Van whisked me away for a surprise getaway this past weekend.  It marked the halfway point in our chemotherapy marathon, a perfect time to pause, catch our breath, and consider the terrain we have journeyed so far…especially the terrain of our hearts.  I love that Van has been planning this 13.1 mile marker respite for weeks.  One thing is certain: in a culture that inundates us with voices screaming that we are valued for our physical appearance – which we know diminishes daily- I have experienced in a fresh way what it is to be cherished otherwise.  Especially as my body is unraveling.

Yep, unraveling.  Hair is gone.  Eyebrows included.  (First time I have ever wished I was a contemporary of Cleopatra, when painted-on eyebrows and lashes were all the rage.) Medicine has made me puffy and gain weight.  Surgery will alter my body even more.  Van has walked with me throughout these losses and tended most carefully to my heart.  I feel cherished.

This unraveling is the cost of healing.  And it is absolutely worth it.  After a mammogram yesterday, the radiologist came in the room beaming with great news.  My tumor is now a quarter of its original size! Hooray!

This news makes losing my eyebrows feel like a worthy sacrifice.  But I’m still bummed about the disappearance of these hallmark facial features. Baldness I can hide with a nice wig. Eyebrows? All I’ve got are fancy crayons.  My thinning eyebrows have had me thinking about what to do with the “little sorrows” that accompany cancer.  I’ve tried confessing vanity (of course there is vanity.)  I’ve tried to tell myself to pull it together and stop the crying as the last remnants of eyebrow hair vanish.  But none of this has been very helpful.  There is sadness in this journey.  Things are not as they should be, and life in a broken world is sad.  I tend to put my happy face on and try positive thinking to ward off the sadness, but there is no growth or lasting hope that comes through those efforts. They’re only temporary band-aids.

God cares about ALL of it. From the shattering, rug-pulled-out-from-under-you cancer diagnosis to my eyebrows falling out, He cares. I tend to use a measuring device of my own invention to decide if the severity of my suffering matters to Jesus. The hard stuff – death, the kids growing up without a mommy, cancer coming back – I more easily cast on Jesus. The smaller stuff – like my disappearing eyebrows or inability to taste food – I filter out of my prayer life because it feels trivial.  But that isn’t what I see our Lord inviting us to do in his Word.  It is filled with invitation after invitation to pour our hearts out to him because He cares.  No matter the size of the crosses we bear, they are still crosses in need of His grace to endure. There’s no criteria, no checklist, no minimum requirement to bring our burdens to our Heavenly Father. I’d be remiss if I kept myself from more comfort and hope by trying to deal with my eyebrows and other “little sorrows” apart from the help and hope of Jesus.  His love is that deep and that wide.

The next 13.1 miles of the chemotherapy marathon will be the harder half.  Chemo’s cumulative effects are mounting (mainly, fatigue and nausea).  More unraveling is ahead.  But, knowing these ninjas entering my bloodstream are kicking cancer’s hindquarters,  I say “bring it!”.  I have seen God’s faithfulness the first leg, and He will be faithful again.  Pray that I will have a new default setting in my heart to cast all my cares upon my Savior, because He cares about every single one.

Back to the weekend getaway for a fun story.  Van had concocted an elaborate surprise for me.  Saturday evening, Van surprised me with tickets to see my favorite music artist, Sara Groves, in concert to support the work of World Relief.  (Check out the amazing work WR is doing just down the road in the Triad to bring about the abolition of human trafficking.)  Since she first started recording 18 years ago, Sara has ministered to me through her music; her beautiful, rich, and redemptive lyrics always encourage my heart and usher me into deeper fellowship with Jesus. What a treat to see and hear her live.

After the concert, I was able to chat with Sara for a few minutes.  As I expected, she’s warm, vivacious, and so sincere.  I floated away from the concert on such a high.  Sunday morning we stopped for breakfast on our way back to Raleigh.  We walked into a nearly empty Panera Bread, and low and behold there sat Sara sweetly waiting for me.  That coffee date with Sara in heaven I have long talked about? (see my post “Something Else”)  Van made it come true a little bit earlier.

What an absolute joy it was to spend time with Sara, swapping stories, hearing about each others’ families, and encouraging each other in our callings.  Her new album, Floodplain, comes out this fall.  Treat yourself to an early Christmas present.  Then, do yourself a favor and buy all of her other albums.  You will want to write yourself a thank you note 100 times over. And speaking of thank you’s…

Thank you, Van, for how you have so intentionally cherished me.  Thank you Allison, Sara’s manager, for so graciously arranging this secret surprise with Van.  Thank you, Sara, for your lavish gift of time and openness with me.  I am ever grateful for your faithfulness in your calling to beautifully sing of the hidden wonders, the surprising joys, the redemptive work of the gospel in this messy, broken world.

Silver linings in the darkness and they are beautiful reminders of “I AM with you.”  Good start to the next 13.1 miles.

Gratefully,

Anne

Dear Cana,

I have very good news to share with you!  God is graciously hearing and answering your prayers.  I went to the doctor yesterday to get more ninja medicine and she told me that the cancer is shrinking significantly.  The tumor is much smaller!

I also want to thank you for drawing a picture of what these pink ninjas actually look like.  I’ve been wondering!  Since they are so tiny in real life, it’s a little hard to tell.  And boy does that cancer look terrified!

Sweet friend, I remember holding you when you were a wee little baby.  Your mommy and daddy, and my husband, Van, and I shared some wonderful memories in Philadelphia while  in seminary together.  I pray that as you continue to grow up, you will know how very much our Jesus loves you and how very near he is when things are hard.  He never leaves us and holds us close always.

Tell your family hi for me and thank them for the super fun care package.  I’m especially excited about all the lollipops!

Love,

Ms. Anne

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, and faithful in prayer.  Romans 12:12

Only once in my youth did I garner enough courage to jump off the high dive. You fellow intrepid divers will attest that the view from the platform looking down is far more intimidating than the view from the ground.  I’m fairly certain that trying to keep up with my big brothers was the ultimate impetus for taking the plunge.

Chemo round 2 is coming up tomorrow.  Having weathered round one, I’ve gained a  ground-up perspective of this high dive.  The hardest part?  After jumping off and letting gravity do its thing, a big belly flop awaits at the bottom.

I had the privilege of being a fly on the wall at a wonderful Bible study lead by a good friend, David Spickard, for a bunch of third grade boys.  David shared the story of Joshua leading Israel to the edge of the Jordan River at flood stage.  By faith Joshua stepped into the raging waters and God, doing what only God can do, parted those waters, enabling Israel to pass right through.  Once they were safely on Canaan’s side, God had them pause to build a monument to him, consisting of twelve large stones right in the middle of the river.  The monument would remind them and tell the world of God’s faithfulness to the people he had set his heart upon.  After telling this story, David asked the third grade boys, my Jack included, to gather stones and label them with ways God had faithfully provided for them. One by one the kids shared what they had written on their stones, piling them high in the center of their circle.

In preparation for this upcoming high dive jump, I have been gathering my own stones of remembrance.  The stand-out stone during round one of chemo was a promise in Psalm 73: 23-26:

Yet I am always with you;
You hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my
heart and my portion forever.  

I love that the Psalm doesn’t say, “Be strong!”.  Rather, it sings to us the very good news that when we feel at the end of ourselves–weak, hurting, suffering–God Himself is our strength and portion.  He helps, holds, and sustains us.

Our fabulous new logo for this blog, conceived in my husband’s brain and so wonderfully created by Stephen Shingler, captures this journey so perfectly.  In my own strength, I can’t get rid of that thief dropping into my life, trying to steal it.  The work of Christ on the cross is the means by which I face that thief and find – no matter what – hope. (That’s a huge stone, THE stone.)  It simply overshadows that thief.  It overshadows the next high dive with belly flop.

The pain and sickies from chemo fade after several days.  (There’s a stone.)  This has been a good week.  (Another stone.)  Though fatigued, I’ve done normal life stuff and treasured it!  Even took kids through Chick-Fil-A drive-thru to grab lunch.  As we waited for our yummy food, our knows-no-stranger Sarah rolled down her window and informed the young lady serving us, “My mom’s hair fell out and she’s wearing a wig.”  I am willing to bet that was a first for this poor sweet employee!  Takes “my pleasure” to an entirely different level. After a good chuckle, I shared with her my story and God’s goodness to us through it.  Best drive-thru moment ever.

The stones are piled high.

Now, a couple of pictures and a shout-out to our Aunt Carol who so generously made me the CUTEST caps for my noggin.  And my wigs are proving to be quite entertaining.

Remember that scene from Les Miserables when Fantine gets her head shaved?  That’s the crazy scene I have in my imagination when I picture myself getting my head shaved in the next day or two.  It sounds dramatic, I know.  Honestly, it feels dramatic.  The last time I had hair shorter than my chin was when I was two years old.  Alas, these hairs are falling….and the Lord knows every single one.

I love the first question of the Heidelberg Catechism. It asks, “What is your only comfort in life and death?”  And the answer is worth memorizing…

That I am not my own,
but belong with body and soul,
both in life and in death,
to my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ.
He has fully paid for all my sins
with his precious blood,
and has set me free
from all the power of the devil.
He also preserves me in such a way
that without the will of my heavenly Father
not a hair can fall from my head;
indeed, all things must work together
for my salvation.
Therefore, by his Holy Spirit
he also assures me
of eternal life
and makes me heartily willing and ready
from now on to live for him.

This journey is one of two very real experiences occurring simultaneously, sorrow and gratitude.  Sorrow for all the things that are not as they should be.  Tangible reminders that we live in a fallen world.  Sorrow that one cell in my body went very wrong and out of control.  Sorrow that I will have more losses and scars along the way.  And, today, sadness that my hair is falling out.

And then there’s gratitude.  These ninjas are rocking and rolling in this body of mine.  They are killing fast growing cells.  Every good hair that falls from my head represents a nasty cancer cell slain.  I confess it is certainly a love/hate relationship with my ninjas, but I am thankful for them.  Hair does regrow.  Grateful.  Far more deeply, I am humbly grateful that these losses and scars endured are only achieving for me a greater fellowship with the Man of Sorrows who endured ultimate loss to gain me.

My cancer has unleashed a torrent of love from friends and family, and I can’t even begin to tell you how it ministers to my soul. Letters, meals, fun playdates for my kids, sleepovers for the boys, emails with specific ways you are praying, gifts…the love has poured in ways I couldn’t fathom.  In fact, I never thought there would be a day when a dozen friends offering to shave my head would lead me to say, “I feel the love.”

But boy do I feel the love.

With gratitude,
Anne

Chemo round #1…check.  Boy am I glad this first round is done because, well, that’s one round I won’t have to do again!  I sure welcome these feeling-ok-days. Fatigue is the main battle now.  These ninjas are powerful little warriors and doing their job quite well.  There is certainly evidence.

The bodily suffering inherent to cancer has gotten a lot of air time.  Going through treatment (and all its subsequent side effects) is, after all, a very physical experience.  And it’s hard.  Right alongside this physical hardship is my heart, which is just as active as ever.  My experience of this road is as much – if not more – about the turf of my heart.  THE Warrior is steadily at work faithfully refining it.  I’m on the lookout for evidence there, too.

Sara Groves, yet another coffee-date-in-heaven wish (though she is still very much alive!), sings: “From this one place I can’t see very far.  From this one moment I’m square in the dark.  These are the things I will trust in my heart – You can see something else.  Something else.”

When it’s hard – body’s sick and hurting, fears welling up with uncertainties – it’s a fight to see beyond it.  And the amazing grace is this, I don’t have to.  Jesus is not beyond the hard.  He’s in it.  Right smack dab in the middle of it all with me.  The Forerunner has been there, done that, and more.  He delights to be near, in my mess, gripping me, giving his strength as I am weak.  And that’s true with or without cancer.

I’ve come up for a breath for a few days before my next ninja reinforcements on June 30th.  While on long bear hunts (previous post), the feel-better-days are precious.  My daily agenda is bare-bones simple…time to read and pray, play with the kids, walk the dog, walk barefoot on our fake grass (it really is so cool), rest, eat the bounty of food our community is providing, soak in quiet evening moments with Van after the little people are tucked into bed.  I have my eyes peeled to catch glimpses of the “something else” God is wisely orchestrating in and beyond the hard.

Now, brace yourselves.  Let me show you something spectacular.

This may appear to be just a basket full of cards and presents.  No, no!  You are looking at a basket of glory.  Thanks to the creative force (and love) of my dear friend, Manning, I have a basket of glory sitting in my living room.  Friends from near and far, friends new, old, and some I have yet to meet, have lavished on me daily reminders of a Person, Jesus, who is in this hard stuff with me and the goal of it all.  (1 Peter 1:6-7).  The hope of the end of this Story has made its way into a basket in my house.

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.  And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.  Hebrews 10:23-25.  

Winston Churchill said, “When you are going through hell, keep going.”  I wouldn’t necessarily say that I am going through hell, but having cancer is no picnic.  Actually, and pardon my French, it downright sucks.  Suck is a four-letter word in our household, in our “crass” category.  But, if one of my children walked up to me and said, “Mommy, cancer sucks.”, I would wholeheartedly agree, give a high-five of solidarity, and send them on their merry little way.

In talking to a friend last week about what this road has been like so far, we landed on a great analogy.  Dealing with cancer is a lot like the wonderful children’s song/book We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.  First, you realize there is a real bear, and he is going to eat you.  Then you start running.  (With cancer, you run at the bear.)  As you run what feels like a marathon to make it home safe and sound, there are numerous challenges along the way.  Biopsies, waiting for test results, hearing the results, more tests, waiting more, telling your kids, getting a port, wig shopping, starting chemo, living the side effects of chemo, loosing hair, surgery, radiation, and more surgery.  “We can’t go over it.  We can’t go under it.  Oh, no! We’ve got to go through it!”

My first encounter with the cancer bear was finding the lump.  Having a sobering family history of breast cancer, I have been keen on doing my self breast exams.  With a pit in my stomach, I made an appointment to see the doctor.  Grace showed up in the form of courage and that has been true ever since that lump-finding day.  Ladies, consider this my big plug to faithfully do your self breast exams.  And get those mammograms.  Be like Oprah and schedule it on your birthday so that at least you get cake and presents on the same day.  Looking back at my lump finding day, it is a day of great mercy.

Samuel Rutherford, a Scottish pastor in the 1600s, is at the top of my list of people to have coffee with one day when I arrive in Heaven. He writes, “You must learn to make evils your great good, and to spin out comforts, peace, joy, communion with Christ, out of your troubles, that are Christ’s wooers to speak for you to himself.”  (Read that again…it’s rich stuff.)  I am learning how to “spin out” better.  And God has proved a very faithful refuge as I have poured out my heart to him (Ps. 62:8).  Spinning out is much easier to do with others helping, so thank you.  This cancer bear will meet a legion full of ninjas this Tuesday morning starting at 8:15.  It’ll be a long day…8 hours for this first treatment.  I’ll be doing a lot of spinning out Tuesday and resting in the promises of Isaiah 43, “…you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…”

I’ll sign off with a little vignette about this bear hunt.  Last Wednesday, Mom and I went wig shopping.  I wish it was for Halloween, but the reality is I have about three weeks until my hair will give up and fall out.  Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, but I sure can wear some great fake hair!  Mom and I started the day spinning good out of a crummy reality.  We found two great styles that looked remarkably similar to my hair in its natural state (curly) and straightened.  That was a relief.  The fun part?  The try-on wigs only came in blonde.  So here you are friends, blonde Anne…

I bought both wigs in my color matched brunette hair and then got in the car and cried.  That’s how it is. You face the challenge ahead, watch God pour out his grace and mercy to hold you as you go through it, and then grieve and let him do the work of binding up broken hearts (Ps. 147:3).  He can and he will.

Having survived the phlebotomist attack today, I thought it was time I chime in.

I listen to people for a living. Well, not so much for a living, but it is a calling and a part time occupation for me as a counselor. These days, the white noise of hardships has ramped up and listening well to what is TRUE has been more of a challenge. There’s a lot of static in my heart–fears, health questions, concerns for children. This is where YOU all come into the picture. You all have been like a megaphone of truth-filled hope to my heart. Here is what you have been telling me…

There is nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ. Cancer included. Romans 8:35-39.

God does not hold out on us.  He is good.  He has ordained and is intimately involved in every single moment of my life, my children’s lives, my husband’s life. Not a hair can fall from my head without our Heavenly Father knowing it. (That is good news considering I will be going wig shopping soon.) Romans 8:28-34.

Jesus is limitless. The height, depth, length, and width of his love is boundless. And it’s mine. I have hit my self-resource limits, friends. They are shallow anyway, so I am joyfully wading into the deep love of Christ. Ephesians 3:16-19.

God draws near the brokenhearted. He counts our tears. He’s been counting a lot of mine the last few weeks. Thank you for weeping with me. Rejoicing in the secured hope that all things will be made new one day. Psalm 34:18, Psalm 56:8, Revelation 21:4.

There is nothing lost that will not be restored. I love what one breast cancer survivor friend shared with me–she gained more than was lost in her journey through cancer. That is encouraging stuff.  Joel 2:25, Philippians 3:7-11.

In the midst of suffering, God doesn’t just give resources, he give HIMSELF. I’ve been chewing on this a lot. Maker of Heaven and Earth WITH me. He certainly gives resources, too. My mom is moving in with us for the treatment season.  She’s a rock star. You all are feeding us for several months. My kids are going to have a terrific summer with all the offers of play dates. Grace and mercy have been full-on flowing.  Isaiah 43:1-2, Hebrews 4:16.

Wherever I am, God’s Spirit is there.  Even the far side of the sea. Even the MRI tube. I have a love/hate relationship with that amazing piece of technology that unfortunately feels like a casket. Even the long months of feeling icky ahead. Even the sleepless nights. EVEN THERE God’s everlasting presence is with me. Psalm 139.

God is faithful. Knowing this is true for my kiddos is deeply comforting as a mommy.  Psalm 117, 1 Corinthians 1:9.

The glory of Christ is evident in the church especially when a member is suffering and all the other members swarm in like a swat team to carry the burdens. We are swarmed and carried and we are ever grateful. Ephesians 3:10-13.

Keep on telling/texting/emailing this hope!  I’m listening!