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.

  

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

The kids started school this past Monday, demarcating what I call the “unofficial end of summer” (despite there being 33 days left before its official exit). A happy occasion for our school-loving Jack (4^th), Luke (2^nd) and Sarah (K), the transition to uniforms, homework and carpool caught me off-guard more than I anticipated. As I quipped in one of my Facebook posts, of the four seasons, summer seems to speed by the fastest. Much too quickly, in fact.

So I’ve been thinking about our summer. Most importantly, how it was for the kids in light of Mommy’s chemotherapy treatment (aka “ninja medicine” to K.C.A.).

A few trail runs and chats-with-Anne later, I came to the following conclusion: the Fletcher kiddos had a great summer. Not an easy summer. Not a normal summer. Not a summer without tears, new fears, and fitful nights. But a summer that was joyful, and rich in blessings that only Anne’s suffering could have unlocked for our family.

Those blessings arrived in the form of you. That’s right. You made my children’s summer special. You are our village of loving, thoughtful, intentional and generous friends.

“Village” perfectly captures how we’ve experienced your love and care. One of the villagers has fallen ill, so the village organically steps in to provide communal care, not only for the sick villager but her entire family.

Connecting dots…

Ever since Anne was diagnosed back on May 25^th, you have faithfully provided us with delicious meals, tailored to our family’s dietary needs. More than simply filling our bellies, your prepared dinners have freed Anne to rest and invest her limited energy in the children, freed Suzanne (Anne’s mom) to keep the house running and care for the kids, and freed me to focus on work and allowed me more time with Anne and the Phletcha trifecta. In other words, you have helped us preserve the one thing that the Thief so adeptly steals: time.

The other significant way in which you made my children’s summer memorable was by whisking them away for play dates, outings, and sleepovers. Just last week, some dear friends took Friday off from work, snagged the kids that morning, and had a big time going to the museum, the pool and other adventures. Amazing gift. What’s more, on their own initiative several of Jack, Luke, and Sarah’s teachers at St. David’s took the kids for entire afternoons this summer, treating them to neat opportunities for fun and learning that neither Anne nor I could have provided.

Friends, you have blessed us this summer. The evidence is written all over my children. Anne and I are humbled and brimming with gratitude for the ways in which you have so specifically loved our family.

You are our Village, without whom we could not face and fight this cancer battle with the same resolve, energy, joy, and hope your torrent of love has infused in us.

Thank you. A million times over.

With heartfelt gratitude,
Van

My children are a feeling bunch. Tender, expressive hearts beat in each of their chests. Putting them to bed tonight, I listened as each expressed that sweet sadness that comes the night before you have to go home. I told them I felt it too. 

Tomorrow we head back to Raleigh, leaving behind Ocean Isle Beach, but carrying with us sweet memories of our time here. There was hardcore playing with cousins, and pier fishing, and pool games, and boogie boarding, and wave jumping, and hide and seek with the Pearson boys, and chasing our puppy in the sand, and trips to Sunset Slush. It was glorious. 

So those tears I saw streaming down Jack’s face tonight? They were a gift to me. 

They were good tears.

 Those wet eyes told me that despite our vacation having a very different feel this summer – Mommy wasn’t here half the time, nor had the ability to play on the beach when she was – my children had a great time. 

Boy. I’m getting choked up as I write this. 

He tried, but the thief didn’t rob us this go around. 

Take that, cancer. 

Having spent five days in Raleigh recovering from her third round of chemotherapy, Anne arrived back in Ocean Isle on Sunday. Boy are we glad to have her back. She was sorely missed, the children especially feeling it. 

I can definitely tell this round put a beating on her. She’s moving slower, sleeping more, and enduring higher levels of nausea than before. 

It made me think of her chemo regimen as a boxing match. She’s in the ring with a formidable opponent, and midway into the first round she gets a hard right to the left jaw. Knocks her back, stumbling. But she shakes it off, regains her composure, bounces back and finishes round 1. Rest in the corner. 

Round 2 is somewhat the same. The knocks come, but she stays on her feet, albeit wobbly at times from well-placed punches. 

Round 3 starts. She seems to be hanging tough – good bounce in her step – and then suddenly comes a hard blow to the head. Knocks her flat on her back. Conscious but visibly hurt, she staggers back to her feet. She fights her way through the round, but you can tell that blow took the wind out of her. 

Looking in, that’s my sense for how this round 3 is going for her. My Annie is hanging tough, but this last round brought a harder-hitting punch. 

I am really proud of my wife. She is doing it. Fighting.  Resting. Believing. Receiving. Rejoicing. Mourning. Loving. Clinging. Enduring. Hoping. Facing…the thief, the opponent in the ring. 

I wrote all of this while sitting beside her bed as she napped just now.  And I couldn’t wait to include this picture of her bedside table. It tells a story/paints a picture, but it doesn’t need my illumination. Here’s what you see:

• Four bottles of specially-filtered water
• Tums
• A tube of lip balm
• A book by Jim Gaffigan
• The Bible

 Don’t we love some Anne Fletcher?

 

Anne’s had a good week.

The sparkle in those big brown eyes returned, no longer dimmed by the potent effects of chemotherapy drugs.The severe fatigue and nausea have abated this third week. It’s felt good. And normal.

She kicked the soccer ball with Jack. Did a little bit of counseling. Watched the ESPYS. Lent her extraordinary staging abilities to a client. Shopped for groceries. Played the piano (she’s written a few songs).

Next week she’ll have her third of six chemotherapy infusions. Sadly, it will mean she has to leave Ocean Isle Beach early, where we’ll be celebrating our annual vacation with her family. Booooo. She put it well: “It’s like showing up at the playground knowing the school bully is going to punch you in the gut.”

Yet my girl continues to embrace her hardship with hope, courage, and dependence on the Lord for daily grace.

With gratitude,

Van

I sat down at my desk this morning to get a jump start on this sunny, hot Friday and smiled.

Staring at me are four teenagers, perched around my office, one of whom is pictured here (Raphael I think, according to Wikipedia).

  
Shortly after I wrote my May 25th blog post sharing Anne’s cancer diagnosis, entitled “Wow + Ninja Prayers,” these four teenage crime fighters showed up. I later found out that my fun, thoughtful colleague Barbara O’Rourke had dug them out of her attic and snuck them in. They haven’t moved.

I’ll come back to my TMNT friends in just a minute.

Update on Anne: I think she’s doing really well, all things considered.

All things considered…

I find myself often using that phrase when friends and acquaintances ask how she’s doing.  From my vantage point, “all things considered” for Anne means “considering poisonous medicine is being pumped into her body every three weeks with the lovely side effects of hair loss, fatigue, nausea, and achy body, among other things.”

Considering that reality, here’s what I see: Anne is enduring this difficult season of treatment remarkably well, a testimony to her strength and God’s real, tangible, sustaining grace in her life. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself, yet she doesn’t pretend things are hunky-dory. She’s not consumed by worry, yet she acknowledges the scary, unknown aspects of her illness. She cries, and she laughs. She focuses on caring for others – especially Jack, Luke, and Sarah – yet she knows when she has to care for herself.  She hates her cancer, and yet – get this – she is thankful for it. She is, as crazy as that sounds. Why?  Because it is drawing her nearer to Jesus, and she feels it. And I see it.

My Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle friends reminded me of several things this morning. First, the ninja medicine is working. Her tumor is shrinking. Awesome. Lord, thank you for great medicine. Second, your ninja prayers are specifically activating God’s grace in Anne’s life. She would emphatically amen that. Lord, thank you for faithful friends who care for us.

You know who else is praying ninja prayers?  Jesus Himself. Listen to this: “Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us.” (Rom 8:34)  And then in Hebrews 7:25, we’re told “Consequently, he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them.”

How cool is THAT? Our Savior is presently, actively, passionately praying to God the Father on Anne’s behalf. Let’s admit it. Even those of us who are diligent in praying (not I) can’t hold a candle to the ongoing, never-ceasing, perfect prayers of Jesus the King. He’s sitting there in heaven, at God’s right hand, asking our Heavenly Father to pour out his blessings, healing, strength, wisdom, and grace on Anne Brittain Fletcher.

Lord, thank you for Jesus’ love and intercession for Anne.

Love to you all,

Van

I’m here at North Hills Club with my little posse, enjoying some pool time on this glorious 4th of July.

The kids and I miss Mommy, who needed to hang back and double down on rest while the ninja medicine does its thing.  It’s one of the ways in which the summer feels different; normally she’s here splashing and playing and applying sunscreen.

The miss and ever-lurking sadness caused by her thief had put me in a somewhat brooding mood of late. There’s a brilliant book written by Dr. Seuss that was published posthumously in 1996 called My Many Colored Days.  I enjoy pulling it out periodically for bedtime reading.

Moods and feelings are vividly depicted as individual colors that span the range of human emotion. My point in sharing isn’t so much to slide in a book recommendation (though you should buy it; the illustrations are marvelous) as it is to say – in an admittedly long-winded fashion – that I’ve felt “purple” the last several days.

In keeping with my mood, I had begun a blog post that was focused on some of the hidden  sorrows that shove their way into your heart when your spouse is fighting cancer.

Then, at what I can only call the Lord’s prompting, I recalled the hope-giving, gospel-induced, heart-changing benefits of giving thanks (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). It doesn’t erase sadness or put some sort of Christian permasmile on our faces (as if that were the mark of a true Christian…Jesus is called the Man of Sorrows). Rather, it reminds you Who you belong to, how He loves you, and all of the ways in which He gives good gifts to His children, even in the midst of brokenness and suffering.

My heart pivoted.  Boy is my Heavenly Father good to the Fletchers. I started furiously jotting down things I was thankful for on a ketchup-stained napkin…

• North Hills Club, a happy place for my children.
• Grilled cheese sandwiches and French fries.
• Sunshine.
• Our school. Anne has remarked time and again how thankful she is for the ways in which our school community has cared for us.
• Manning Pruden. She loves and serves our family – both on the business and personal front – BIG.
• Inside Out. A great summer movie. It delighted my kids.
• Laura Allen and Erin Bruns, our nannies. Laura just took off for a year-long mission trip to Costa Rica, and we have Erin for the summer before she goes back to teaching. Both know our children so well and love them specifically, deeply.
• The flexibility my work allows. Working for yourself has perks, like being able to take off an entire Thursday afternoon to go to Frankie’s Fun Parks for Luke’s 8th Birthday.
• My mom and dad, who have been sweet encouragers to Anne. Mom (“Mimi” to Jack, Luke & Sarah), because she is a hard-wired encourager, has been through it herself, and gets it. Dad (“PopPop”), because this is part of his chosen field of medicine, and he’s a durn good Doc.
• The extraordinary medical system in the Triangle. We have exceptional doctors and a network of resources at our fingertips that I pray we never take for granted.
• Artificial turf. 🙂 It’s the bomb people.
• Meals. I can’t think of a single greater blessing we experience on a daily basis than the food you bring to our doorstep each evening. Tangible reminder of God’s provision.
• Cute caps.  A few of you have actually hand-made caps for her little bald noggin. Anne can rock the skull-cap like none other.
• Our church. Christ the King isn’t a wealthy church, but it’s a rich church. Rich in living out the good news that in Christ we are redeemed sinners with an inheritance that will never fade thanks to what Jesus did on the cross. Rich in mercy. Rich in fellowship. Rich in the gospel of grace.
• Suzanne Matthews, Anne’s mom. She’s practically lived with us since the middle of May, faithfully caring not just for Anne but for our family. If I could clone Suzanne, I would be a wealthy man. And then would buy her an island or something.
• All-o-y’all who are praying. Thank you for your faithfulness.

You know what?  Bright blue is my new color. 

Flapping my wings,

Van

 

Oh this is fun…

The Fletchers love art. I’m an admirer, but Anne’s actually an artist (though she would humbly eschew this title). The things I’ve seen her create – from homemade birthday cards to art for clients’ walls – are exceptional. In fact, if you want to really see her artistic talent on display, you ought to see how she stages my clients’ homes. It’s nothing shy of incredible. As I tell my sellers, Anne is my “secret weapon.”

Thankfully, my children are the beneficiaries of her artistic gifts, both in terms of nature (Anne’s artsy genes are present in each of them) and nurture (our dining table is always covered with art projects). We’re also fortunate to send Jack, Luke and Sarah to a terrific school where art is a prized part of the curriculum (St. David’s).

Which brings me to our friend Stephen Shingler.

Stephen is a fantastic, über-talented, wildly popular art teacher at St. David’s. He’s such a cool dude. My boys have enjoyed art lessons with him over the past few summers and always come home energized.

I approached Stephen a few weeks ago with an idea. This blog site allows me to customize a few things, one of which being the “logo,” or picture you see at the top of the page. How neat would it be for a friend to surprise Anne with a visual representation of the blog site’s name, I shared with Stephen.

After uploading what was in my head, I knew he could take it from there.

He nailed it.

Surprise Anne! Surprise to all of you!

With joy,

Van

This morning I arose before Anne, who was sleeping peacefully in a cute pink cap that was given to her by Rebecca Foley, a longtime swimming buddy of mine from childhood and cancer survivor. Thank you, sweet Rebecca.

As I opened the fridge in search of cream for my coffee, I reached past delicious leftover food brought over last night by our dear friend Beth. It made me think about how blessed we’ve been to have so many of you go out of your way to have prepared meals at our doorstep over the last several weeks. Thank you, sweet friends.

Then, at 6:26 a.m., Anne and I receive an email from my good buddy Aaron McKethan, who I’ve known for almost 20 years from our glory days at UNC-Chapel Hill.  True to form, my witty friend writes an email that puts me in stitches, punctuated with a great reminder that our Heavenly Father is a God of restoration.  I immediately asked Aaron for permission to copy and paste his email here, which he granted with one proviso: invite all of you to contribute to his list.

I think it’s brilliant.

Thank you, Aaron, for the gift of humor.  Now, for a good laugh:

I have been thinking that, despite the many serious drawbacks, there are some inherent advantages in temporarily not having your hair during treatment:

1. Shampoo expenses will plummet. Use the resulting savings to purchase dark chocolate.
2. Bed head? Not a problem. Let’s go.
3. Time to spend serous money on some awesome hats. I recommend that you don’t always go the conventional route. Try a Dr. Seuss hat once in a while.
4. Cut in the front of every line. Who would question you?
5. Now’s your chance to tell people you belong in a punk band. Black fingernail polish, lip piercings, and neck tattoos also recommended.
6. Use your new bald-is-beautiful powers to convince Van to go bald as well. You two together sans-hair would make for a memorable Christmas picture.
7. Your swimming pool adventures will be characterized by heretofore unprecedented aerodynamism.
8. As your hair grows back in, you will get to experiment with a range of hairstyles over multiple stages.
9. Warm scarves. Enough said.
10. When your hair returns to its beautiful glory that we all know and love, you will look back at all the photos and remember how God was with you and for you the whole time.

Anne and I look forward to your contributions.

With joy,

Van