The C Word

Cancer is the ultimate mind fuck. Or, perhaps put more politely, it is the ever elusive client that the psychiatrist cannot seem to pin down. Sometimes its malady seems clear cut, requiring a straight forward treatment plan with fairly predictable outcomes. Other days, it seems to shape shift, eluding categories and necessitating an almost “figure it out as we go” mindset by incredibly smart and resourceful professionals who are crossing their fingers as much as the patient.

 

As a thrice time recipient of the unwanted title of “oncology patient,” this is one of the hardest things for me to grasp. Why is it that some of us can overcome this disease with minimal discomfort and wish it bon voyage for the rest of our natural lives, while others don’t get such a break.

 

I read about the well-to-do influencer who, after a routine procedure, develops necrosis and undergoes 15 surgeries over the course of two years. Or the athlete and newly divorced mother who, six months after completing her course of treatment for stage 2 cancer, finds out that IT has returned and metastasized. And perhaps the most gut wrenching, the young mom who, hours after delivering her second child, learns she has leukemia. A year and a half and several clinical trials later, she is facing the certainty of a near death. No amount of money, clout or medical connections has what it takes to save her. 

 

After reading accountsIt’s hard not to experience a certain amount of “survivor’s guilt.” Sure, I’ve had to learn to “let go” an awful lot, having endured two double mastectomies, chemo and two rounds of radiation. My breasts, once the feature that I would’ve said defined my femininity, are now gone and in their place is taught, scared skin. I joke (sort of) that I look like a ten year old boy. My hair is coming back-no more hiding the grey-and there is not a lot left that were the trademarks of 12-months-ago me. Still, this is chump change compared to staring down the barrel of imminent death. I find myself thinking “why can’t we more evenly distribute this cursed disease!” as if we could parse out cancer and each carry a manageable amount of in our DNA so that no one has to suffer unduly.

 

Of course, each of those stories, as well as my own, have their bright spots, such as finding humor in the absurd: I would proclaim: “Elixir of life, pour into me!” because that sounded a lot more positive than stating the obvious, which is that I am having poison pumped into my veins.  There are also the nuggets of wisdom you feel like the whole world should know-one of the biggest being that when it comes to the daily management of treatment, NURSES KNOW MORE THAN THE DOCTORS! They probably could run the whole show, actually. 

 

Lets be honest, I’ve learned a lot of life lessons, moved on to the 500 level Adulting class. I will never settle for a doctor/clinician that I don’t connect with. I will always assume that I need to advocate for myself because even the smartest and best intentioned  experts have blindspots. If we, as parents, understand that we are to partner with teachers in our child’s academic growth, we are we so comfortable relegating ourselves to the role of child who should be seen and not heard when it comes to our medical decision making? 

 

Of course, the biggest life lesson we (are supposed to) learn is the BIG lesson. Inevitably, anyone who goes through a major upheaval seeks to find a deeper meaning, bigger purpose. I mean, if we don’t learn from it then what is the point. At least that’s how I frame it in terms of my faith. I know that God is in control and that he is not a God of fear. I don’t pretend to know why He allows some of us to go through such disparate amounts of suffering, particularly through cancer. I do know that if I remember those truths and not fight the loss of control, but be mindfully engaged, my perspective is better and my experience of walking the medical journey is better. So maybe that’s the big take away: learning to be okay with uncertainty. Except that even those who dutifully do so can have the preverbal rug pulled out from underneath them, as mentioned earlier.

 

Cancer certainly does reignite a lot of dormant relationships. One of the best upsides of this past year has been reconnecting with friends and having lots of wonderful chemo companions. Highly likely that had I not been facing a deadly disease, I would’ve remained complacent. Cancer also taught me how fiercely my family-husband and daughters-love me. Many days it was worse seeing their fear than being the patient. From that perspective I have a lot more control than they do. Cancer certainly makes us all appreciate each other more, we do better at not sweating the little stuff, picking our battles, Except when we don’t. What am I supposed to think when, in the midst of cancer, when so many things are topsy turvy, the entrenched patterns that drive us crazy, the arguments that drain us remain remarkably unchanged. What am I to think about this lack of transformation? On those days (or weeks) cancer is demystified and seems like just one more obligation-another part time job to manage. And that’s a real disappointment. I don’t pretend to have answers for this except that for as much as cancer elevates the ordinary and causes us to re evaluate our lives, it also doesn’t fundamentally change our circumstances. Life, relationships, careers, still push their way to the forefront of our attention. There is no magic spell-kids still struggle with their mental health, spouses still can’t will their partner to change. Life goes on, with or without cancer, or a stroke (yah, a stroke 2 days Post Op resulting in impaired speech and coordination added more unwanted plot twists). So while cancer creates opportunities for beauty in the midst of destruction, it is not a get out of jail free card. I guess the beauty in that statement is that while I have breath, I will continue to fight on those fronts, too. 

 

My musings on cancer may feel half way finished. I certainly don’t know how to go on right now. But as a former 13.1 (right now the goal is a humble 3.1) and not a 26.2 runner, I know there is always the opportunity for more. So perhaps to be continued. 

 

Black Lives Matter and the Gospel

I'm nearly 50 years old and for most of my life I've been trying to figure what I believe and why I believe it and recent events are helping me solidify my convictions.

I was raised by a single mom for the first nine years of my life. She gave her all to working and providing for me and my beloved felines. She went without a lot so that we would have what we needed. She never let on just how strapped things were, but I vividly remember being allowed to choose two pairs of shoes for the year: one was sneakers for gym and the other was the pair that had to go with everything else. I expended a lot of thought trying to determine which color and style would be the most versatile because that pair was it until next year's pick came up. In the same way that my mother modeled financial wisdom without ever explicitly saying, "we need to be wise with what we purchase" she modeled treating everyone-regardless of race, creed or culture--equitably by what she did and what she allowed me to do.

I grew up in a bastion of progressivism smack in the middle of America's dairyland. We had folk singers come to my elementary school who lamented the "Dioxin blues," I saw my teachers protest for fair contracts and when I left Madison, at age 15, the headline was about a lesbian couple was suing the YMCA for the right to have a family membership just like everyone else.

The majority of my peers were fairer than I was (Wisconsin in the 70's and early 80's was land of Scandinavians and there are more varieties of Lutherans than skin color, for the most part) they tended to come from two parent, well educated families, thanks the the presence of the University. Even though my mom and I were somewhat of anomaly, being just the two of us and living in an apartment on the edge of town, my school friends included me in their gatherings and from an early age I heard from and had modeled for me by adults in my life that education was important, that I could do anything I set my mind to and that the world is full of people different from you and that's a good thing. I don't know exactly how it all coalesced in my young mind, but I do know that those are the messages that were woven deep into my consciousness. So when my mom received a letter (no email, no cell phones then!) from a relative that her young son had reacted with shock upon seeing a black person for the first time, but warmed up quickly, I was indignant and swore that I would do a better job with my own kids. Mind you, this relative was simply sharing an anecdote about what was going on in her life-she wasn't expressing any sense of superiority or judgment, she just lived in a very homogenous area and so this was a new experience for her elementary aged child. Still, I had a strong, if not haughty, sense that I had definitely gotten that better deal living in an eclectic, open minded college town.

So you can imagine that I had a bit of culture shock, when, at age 15, I moved to suburban Southern California. Lots of racial and cultural diversity, for sure, but (in my experience) much less focus on intellectual musings and much more on the living a pleasant SoCal life...who can blame the sun-hypnotized for not craving a lesser lifestyle. Still, for all of its differences, Southern California was equally as open minded and my group of friends came from a wide variety of backgrounds, many of them first generation Americans. I'll always be grateful that I had the opportunities I did, like attending Buddhist ceremonies with my best friend and, of course, eating some of the best food on the planet.

When I arrived in New York City for college (I never succumbed to the allure of sun and surf!) not only did I think I was pretty openminded, but I assumed I was pretty well-versed in what we'd now call "cultural literacy." Little did I know...college was eye opening for me in many ways: first and foremost I was surrounded by people who seemed to have had infinitely more academic preparation for the rigors that lay before us, but who had much greater sense of their place in the global community. I spent my college years discussing a lot of seeming abstract concepts and trying to figure out how to apply them to my very concrete life. I bobbed along in the ebb and flow of the thought trends at my urban campus but it wasn't always clear to me that there was a right and wrong side of arguments. Life was getting more muddled as I was becoming something of an adult and seeing that just because people were passionate about causes didn't mean they were always right, or consistent in their actions. Adding more dimension and, sometimes confusion, to my thoughts was that I'd recently become a Christian. In the middle of New York City on one of the most renown and, arguably, anti-establishment campuses in the world, right there is where God met me.

I wasn't exactly a skeptic to start with. I'd been a fairly regular church attender and church was always something that felt like it was supposed to be part of the routine, but attending church and knowing Christ were not the same, as I found out. It's one thing to feel an allegiance to an establishment that you can keep at arm's length, it's quite another to know that the God of the universe wants to be in relationship with you and that He uses his church to draw you into His community. There's no better place to find your faith than the City because there are no cultural pretenses to wade through. All around you are messages that you alone are enough, that dependence on anything but yourself is weakness and that religion is the opposite of open-mindedness. That means that churches in New York either draw on people who attend out of an ingrained sense of obligation or are places where people are drawn in because there is something different than what they've previously experienced. For the first time I was at a church where I was hearing a message that the gospel, or good news of Christ, was not a facet of life to be pulled out and put away at convenience, but rather the paradigm by which life was to be lived.  The gospel is fundamentally relational. God desires relationship with humanity through Christ and therefore, as Christians, this must necessarily play out in our relationship with others and with our world. The model is one of selflessness, of sacrificial love. Religion has often been used as a weapon of division, but truly living out faith should embody reconciliation. And that brings me back to the topic at hand: Black Lives Matter and the state of our country.

I do not believe that faith and politics line up in a particular fashion. I do not believe Jesus would call himself either a Democrat or Republican. And I do not believe politics, or politicians can ever bring us the lasting peace so  many of us seek. But that does not mean we give up the process entirely. We put our faith in flawed, but hopefully ethical people seeking to serve their country and the nation's people selflessly.

So back to Black Lives Matter. I remember when the movement first came about and there were the predictable responses toward this grassroots mobilization of "what about this group and what about that group" as if, to quote an over quoted meme: "equality is not like pie. to give someone else equality doesn't mean you get less!" I was running a half marathon in Savannah that year. The course took us through all different neighborhoods, including historically black ones. I remember vividly a black woman holding up a sign as she cheered us on that said "All Lives Matter," It's a phrase that had been tossed around a lot by a lot of reactionists, but receiving it from her caused me to tear up. At a time when she could've, and arguably should've, been focusing on herself and her community, she instead looked outward. She was seeking to build a bridge across a chasm of hurt. That is the gospel applied to real life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there was one "right" and one "wrong" path to choose, but she definitely chose the road less traveled and she radiated supernatural strength and beauty as she did it.

So why do we, people of the dominant culture, those of us who don't get up and daily wonder how our skin color will affect our standing in life, so often resist graciously giving to our brothers and sisters of color who've endured so much? There can be only one answer: because we don't believe that what they say is true. We don't trust that they're not over exaggerating or over dramatizing the plight of people of color. We think they're lying because we trust in ourselves--the spectator reading muddled fourth and fifth hand accounts, and our own experience  more than the words of the victims themselves. That's institutional racism. It's also antithetical to the gospel. If you profess to be a Christian then your calling is to a life of reconciliation. It is to love your brothers and sisters as Christ first loved you. It is not about arguing about exceptions to the rule or justifying your behavior because  you've never personally (knowingly) inflicted pain on someone else. It is about humbling yourself and saying to the offended "I'm sorry and I ask for your forgiveness."  But more than that, it is about finding a way forward and committing to walking alongside of our brothers and sisters in the continuing fight for justice and dignity to be granted to all.

This is my conviction as a Christian. There are a lot of fabulous people who've come to the same conclusion but not from a place of Christianity. There are plenty of people who have and live out a very strong sense of justice and I applaud them for it. But I raise the issue of faith because I live in a traditionally "christian" culture and it is grievous to see people who profess a belief in Christ and then have such a disconnect from the obvious starting point for living out their faith. Again, in that sense being a Christian in New York City is a lot more desirable. Take, for example, Redeemer NYC's statement regarding the recent killing of innocent black men and women:


Statement on Grace and Race:

As of May 27, 2020

Once again our hearts are broken and our souls irate as the blood of yet another person of color cries out to God from the ground. The vile brutality of racism in America has been unmistakable in recent weeks as the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd have each been brought to light.

As Christians and as the Grace and Race Ministry of Redeemer Churches & Ministries:

We lament the deaths of these beloved Image Bearers and weep with those who will forever miss their son, daughter, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, cousin, or friend.

We remember that throughout Scripture, God shows particular care for those who are most vulnerable, he commands authorities to be characterized by righteousness and justice, and he holds nations accountable for how they treat the least powerful groups and persons in their societies.

We recognize the pervasiveness of sin, we acknowledge that the bloody history of racially motivated violence in the United States continues to this day, we denounce any doctrine of racial superiority, and we join the many calls for systemic change in a nation that has often failed to uphold God’s vision of justice and has persistently worked against people of color. We pray that local officials will exercise their authority to pursue justice for Mr. Arbery, Ms. Taylor, Mr. Floyd, and countless others whose stories have been neglected.

We repent of the ways that we as Christians have far too often failed to adequately stand against the evil of racism and violence: diminishing its severity, averting our gazes, and even perpetuating such injustice deliberately or complicitly.

We realize that for many of our brothers and sisters, the revelation of these deaths is but another reminder of an everyday reality, and that even now as we lament the loss of these lives, many others are overlooked while being subjected to cruelty and death due to the color of their skin. Even still, we remember that ​“nothing is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.1”

We cry out to the God of peace and justice, asking together with the psalmist: How long, O Lord? How long must our black and brown brothers and sisters be killed without consequence? How long must fathers and mothers weep over their dead children? How long will racial violence persist in this nation? How long until your true justice reigns?

And yet we resolutely hope in Jesus, the Prince of Peace who suffered and died at the hands of both mob and state-sanctioned violence and who ultimately conquered evil and death itself. We long for the day when his perfect justice will roll down like waters,2 when his power will bring utter darkness into the light,3 and when his love will forever join together every race and tongue within the family of God.4 Until that day, we will continually commit ourselves to the furthering of Christ’s kingdom here on earth.

1 Luke 12:2
2 Amos 5:24
3 Job 12:22
4 Revelation 7:9

https://www.redeemer.com/r/grace_race_statement_may_2020

Now read an excerpt from the BLM statement of beliefs:

Every day, we recommit to healing ourselves and each other, and to co-creating alongside comrades, allies, and family a culture where each person feels seen, heard, and supported.

We acknowledge, respect, and celebrate differences and commonalities.

We work vigorously for freedom and justice for Black people and, by extension, all people.

We intentionally build and nurture a beloved community that is bonded together through a beautiful struggle that is restorative, not depleting.

You cannot read the two and not see the overlap in themes of personal dignity, justice and reconciliation.

I'm nearly 50, been married for almost 20 years and a parent for 16. Four years ago I became acutely aware that I had to look my daughters squarely in the eyes and explain my choices to them and, more importantly, I need to model my choices to them. That feeling has only intensified in the wake of the plethora of criminal killings against men and women of color. I want my kids to be social activists and feel a compulsion for equality but I want them to see that the driving force is that it is because these men and women are our fellow image-bearers, that their lives are inherently worthy, that the Constitution and ultimately the Scriptures teach us this truth and that no leader or backlash movement can alter that.

One of the basic premises I teach my students about the Civil War was that just because someone was "anti-slavery" did not mean they were abolitionists, or morally opposed to what was happening. Most were anti-slavery out of convenience, economic gain or spite. Then and now the only way our society is going to change is through transformative heart change. You can't weep empathetically if you don't hurt for the oppressed and underrepresented. You don't advocate for your neighbors if you don't see in their faces divine craftsmanship.  I'm not hear to tell you that actively endorsing the the official Black Lives Matter organization is the "right" thing to do. But I will go so far as to say that respecting it and championing the reasons for which it was formed-the fact that it needed to be created-is the right thing to do. Because black lives, all lives matter. It's just that simple. If we can't stop prioritizing ourselves and wincing at every conviction of truth, even if it's presented imperfectly, than we are hopeless hypocrites.

The next time we want someone to understand where we're coming from-because we all come from places of pain-consider how you expect to be heard, expect to be believed and expect to be validated and how incensed you would be if your expectations weren't met. Start with reflecting on the last time you got "really mad" about how you were treated. I'd wager it doesn't come close to what we are seeing in the news right now. Personal reflection and repentance is the starting point for any heart change and it may take awhile. But if that happen how do we expect to change as society?

So as I round the corner to 50 and I can say that I do know more about why I believe what I do than when I was 18 (good thing!). It's a nice place to be, there's a certain level of ease in knowing that I articulate my convictions and passions, but here's the thing: all that becomes rote if we think we've figured it all out and if our concern is more about defending our crafted position than in listening to what others have to say. Even more worrisome, though is that in drowning out others with our own clamor we merely reveal ourselves to be fools.

8.28.17

It was really nice to drive to work to day and enjoy the normalcy of the commute. One year ago I woke up completely uncertain as to what  8/28/17 would look and feel like. 

Less than two months earlier a routine doctor’s visit and mammogram had revealed something suspicious. I was sent to the hospital for more tests and, to be honest, I was more pre-occupied with the logistics of the procedure-childcare, insurance, the inevitable bureaucratic nuisances, than with what the procedure might reveal. I knew my odds were good that nothing was wrong and felt no reason to worry. So when I got a call 24 hours later from the radiologist telling me I had cancer, I was completely stunned. I mean, had I really beaten the odds of NOT having a normal outcome? Kind of impressive in a strange way. Yes, weird thoughts like that floated through my head. 

The next 6 weeks would be a crash course in how to navigate the breast cancer decision making process. Much of what I learned is that this journey is an incremental one which requires patience. A mammogram reveals that there is at least one spot of cancer. An MRI reveals several more areas of concern. With that, I can choose the less invasive route which requires more biopsies and more frequent follow up procedures and no guarantee that I might not be back in a similar position in the future. I can choose the most dramatic option-bilateral mastectomy-which preemptively eradicates any other dark surprises that may be lurking, but which sounds like something out of a horror movie. But whatever route I take, I won’t know if I’ll need to do radiation, chemo or both afterwards.

I choose the horror movie scenario given my family history and my young age (yes, there were bright spots to being diagnosed with cancer). Intellectually I know this is the best choice I can make but emotionally I’m completely clueless how it will affect me. In the weeks leading up to the surgery I’m terrified of falling asleep (later on I realize that anytime you are pumped with lovely narcotics and wrapped in a blanket surrounded by a cocoon of warm air you should just treat it as spa time, no matter where it may be taking place) and terrified of waking up and of what I’ll find.

Well, I did wake up, in quite a good mood actually. I remember telling the nurses all about how many AP classes I’d taken as they wheeled me to my room. I’m sure I was at least half as witty as I felt!I remember being ravenous and the nurse sneakily getting me a second tray of beige meat. I remember thinking “I made it. This really isn’t as bad as I feared. 

In the weeks leading up to and following my surgery I experienced an outpouring of love and generosity that stunned me even more than my diagnosis. That is something I will never forget.

Cancer is a crazy-making disease if you ask me. In many cases, such as mine, it is easily treatable-cause for pause and taking stock of things, but not for putting your affairs in order. And then there is the vicious, unrelenting kind that ravages body and soul, stealing personal friends and statesmen alike. On the cancer spectrum, I feel like I had the equivalent of a test drive. Just enough exposure to get a taste and feel for the disease without having to fully commit. Just enough to experience the exceptional medical care my city and country have to offer. Enough to be grateful that, for now at least, there is a definitive end point and that I can speak of it as a past event. Cancer doesn’t play favorites and yet I often find it hard not to feel like I got off easy, unlike the everyday warriors who keep fighting relentlessly.

I’ve said that the two hardest aspects of my journey (I never felt sick, so it feels odd to call it a sickness) were dealing with insurance and watching my kids process what was happening to their mom and I still feel that way. A year later, the healthcare system is no less tangled of a web, but my girls are thriving. They see the scars, they were there for the whole thing and know that but for the grace of God it wouldn’t have been this manageable.  I hope it was a good life lesson to see that when faced with something hard their mom chose to tackle it straight away rather than run away. I hope that this interlude will be a reminder that most of the time life is about hitting what is pitched to us and then running our hearts out.

Seven daze

What a difference a week makes.  Babies are born and life irrevocably changes; school starts and summer quickly fades to a bittersweet memory; biopsies come back and suddenly you (or at least certain body parts) are part of a new, unsolicited category of the population.

That's what happened to me and my family.  An annoying (yes, that's how I viewed it), costly medical  procedure that I thought was a formality revealed cancer.


I don't write nearly enough--hence the title of this blog.  I too often get trapped in my own brain and the rattling and bumping of thoughts produces more anxiety then is necessary.   So as I logged on to the blog today I was surprised to see an entry I'd started last fall.  Even then I had cancer on the brain--maybe only as a point of illustration, but it was part of my schema nonetheless.

I wrote those three paragraphs less than a month ago.  Wow, if I thought I'd lost a layer of naiveté in a a week, a month of being a student of this crazy disease makes me feel simultaneously like an energized rhetorical sage--I can now proficiently spout all the necessary terms and phrases needed to appear that I know what's gong on and it's kinda of fun to play that role, if I'm being honest--and a tired pup since playing the part of the medical intern gets really tiring really quickly and at the end of it all the blasted cancer is still there.

So what's changed?  Well, my hopes of having a simple little lumpectomy and radiation have morphed into a bilateral mastectomy.  I was and still am completely uninterested in taking such drastic measures, but it seems to be the wise choice.  Pardon the metaphor, but in a base sense my diagnosis has become like my fourth child.  We are in the newborn phase where the youngster drains me of all my energy, keeps me up at night and shows no awareness for how it's existence is changing everyone else's.  But the thing about the newborn phase, especially for first time parents, is that while we think it's the hardest part of parenting, as soon as our kids get beyond it and approach adolescence, we quickly realize that all the sleep in the world does not compare to the energy needed to parent an older child.  I am that first time parent with this new addition--I think I'm tired now an that my body has been compromised but I haven't got a clue as to what's in store for me.  Maybe I'll spring back quickly and make it look "easy" like I did with my own newborns, refusing to wear maternity clothes home from the hospital.  But maybe I won't.  Maybe I'll be the woman who never looks like she did pre-pregnancy.  Either way, fitting into my jeans-or my tops-is so trivial compared to the real transformation that's about to talk place, the internal one.  There were many moments in each of my children' newborn lives that I did not handle well.  Instead of grace and dignity, frustration and fzrazzledness prevailed.  I'd like the chance to have a redo.  That's my prayer (in addition to complete healing, of course!: that I could handle this newborn phase with a maturity and calmness that is not based on the ease of my circumstances.  Lets face it: compared to so many on this journey, my circumstance are a cake walk. As my husband reminded me, as difficult as my choice to have the double mastectomy was, I at least had a choice. May I walk with purpose, that which is not my own, but which has been a merciful gift to me.

That Which Points Me Heavenward

This year hasn't really turned out to be as fabulous or inspiring in the way that we all hope for every New Year's Eve.  I mean, it's not like I typically those midnight toasts to materialize into the health and prosperity  that we cheers to.  But if I'd most certainly gotten to the point that I felt pretty good about maintaining the status quo.  It was reasonable, I thought, to assume family members' health wouldn't deteriorate too quickly.  Business most likely wouldn't get too slow.  We'd manage to continue to lead our comfortable lives, my family and I.  We'd continue to live reasonably modestly (only an American would state such a fallacy!) and splurge from time to time.  There was nothing on the horizon that seemed that it would rock our world beyond the normal ebb and flow of the life we'd become accustomed to.  I was wrong.

I've been on the sidelines plenty of times to witness pain and grief.  My husband and I are privileged to have two dear friends who literally stared cancer in the face and told it to go to hell.  They fought hard and they are winning the daily battle against this bastard curse that we have come to call reality for too many.  We see daily that hate that infuses so many minds and drives them to acts of terror in our global community.   Shoot, we hurt when our kids experience the reality of feeling left out.

But as much as we all hate to admit it, without the struggle the victories wouldn't be so sweet.  Tragedy unites us--ALL politics aside--to me there is no more emblematic image of American pride as when George W. Bush reminded all of us from the rubble of the World Trade Center that our country would not be destroyed.  Every time I hear Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" I'm taken back to the whirlpool of emotions I had in the days following 9/11...shock, grief, patriotism.  It was a raw, horrific, beautiful time when people set aside their own agendas and looked outward to see who needed help next.  Its times like these that remind us that we are not alone.  That the artificial constraints that we allow to so frequently divide us don't stand up to Our collective hearts were broken and it was in the wounding that we vowed to press on, to not merely survive, but to go on living.  That's true redemptive beauty emerging from the ashes: to live when enduring seems like a long shot.  Our cancer ass-kicking friends typify this spirit.

So do the thousands of Paralympians who just wrapped up their games in Rio.   I spent a significant time watching events this past week and a half.  I'll just put it out there and say that I was completely ignorant about what all these games entailed.  All I knew was that they coincided with the Olympic games and that the participants had some sort of physical challenge.  Well, let me tell you that I feel like my eyes have been opened to a whole new realm of humanity.   These are incredible human beings.    I was completely enthralled at their level of athletic prowess and  I found myself fascinated by the individual stories of triumph and perseverance.  I've always been someone who wants to know "the story."  It's the journalist in me.


So it's September and in a few short months we'll be ringing in 2017.


soul searching-what makes me tick is " the story"

asking why-let go, look up.  the point is to let go

grown up struggling w/sadness

"I know we were meant for something better"

The Twelve Days of CHRIS(t)mas

Before I met my husband, when I was just oohing and ahhing from afar, I prayed that God would give him the insight to be able to know me even better than I was able to communicate to him.  I prayed a lot, in fact, about this potential relationship, since it was so clearly not up to me whether or not it was going to happen (there was a girl he'd previously dated, he was still mending a broken heart, the timing just wasn't right, yada, yada, yada).  So I prayed.  And prayed.  I cried (because that's what we girls do).  But most of all, I trusted.  I trusted and waited, not always patiently, for the Lord to show me clarity.  As much as I wanted to date this guy, I did not want to do it if it wasn't part of a greater plan--I'd already tried my hand at young love, not very successfully, and I had no interest in trying force something that wasn't meant to be.

And so after ten long (!) months, he asked me out on a non-date.  And then he asked me to non-date him.  So we were a non-couple and it was oh so cute:)  And then after about a day and a half we realized that maybe we should just go ahead and date.  My prayer had been answered.  It was an incredible time--not just the culmination, but the whole journey.  As stinky as some of the waiting was, it was incredible to be in such close communion with God and to see His hand actively penning a narrative in my life.   Our succinct courtship was abundant in laughter, hopes and decision making.  It was fun.  It was like a roller coaster ride...exciting, a little crazy, but ultimately really good.  Even our disagreements seemed to be opportunities to better learn each others' personal nuances and communication style.  One of the things we discussed fairly early on was the meaning of our names and how accurately they reflected who we were, or who we longed to be.  Mine means "beloved."  An irony on many a day since feeling truly worthy is something that had been and continues to be a struggle.  His: Christ bearer.  Fitting, not only since when I met him he was leading a bible study (of crazy characters!) but because he earnestly and passionately sought to reflect Christ to others.  I loved this about him.  I loved that he was fearless, or at least willing to put his fear behind him, in order to speak truth and grace into people's lives.  I still love that about him.  I also get really frazzled and frustrated by it at times.  That prayer that I uttered fourteen plus years ago, the one where I asked for Chris to know me more intimately that I could imagine.  That one is a real doozy.

As our swift dating/engagement phase propelled us into the week before our wedding, my intended saw a side of me that few others have.  He saw me project anger, no rage is really more the word, like a whirling dervish.  He saw me claw and rear like a wild animal caged for the first time and unwilling to be subdued.  He was stunned and it would've been understandable if he'd bowed out.  Because at that point he was marrying a stranger.   I still don't know what happened to trip the switch, raise the curtain, or whatever metaphor you prefer.  My hunch is that it has something to do with that whole "I can't hide from you" feeling.  For the first time in my life I was going to be fully known by another individual, and that was terrifying.

We got married on 06.08.02 as planned.  I know we both hoped that my "meltdown" was indicative of the stress of a fast-paced relationship and the numerous changes that accompanied it.  But it wasn't and it still isn't.  My dervish costume is still a part of the wardrobe, unfortunately.  Instead of reeling out of control (at least that's how it feels),  I'd like to be able to dance in concert with those around me and, ultimately, with God.

It's been a long time since I've felt such a connectedness to Him.  And therefore a long time since I've realized that He is still actively penning the narrative of my life.   But that doesn't change the fact that He is.  Throughout it all, the Christ Bearer has remained by my side.  He continues to hold up the mirror and bid me look at the glorious reflection of all that I've been created to be, rather than the shell of a person that I usually perceive myself to be.  He bids me to hear and live in the Truth rather than succumb to lies that slither sneakily in and out like snakes.  Much of the time I reject his invitations.  Much of the time I resent them.  And so I pen this to bid myself to respond, not to him, but to the One he points me to.  And I pen a prayerful "wish list" much in the way that I did when I so wanted to date this guy with the Wilson's leather jacket and the perpetual need for a haircut.

1. That I would know His presence, His goodness, His purpose in my life.
2. That I would not fear nor trust in the "future."
3. That I would honor my husband in my thoughts, words and deeds.
4. That I would be a Christ bearer myself.

Merry Christmas, Toph.


On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a sparkly engagement ring.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...two houses in the first two months of marriage

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...3 lovely, loud, leggy ladies.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a love for beer, domestic and imported.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in f-stops and shutter speeds.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in how to drive a stick shift, at nine months pregnant, no less.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the need to never again invest in an electric blanket.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the role of "doggy mama" instead of "crazy cat lady."

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...an impartiality for bourbon, and the finer things that boys enjoy.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a trip to the Homeland with the fam!

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a really amazing "dream house, meeting a litany of crazy requirements!

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...another anniversary, another promise to continue to be the Christ Bearer in my life.

Musings: David and Goliath

I have just read a tidbit of Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath. After finally parting ways with The Count of Monte Cristo, I found myself in a subtle state of mourning, not sure in what literary direction to head next…a bit reluctant to head back down the path of classical or contemporary fiction again, I started reading a preview of Gladwell's latest book.

My first (and only) introduction to his work was in reading The Tipping Point,

R-O-A-R

To say I'm not a Katy Perry fan is an understatement. I tend to find her lyrics cliché at best, offensive at worst. And the music isn't particularly inspiring. Anyone who knows me knows I don't speak the language of music. I have no rhythm and very little understanding of what goes into making music. But I do know when something is just downright bad! So when my girls asked me to listen to her single "Roar" my immediate relief had to do with the fact that I didn't have to censor anything. It's an upbeat girl power song…nothing new, but nothing bad.

 The video shows a timid Katy who relies on her macho companion for everything--to know what to say and what move to make. In short, she is the caricature of the helpless maiden. Once the Ken figure dies, however, Miss Katy finds herself alone in the jungle having to fend off fierce animals (I did mention this was a video and that it was a Katy Perry video--no further explanation needed for the dramatic flair). As you might guess from the title of the song, our protagonist experiences a transformation, and pretty soon she sings to let the world know that she and she alone is in charge of her world! Indeed she tames the lion with her voice (while wearing some nicely tailored animal skins, I might add). 

She is woman, hear her ROAR! And why shouldn't a girl be empowered to have her voice heard, right? It's a message I know very well intellectually, having grown up the daughter of a single mom for a good chunk of my youth, the alum of a progressive Ivy league school (we won't mention it was the last of its kind to go co-ed) and the mother of three future women. But I know lots of things intellectually (some days I doubt this!). That doesn't mean I "get" them. So after about the eighteenth time listening to the song, all four of us females singing, I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter/Dancing through the fire/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar/Louder, louder than a lion/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar! I realized that I really didn't get it.  To be blunt, the lyrics smacked me in the face like a wet rag.  What I routinely communicate to my girls is "shhhh!"  Literally, I spend a lot of time "shhhing" them.  They're loud.  They're talkative.  And they're a threesome  so it's rarely quiet in my airspace and sometimes "shhhing" is necessary.  But sometimes it's not.  Sometimes I need to enjoy the fact that they so intrinsically know they were created to ROAR and that nothing in this world has thus far squelched that in them…including me.  They push the limits, they challenge my husband and me when when they disagree with a decision, they get in trouble…they live life to the fullest and they are not afraid of what the future holds.  They are not me, the forty-some year old who has spent countless hours and countless dollars trying to find her voice.  But there's still plenty of time left and if I'm not deliberate, they will learn from me to whisper instead of roar.  So I am trying, trying, to pause and ask myself (in the midst of the chaos) if I really do need to "shhh" anyone at this particular moment.  

There's been a video circulating that shows girls responding to the request to "run like a girl" and, as might be expected they run in a half-serious manner, arms flailing.  How often do I reinforce the stereotype that I loathe: that girls are weaker or less legit in their very being (don't get me started on the lack of sensitivity displayed when people ask a pregnant woman the gender of her unborn child!)?  I think I do it quite a lot, whether by not respecting myself enough, my husband (I'm not sure where Katy stands, but ROAR to me does not equal man bashing), my kids?  Another blog I read recently dissected the comical scenario of a dad with the shotgun ready to defend his daughter from any unworthy suitor.  This mom challenged us to rethink that whole notion:

Instead of intimidating all your daughter’s potential suitors, raise a daughter who intimidates them just fine on her own. Because, you know what’s intimidating? Strength and dignity. Deep faith. Self-assuredness. Wisdom. Kindness. Humility. Industriousness. Those are the bricks that build the wall that withstands the advances of old Slouchy-Pants, whether you ever show up with your Winchester locked and loaded or not. The unsuitable suitor finds nothing more terrifying than a woman who knows her worth to God and to her family.


Wisdom taken from: http://jenwilkin.blogspot.com/2014/06/on-daughters-and-dating-how-to.html?spref=fb


What a crazy notion!  Raise our girls to intimidate their suitors!!!  Raise our daughters to know their worth and to flaunt it! Raise our daughters to ROAR!

As parents we are continually realizing that we learn as much, if not more, from our kids than we ever teach them.  I live with a proud bunch of lionesses and I could learn a thing or two from them.  I'm going to start by making sure all the car windows are rolled down when we sing that song.

From Listlessness to Restfulness

Summer is a season that I alternately yearn for and dread at the same time.  Why?  Because of it's vastness.  The confines of an overly-scheduled life give way to the expansiveness of sunny, sweaty summer days.  There are so many options and in the first few weeks the infiniteness of summer makes us all giddy.  No need to figure out what to do or plan an outing, there's plenty of time for that!

We spend too many hours in the sun, eat too much sugar, play too much--if that's possible-- and generally unwind from the previous 10 months.  Life is good.  Any parent knows that if your child/children are happy, then the odds are that you're happy too.  This summer has been good in that regard.  Oh sure, we've had the dramas of not wanting to go to camp, wanting to stay longer at camp, or whatever the daily topic may be, but overall, it's been a good summer for the young Ranks.  And therefore it's been a good one for the Missus.  Until a few days ago.

Malaise is the best way to describe what I feel--or what I don't feel.  Lest I get too philosophical too soon there are pragmatic reasons for my mental lethargy: ongoing insomnia, a more relaxed mentality that can border on laziness(!), lack of work day structure, and so on.  But malaise is not the same thing as depression, which I am not currently struggling with.  Malaise, to me, is that slow moving slug of a thing that enters my being so stealthily and sets up camp in my soul.

My initial reaction when I sense malaise creeping in is to prescribe my own antedate of busyness.  After all, the WORST thing a stay-at-home mom can be is unproductive.  It's downright uncivilized!  The problem is, I've never been a great "doer" (oh, sure, I get things done, but not to the domestic heights that my German foremothers  exemplified) so trying to ramp up my productivity when I feel motivated to do nothing typically results in a few piles moved and, if I'm lucky, a few loads of laundry completed.  Not a total waste, but definitely not a remedy for my malady.

A common sense solution to my problem of wanting to do nothing but needing to do something has been to catch up on my reading.  It's been a very practical option: I can take the kids to the pool and plop myself in a shaded corner to catch up on book club picks.  At least then I could say I'd done *something,* even if the house didn't reflect my efforts.  So last week, after finishing my easily digested adolescent novels I dug into The Count of Monte Cristo.  All 2000 pages of it.  I muttered a few choice thoughts about why we had to read a book this ginormous when they typical window of alone time lasts no more than 30 minutes, if I'm lucky.  Nonetheless, I got started.  In pure pragmatic fashion I decided to try and tackle 100 pages for the next 20 days.  Certainly that was doable.  After all, I was NOT going to have any excuse for not finishing it since it was summer vacation.  After about day one I found myself not wanting to put the book down.  Its been a long time since I've re-read one of the classics like Dumas' and I was struck at how matter-of-factly he diagnoses the human condition.   There's no justification for the villains acting villainous.  They are motivated by selfish greed, pure and simple.  Conversely, the righteous are motivated doing what is honorable and the thought of not doing so is comparable to death.   They are internally driven, whether towards right or wrong.  At this point in my reading The Count has begun exacting justice against his former tormentors and my curiosity is peaked to see if he will succumb to his anger or whether Dantes will reappear.

In the midst of my malaise I ask myself a similar question: will I give in to listlessness and dissatisfaction or will call myself to the better purpose of resting in the moment.  Purposeful resting is not something that comes easily.  Deliberately sitting and listening to the world and people around you instead of shouting at them to try and be heard is what I'm attempting.  Learning that sitting peacefully to reflect on what's ruminating in my heart does not equal laziness is a new-found freedom I'm trying to enjoy.  Transforming listlessness, or a directionless, sedentary state to a thoughtful, resting state is what I desire so that summer may be a time of blessed "re-set" and repose….

Asphalt

When I run, I spend a lot of time looking at the ground, at least at the beginning when I’m trying to coerce my body into some kind of rhythm and my mind into full acceptance of what I’ve committed to.  The ground is hard and unforgiving as my feet hit it.  It’s dull and grungy looking as I start my way up the first hill in my six-mile journey.  The black soaks up the heat of the sun and I’m convinced that contributes to my four footed companion’s enthusiastic gait.

Half way through the first song I begin to relax—relaxing, even during physical exertion, is my daily conquest in life—and soon my body starts to fall into a comfortable cadence.  My mind begins to wander, almost as if I’m in that pre-slumber groggy state where everything feels soft and not so severe as it had during waking hours.  I begin to let go of all the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head and focus on whichever one asserts itself most boldly.

Running, for me, is a time where I can actually get things organized in my head so that when I get home I am focused and ready to tackle the task at hand.  This is when I start to enjoy my self-imposed challenge.  Suddenly the possibilities seem endless—I can solve the problem that previously seemed overwhelming, I begin to let my mind wander and start envisioning not just enduring life, but embracing it. 

People aren’t kidding when they say that exercise keeps them sane.  That makes me chuckle to read that previous sentence because anyone who knew me before my thirties would have voted me least likely to exercise.  Ever.  It’s not that I was a complete couch potato.  Rather, I just never found exercise terribly inspiring.  The pay off wasn’t worth the effort to me.  It took me hitting my forties to realize that my inspiration wasn’t going to come from love of sport.  Rather, it was going to come from caring enough about myself to block out precious time just for me.  I’ll admit I’m quite pleased that my derriere is less gelatinous than it was and that I have the chutzpah to run for two hours non-stop.  But if running hadn’t given me breathing space, I wouldn’t have given it a second chance.

Atlanta is really hilly, which contributes to a lot of looking down when I have to reach inside myself to keep going.  There’s that asphalt again.  Just as unforgiving as it’s always been.  It’s my ongoing fear that I’ll trip and skin my knee during one of my jaunts.  Uh.  The prospect of asphalt mixing with scraped flesh makes my skin crawl as much today as it did when I was a kid.  In between gasps of air to get me through my ascent and paranoia about tripping, I notice sparkles emanating from the pavement.  Crazy.  Even ugly, utilitarian asphalt can project beauty in the right light.

This metaphor is not lost on my as I near the end of my circuit and head back into the neighborhood.  I see a lot of bleakness around me: people struggling with illnesses, with their marriages, with their jobs.  Sometimes just trying to please four different taste pallets at breakfast can make me want to go back to bed.  But there really are the shimmery parts to be found in all of it.  

I wish I could end my soliloquy right there.  It’s a nice, tidy way to wrap up some musings.  But it’s not reality for me.  Yet.  My next training phase is going to have to require a commitment to get my spirit to the level of endurance that my body has achieved.  I’d better start making a good, long play list.