.”

Looking back across the traveled terrain of the last four months, I see lots of rocky, dusty, difficult stretches. Dotting the landscape are piles of stones, visible reminders of how my Heavenly Father was with me. Every step. That gives me courage to endure what lies ahead.

Ahead…

Scans are Thursday, October 1st. How I long to hear the word “clear”! Bilateral mastectomy mid-October. Then daily radiation soon after, for 5-6 weeks. Followed by infusions of Herceptin, a hormonal therapy, which will continue until next June. Lastly, reconstruction surgery mid-summer. The hard-hitting treatments will be finished by this Christmas! Hair sprouting on my noggin will be a welcome Christmas gift. Sarah even said she would give me some new hair bows for my new hair. I’ll share the photos, don’t you worry.

As this last round of ninja medicine and body scans approach, fear is starting to pump up the volume in my heart. I needed C.S. Lewis’ encouragement yesterday…

“The great thing with unhappy times is to take them hit by hit, hour by hour, like an illness. It is seldom the present, the exact present, that is unbearable.”

Jesus taught us to pray for daily bread. Battling cancer is a grand lesson in this. If I get too far ahead on roads unknown, daily bread doesn’t seem to cut it. In those moments, I’m existing in an imagined life with a small God. Living in the exact present is hard work at times…

“He who did not spare us his own Son, but gave him up for us all–how will he not also, along with him, give us all things?…For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:32, 35-39)

Past, present, and future grace summed up right there.  God has given his children a Kingdom that can never perish, spoil, or fade. He has given us Himself.  He is with us.  We know how this grand story ends…all sunshine, rainbows, and so much more.  Sooooo much more!  All because of the perfect sacrifice of Jesus.

My present fear just got swallowed in love. Cue Amazing Grace.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace

Anne heads in for her final round of ninja medicine tomorrow morning.  Six of six. Celebrating a little bit over here. 

“Can you believe you’re almost done?!” I asked, as if time really had flown by for Anne. (I really knocked that question out of the park, eh?). 

“Yessssssss,” she responded succinctly, and appropriately.  

She knows what’s ahead. Couple of weeks of feeling shellacked by the drugs. Then surgery.  And radiation. Boooo. 

So we ain’t through this thing yet. Still in the jungle. Or desert. Or whatever purgatory-flavored setting you can think of. 

But. 

Our spirits are buoyed. Our hearts are strengthened. Our hope is real. And that is a testimony to God’s grace and mercy, not our faith. We feel weak and  helpless, the very place where our Heavenly Father sweetly meets us. 

Ninja time. Anne or I will be back to you in a few days. 

With joy and perseverance,

Van

My first thought was, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was standing at a store checkout counter when I got a phone call from the school nurse. Sarah had hurt her wrist at recess. 

Daddy to the rescue. 

The day had already been stressful, and it was only 1:45 pm.  Emotionally, I felt like I had been crawling through mud and barbed wire as sporadic enemy fire whizzed overhead.  I’m weary and don’t need this, I told myself. 

But. No matter how cruddy you feel, when your child is in pain, you pop it into a special gear reserved for such occasions. 

Beeline to Raleigh Orthopedic’s Urgent Care. May or may not have pushed the accelerator a little harder. 

Sarah and I show up to an almost vacant waiting room. Score. 

After a relatively uneventful x-ray (for which Sarah keeps her eyes closed the entire time), I’m relieved to hear it’s only a sprain. My baby girl and I immediately decide a milkshake run is called for. 

I’m polishing off a frosted lemonade from Chick-Fil-A as I drop off my brave little girl at home, where a joyous welcome party greets her at the door. 

Now, back to work for a bit. 

For the life of me I can’t remember what I was stressed about.

  

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I’m sitting here in the land of chemo side effects, feeling especially thankful for laughter. Can’t get enough of it these days. Web MD, my favorite online health resource, repeatedly lists laughter as a powerful agent in treating all sorts of illnesses. So then it’s official, right?!

The other morning I got a good dose of laughter.  Sarah, my kindergartner, who possesses a silly bone the size Texas, chimed in while eating cinnamon bread, “Mom, did you know that ‘booger’ and ‘booger’ rhyme?”

After further discussion, I figured out that she was trying to say “burger” and “booger”.  The fact they actually do not rhyme is beside the point…we’re working on that. My kids have each had homeschool speech therapy for pronouncing the word “burger.”  Burrrrr-Gurrrrr.  Ok, try again.  Burrr-gurrr, not boog-er.  Burrr-gur. These therapy sessions occur on hamburger nights and when we have drippy noses.  They all have their first cold of the school year, so boogers are on their minds and unfortunately, their sleeves.

But I digress…

During these harder, feeling-really-icky days of fighting the big, bad thief, laughter has truly been medicine for my body and soul. It both invigorates and flows from recognition of the good things in life. God is the giver of those good things. Funny things. Just look at a walrus or platypus; God certainly has a fantastic sense of humor. And as those created in our Heavenly Father’s image, we can laugh because He laughs.

Part of this cancer journey for me has involved growing in the skill of “good-things scavenging”, a.k.a. thanksgiving.  When laughter comes via my kids, Jim Gaffigan, Jen Hatmaker, and my husband Van, giving thanks comes more easily.

On that note, I am thankful for some biggies – the comforting presence of my Heavenly Father, the peace of my Savior that pervades my fearful heart, and the loving embrace of my church, friends, and family. I’m also thankful for little things that, from where I am sitting, make a big difference. They make me smile. Like my eyelashes.

At Van’s insistence, I would like to give my beloved lashes a Standing Ovation by sharing a poem I wrote the other day, entitled Ode to my Lashes. Hope you enjoy…

Ode to my Lashes

Your comrades adorning my head and the rest, abandoned their stations at the start of this test.

Determined you’re clinging with admirable might; Standing firm on my lids for this prolonged fight.

Heavy the pressure you endure from your peers. But you, oh lashes, are my faithful dears.

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Beating the odds and proving your strength, your staying-power is rather impressive in length.

Even the micro-hairs deep in my ears have, along with the nose kind, surrendered, I fear.

Assessing each day what hair remains still, I admire, oh lashes, the strength of your will.

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Applying mascara, I’m exceedingly proud; you’re strong little guys, standing out from the crowd!

Your presence provides a near-normal appearance; grateful am I for your dogged perseverance.

A small but significant help to my sanity. Thank you, oh lashes, for this one gift of vanity.

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Realizing, indeed, a rough road lies ahead, you may, at long last, be forced out and shed.

Even the mightiest can not forever stand, as winds and waves buffet your soft land.

Yet it seems through the tempest you’ll hold on ’til the end. For you, oh lashes, are my loyalest of friends.

“Blessed are you who hunger now, for you shall be satisfied.  Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.”  (Luke 6:21.)

I’m thankful for these heavenly doses of laughter.

Dear Annie,

In about an hour you’ll be back in a now familiar place – the Infusion Suite at the Duke Cancer Center (aka the “Chemo Lounge,” as I’ve dubbed it) – where you’ll spend most of the day receiving your fifth round of ninja medicine. Five down, one to go!

I hated that I had to work late last night, hacking away on my MacBook in our front living room while you and your Mom handled dinner time, homework, and the bedtime routine. You know it’s my perpetual internal battle – balancing work in a frenetic, self-employed world with being present as a husband and father.

As I worked, I couldn’t help but overhear conversations that floated through our old, loud house. There was Jack, struggling to push through his test preparation at the dining room table, where you patiently sat with him, encouraging him to hang tough while the tears flowed.

Then there were Sarah’s tearful squeals of delight/confusion/fear because her last front tooth literally fell out of her mouth. When I went up to see what the commotion was about, there you sat with her in your lap, consoling her with happy words of celebration.

And of course, there was Luke, who had just finished a long soccer practice. In the mud. And as you and I know, when Luke is tired from exercise, achy-leg-syndrome becomes the dominant theme of his final waking hour. And so your leg-rubbing commenced.

You were there for all of it…even while knowing the next morning you’d wake up for a cancer-killing, body-shellacking chemical cocktail. Even while feeling exhausted from the toll that chemotherapy has taken over the past three months. Even while having no guarantee that any of the aggressive treatment you are undergoing will eradicate the thief for good.

You’ve compared this journey to a marathon. To a belly flop from the high dive. To a bear hunt. To going through hell.  The hardest thing you’ve ever done.

And yet.

I’ve seen no evidence of bitterness in you. Or self-pity. Or paralyzing fear.

I have seen a woman who daily pushes herself upon the mercy and grace of Jesus. Weak, yet strong. Tearful and weary, yet joyful and enduring in suffering. Honest and vulnerable, yet facing the thief tethered to the soul-affirming, life-giving promise of which Paul so eloquently writes in a celebratory tone to the Romans: (I love Eugene Peterson’s translation):

So, what do you think? With God on our side like this, how can we lose? If God didn’t hesitate to put everything on the line for us, embracing our condition and exposing himself to the worst by sending his own Son, is there anything else he wouldn’t gladly and freely do for us? And who would dare tangle with God by messing with one of God’s chosen? Who would dare even to point a finger? The One who died for us—who was raised to life for us!—is in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us. Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture:

They kill us in cold blood because they hate you.

We’re sitting ducks; they pick us off one by one.

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. (Romans 8:35-39)

Your life over the past three months has been a living testimony to me and so many others that you know Jesus. And are confident in His unending, unbreakable, unstoppable love for you. I see it. We see it.

Keeping fighting, love. The chemo is working. Jesus loves you. I love you. We all love you.

In it with you,

Hubs