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

As I fight this battle with cancer, I am connecting with other women, younger and older, who comprise this unique breast cancer sisterhood. Marion, Amanda, Debbi, Nancy, Wendy, Jenny, and Rebecca – thank you for sharing your journeys with me.

I love our conversations.  There is freedom to say certain things with these friends because they get it. Having to face and fight the thief themselves, their empathy is deep, wide, and tangible.  The specific comfort God has given them flows to me in the course of our conversations, and my heart drinks their words.

In fact, I’ve realized that sharing our hearts through any hardship is often ripe with help and hope.  It’s a refreshing drink of savory lemonade on a warm summer day.

The Psalms have long been my soul’s lemonade, and even more so these days.  Sweet with hope, refreshing in honesty, rejuvenating with truth, the Psalms give me words to express my raw fears.  They sing of God’s sovereign care and mighty strength.  They fill in the blanks and surprise me along the way with word pictures that express far more than any technical description of suffering.  And they reorient my wayward heart from its dark, hopeless wanderings to the stalwart hope of Christ, anchoring me to Him, not my shifting circumstances.

My circumstances are not offering much refreshment these days.  While there are certainly joys and even belly laughs every day, (I am married to Van, after all), this is a tiring, long road.

Weary.  I’ve used that word a lot more the past two weeks.  It’s different than hopeless.  Weariness is the tattered sails of a soul that inevitably come after long-lasting, intense storms.  Deep sigh.  It’s only been 13 weeks.  Fodder for you as you pray for me.

My drink of lemonade this morning was Psalm 63…

“My soul thirsts for you…as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

There is no reprimand in this Psalm for feeling weary.  There is no correction for having a tired soul.  There is, instead, an invitation to be refreshed in God’s love.

“Because your steadfast love is better than life…My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips.”  

Lemonade AND bacon! (Van would stick an “amen!” right here)  God’s love, the yummiest of fare, better than life itself.

Psalm 63 is the song Jesus sang with His life, perfectly embodying and fulfilling its every word.  He knows weary.  He even knows what it is to be weary and have the refreshment He alone deserved intentionally withheld by his Heavenly Father.  Why?  So that I – undeserving of comfort and rest because of my sin – can be freely refreshed by the love of God.  Jesus Himself knows the specifics of my suffering.  He can read between the lines of my heart as I cry out to him, reviving me with his comfort and peace, his strength and help.  Jesus is divine lemonade.

Round 5 begins next Tuesday.  Pray I will be refreshed and satisfied in God’s love as the rockiest parts of this treatment road approach.  I’m beginning to see the finish line of ninja warfare in the distance.  I will feast and dance across that line!

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

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

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

 

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