Dancing in the Glitter

For those of you who know the Blum Family on a day-to-day life level, you have most likely discovered that we are notorious for a few things:

One, we have a nonsensical obsession with games. Not just simple ordinary household games to be purchased at Wal-Mart such as Monopoly or Uno. No, those are much too conventional for the Blums. We prefer to play the most random, unheard-of games—Alhambra, Hand and Foot, and Ra to name a few— the type of game that requires more time to explain to guests than it does to actually play.

Two, when planning to move houses or go on vacation, our decision is influenced on whether there is a Starbucks within a five mile radius. In fact, we tend to weigh the value of things in Starbucks purchases. Should I really buy this desperately needed winter jacket? Its $45.50--that’s equivalent to 11 lattes! If you don’t believe me, just walk into the office of Gladys Blum, my dear grandma (Granzy), the benefactor of our coffee penchant. Without exception, her trash bin will be overflowing not with the typical workplace commodities of unnecessary papers and junk mail, but with that famous green logo stamped on empty grande cups. In fact, she is probably reading this post now while drinking her daily latte J.

And three, we have an unrealistic concept of time where “fashionably late” in our minds is “on- time” and “considerably late” is only “five minutes late.” I apologize for this habit, though I can assure we have no intention of disrespect. While I believe there has been gradual improvement in this area as a family unit, there is always a firmly engrained nerve in our minds navigating Procrastination’s cortex that whispers, “You are a Blum; this is how it has always been.”

Perhaps this helps to explain the utter postponement of this entry. Even as I fidget in my customary cushion upon the sofa with every intention to write, I couldn’t help but procrastinate in the midst of the fascinating distractions—cleaning out the dirt from under my fingernails, dusting between the crevices of the computer keys, and clicking on a random magazine article flashing in the sidebar of my browser. The title—10 Uses for Wood Ashes: Get fired up about putting that pile of soot to work. Ironically, this is exactly what my mind needed to focus as I am now “fired up” to put my brain’s jumbled pile of thoughts to work. Thank you, World, for your patienceJ.

Indeed much life has happened since February. Mama completed chemotherapy at the end of March. Radiation began soon after—a seven week period of daily hospital visits. Looking back on this time, Mama characterized her radiation treatment not only as bearable but blessed. Apart from the occasional muscle and joint aches, the common side effect of excruciating mouth sores that was evident during chemotherapy was nonexistent for radiation. Mama quickly adjusted to the rhythms of this new stage of the journey, organizing grocery shopping, group Bible Study commitments, and volunteer opportunities around her trips to the hospital. Yet, in her mind, I don’t think she considered these treatments radiation appointments but rather friend appointments. After seven months of hospital visits, some of Mama’s most consistent camaraderie was with the staff of doctors and nurses at Evergreen.

Life continued as it always had for Mama—full of relationships and laughter, board games and lattes. She should be the next hallmark for Breast Cancer with the motto: when there are blues with your boobs there is plenty more to amuse! For instance, after her first radiation appointment I was extra sensitive, expecting to hear horror stories of little light lasers piercing through tender tissue. Instead, I was quite unprepared when Mama eagerly grabbed my hands after walking through the door, rushed me into the privacy of her room, and without warning lifted her shirt while repeating in a teenager-like manner, “I got my first tattoo! I got my first tattoo!” Sure enough, there were three small “X”s tattooed on her breast to ensure exact precision with the radiation. Laughter uncontrollable pained my abs as I reveled in the adorable pride oozing forth from Mama’s eyes at the fact that she had a tattoo!

Mama’s nine month cancer journey finally culminated Thursday, June 13^th 2013. And just as life unapologetically surged regardless of Mama’s diagnosis, the days continued full speed afterwards as well. Each of us privately sensed the swelling waves of relief and thanksgiving for the ended season of cancer. But time was too unforgiving to allow us to soak in the celebration of Mama’s victory.

Two days later Mama boarded a plane bound for Ohio to enjoy one last Father’s Day with Grandpa Dick, whose health was declining daily. She returned on the 19^th, and the following morning we left early for Sisters, Oregon to celebrate the marriage of Kaitlyn, my beautiful cousin, and her husband. While away at Sisters, we received the dreadfully expected news that Grandma Lake, Granzy’s mother, passed away. Mama decided to stay with Granzy in Salem for the week to help with the funeral preparations. We all returned to Oregon five days later, June 28^th, for the funeral. The next Tuesday, four days later, Mama and Daddy flew to Lakefort, Idaho for the graveside burial. Two weeks later, Mama began her new job working as the facilities coordinator at Eastridge Church. And the following week, July 27^th, we received the news we had hoped would be ever delayed—Grandpa Dick, Mama’s father, also passed away. After a pre-planned family getaway to the San Juan Islands for the weekend, Mama, along with Daddy, immediately boarded a redeye flight bound for Ohio to attend her daddy’s funeral.  She returned August 4^th and the next weekend our family left for a desperately needed five-day vacation to Lake Chelan, Washington. Daddy left for China September 16^th through the 26^th and then after the following weekend Mama and Daddy enjoyed a romantic getaway in Mexico from September 30^th through October 12^th.

The summer was a blur of activity—rich family celebration contiguous with the sorrow of Death’s loss. And yet I couldn’t help but wonder, WHY? Why must Victory’s shout be echoed shortly after with Mourning’s grief? Why must Mama conquer the hardship of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation only to discover the impending adversity of planning two funerals? What was the underlying divine orchestration of it all? Though I do not pretend to know this answer in full, I have been awed nonetheless by the ecstasy of His goodness as I view this past summer from the rear-view mirror.  

His goodness was buried deep into every wrinkled finger of Grandma Lake’s praying hands—hands folded in loving intercession for her every child, grandchild, great grandchild, and great-great grandchild each morning, year after year after year. Hands folded for Mama. At least 9,825 precious petitions postmarked with Mama’s name floated heavenward from the well-worn lips of this 98-year-old saint. Such consistency stretches beyond the land of conviction to a realm where faith is simultaneous with sight.

And for some reason beyond explanation, this reminds me of the wood ash article I previously mentioned as one of the culprits for my procrastination. Amidst the list of functionalities for wood ash, the last use, number 10, begged for my fascination: A paste of ash and water makes a dandy nontoxic metal polisher to shine silver.  And isn’t this what prayer offers to the unassuming? Prayer does not cause our healing, but—much like ash and water—it shines the tarnished lens of our eyes to better gaze at the reality of our pre-purchased healing secured in Calvary’s permanence.  Though Grandma Lake’s vision was weakened by time, perhaps she saw the clearest reality of Mama’s healing long enough to see the manifestation of His answer. And I wonder, maybe the quality of life is determined by one’s choice to see either the ashes or the heavenly glitter. Grandma saw the glitter.

Yet, perhaps this wisdom belongs not only to the rarest of the elderly but to the purest of the childlike. This certainly is the case for Little James, a seven year old boy with Down syndrome. Every night after decking his flannel pajamas, James wiggled his body into the warmth of the covers. His daddy began praying in short phrases as Little James repeated the words, focusing the best as a little boy could before the dreaded bedtime. Simple, brief prayers beautifully prolonged as Little James stressed every word that his daddy uttered. And each night this routine came to an end as Little James repeated, “And Jesus, please bless Aunt Mary Kay.”  Though this precious boy is different from the majority, perhaps his altered DNA allows him to escape the trap of humanity—rushing. He is no servant of time. And maybe in his saturation of now his faith becomes his sight. Thank you, Little James.  

Oh, and the passing of Grandpa Dick, Mama’s daddy; what can be said about this? Death is never a welcomed guest. We were not created for the finality of lifelessness. And this is just the reason we are able to celebrate in the face of humanity’s greatest enemy. Because, Death, you have no sting! You are only as real as an allusion is permitted to be. As Grandpa breathed his final breaths on this side of earth, he simultaneously experienced the first rich aromas of paradise. From life to greater life. From glory to glory. Indeed there was sorrow in missing Grandpa’s presence. But we tend to unite in our shared grief.  And for the first time in twelve years the Young Family joined hand-in-hand in a family circle—circled around the feasting table celebrating Mama’s cancer victory, circled around the grave mourning Grandpa’s passing. United as one chapter concluded for Mama and Grandpa, and another chapter of greater life began.

And so the journey continues, like the unending circle of a bracelet. When Mama was first diagnosed with breast cancer, a darling woman from the Church gave her an elegant silver bracelet. It was a piece of jewelry that had known many other wrists of women who also battled breast cancer. It served as a legacy to pass on, a tangible memoir of His Faithfulness to heal, a promise of greater life to come. Mama had the honor of continuing the bracelet’s journey through the mire of chemotherapy and radiation. And now, the bracelet has a new owner. In a quiet corner of serenity Mama gazed deeply into the tear-filled eyes of Lynna, a Virginian pastor’s wife who was recently diagnosed. Mama’s eyes of truest compassion seemed to communicate more than words could offer, eyes whispering tenderly, “I understand.” And then, after 10 months of resting upon Mama’s skin, the bracelet left her wrist once and for all and now resides as the signet of hope on Lynna where its journey continues.

Indeed, life is a journey. And the Christmas and New Year’s season naturally urges for the reflection of the past year’s journey. It was a year of laughter over board games and tears soothed with lattes, of overwhelming heartbreak and ecstatic joy, of exhausting struggle and peaceful ease, of despairing grief and sublime celebration. Of life and greater life! And Our Smiling Papa was there in the midst of the valley’s pit and the mountain’s peak paving a trail of glitter for our every step.

As this blog comes to an end, happiness and sadness waltz with my emotions. What a delight to share this period of time with you, our family and friends. Thank you so much for the abundant support you offered to Mama and our family. It was such a beautiful journey to watch and experience, part of me desires to halt time and just saturate in the goodness of this past year. This is yet another reason I delayed this post. This blog has been my garden of Gethsemane for vulnerability with bloodstained tears, my corner of freedom for raw emotions to leak words. But, still, the journey endures to the next glorious glory and that is too enticing to resist. For me, this blog will live on as an altar where His faithfulness is forever encapsulated.  A hidden cyberspace nook that echoes to my future children “Look how good our God has been to us!”

And as for Mama—the woman of this legacy, the embodiment of celebration, the beam of His laughter—you can always find her on that desired path…dancing in the glitter.

Updates since December

          I apologize for the delay in updates with Mama. My last post was over two months ago. Within that time I was very eager to write, but it seemed that the inspiration within my heart that normally sweeps the tips of my fingers into a swift dance upon the computer keys was hibernating, unable to be aroused :). Little did I know that this was part of the whisper from God, the message He was cementing within on waiting (as I wrote about in the following post). With that said I want to offer a brief summary of Mama's journey since December:

• She completed her first round of chemo (Adriamycin and Cytoxan) a week before Christmas.
• She began her weekly treatment of Taxol (another form of chemotherapy) the first week in January. This treatment lasts for twelve weeks. She currently has seven remaining treatments of Taxol, scheduled for each Friday.
• Thus far the greatest side effect of chemo for Mama has been very painful and swollen mouth sores (think canker sores on steroids). At times, her mouth has been so swollen she cannot eat or talk. Two Fridays past her treatment was actually delayed due to needed recovery time for her mouth before more Taxol was injected in her system. We continued to pray and rest in the Lord (while providing Mama with the only comfortable sustenance--vanilla milk shakes) and, as to date, Mama's mouth is free of any sores. She is even talking about making crunchy tacos tomorrow night :)
• If the treatment continues as schedule, Mama should be done with chemo at the end of March, and begin daily radiation soon after.

          She is such a rock star. Thank you so much for your continued love and support. We cannot imagine walking this journey without all of you.

The Position of Waiting

              I love Valentine’s Day. This could be for a number of reasons. Vibrant flowers of pink, red, and purple seem to adorn more corners of society during this time of year, adding an extra touch of beauty. Young girls fashion the most adorable outfits of heart patterned tights and glittery hair ties that cause me to smile in simple delight. And, of course, it is another excuse to indulge in milk chocolate and heart-shaped sprinkled sugar cookies.

                Yet, it cannot be denied that Valentine’s Day is especially intended for cherishing the romantic love between two. It is a day utterly needed in our busy society where marriage many times is the lowest priority, after that of the career and the kids. A day set apart to honor the one in holy covenant with you.

                However, I can only speak so far concerning the felicity of this day given that I have never yet experienced celebrating a romantic love. Mama and I have always aimed to make the day special for celebrating familial love—decorating the kitchen in red and white streamers and cooking a fancy dinner with a lavish dessert. But part of Valentine’s Day for me, and I am sure for many other individuals who are single, is a day of longing for that future love that will one day, hopefully, come to pass.

                I want to be clear that I do not endorse the “woe is me” antagonistic response that some singles seem to voice during Valentine’s Day. I genuinely celebrate with those who are in love. And I look forward to dreaming with God every year when Valentine’s Day comes. Dreaming of the day beyond receiving my own red roses symbolic of affection, or exchanging sentimental Hallmark cards, or playfully lip sinking 90’s love duets over the car radio, or romantic moonlight strolls with fingers intertwined with another—beyond all these hoped for moments to the consecrated time when I may look into another’s eyes and know in absolute certainty that my years of waiting, dreaming, yearning for my heart’s deepest desire have finally culminated in beholding my beloved.

                Just as God renewed His promise to Abraham of one day being a father of many nations, this holiday seems to be the time of year that God also renews His promise that one day He will grant the deepest desire He has nurtured within my heart. And so Valentine’s Day is a cherished time of dreaming with God as I continue to…WAIT.

                Ah, that four letter word that adults and children alike seem to never understand. WAIT. We of course understand the “yes” from heaven as it complies with our desired answer. The ultimatum of “no” from God is harder to grasp, but we seem to move on with life in the belief that whatever we desired was not in our best interest. But wait? WAIT! “Wait” seems to usher a million questions in one tide of thought. Why not here? Why not now? If it will eventually come to pass, if it will eventually be my best, why is it not my best TODAY?  

                Waiting is a world of mystery holding an atmosphere of eagerness that can either lead to an expression of faith and supernatural contentment or doubt and despondency—either the framework “it is well with my soul” or “God is withholding this from me.” And if the latter response takes precedence, we may be inclined to take action outside the ordained time to experience a fabricated answer to heaven’s promise. The result: Ishmaels are born, the waiting continued, only now with an allotment of pain and, still, the result proves the same: God is faithful to bring forth the Isaacs.

                I think about my own peculiar position in life—lofty dreams of marriage, family, and the mission field placed on hold for who-knows-how-long as I transfer to another university to finish my degree while caring for precious babies at a childcare center in a very hidden corner of Sammamish, Washington. And my mind speeds me down the highway of my family’s journey, one much more replete with waiting than with answered questions…

                …my parents waiting after the death of their firstborn for another child to call their own…

                …Daddy transitioning our family to Colorado in the pursuit of becoming a church pastor, a pursuit fulfilled six years later in Washington after faithfully managing a wholesale florist company…

                …Austin miraculously earning a perfect GPA after persevering through the lifelong struggle of autism and the doubts of specialists…

                …and now Mama, placing her ministry and her flute aside as she waits to fully recover from chemo treatment and radiation.

                And I think, “What is it about waiting that is so necessary and ordained?” Abraham waited twenty- five years after receiving the promise of a future son before he held Isaac in his arms. The Israelites waited forty years in the desert before entering the Promised Land. David waited over twenty years before he was crowned King. Simeon waited his entire life to look upon the face of the expected Messiah. And Jesus waited thirty years before beginning his ministry on earth. But why?

                Why does waiting seem to be the chosen currency of heaven?

***

                Friday of this past week came with the same tip-toe gentle grace that it is known to possess—a canopy of shade through the last hours of labor into a weekend of rest. I was squatting low next to toddler tables scrubbing away the last of the crusted marinara pasta remains from lunch, the flesh of my knees protruding through the newly formed holes in my jeans. My mind spiraled from deep contemplation to the lullaby of the worship music to the dreaming little darlings before me that the music lulled to sleep. I smile at the holiness of this daily ritual in the classroom—babies resting midday in heaven’s embrace. I imagine wind from angels’ wings synchronizing the rhythm of steady breathing as their petite backs slowly rise and fall. Goosebumps race down my spine as I am overcome with tenderness for these little ones.

                I gain composure and hastily work to restore order to the room. I hesitate in my task when I hear sheets rustle and sustained groans; a baby bottom rises upon bent knees. Her head pops up abruptly, accompanied with a loud sequence of coos. I inhale and hold my breath, hoping the others do not awake. An exhale of relief, and I chuckle in my throat—the first of the early birds has sung her song.

                Her lips spread wide exposing six tiny teeth and her arms extend up to me with wiggled fingers. I lift Baby Girl and rest her upon my right hip, sweeping blonde hair out of her eyes that escaped from her loose pigtails. I brush her soft cheek with my finger, ripe with the rosiness from sleep. I gather my paperwork and sit her at the table with her cup of water. She grunts noisily with burrowed eye brows. I quickly sit her on my thighs in an attempt to sustain a quiet atmosphere of sleep for the others. I place my index finger over my lips—“sh, sh, sh”. I grin again as Baby Girl mimics the gesture but not the volume. I attempted to fill out daily paperwork with her on my lap but eventually place it aside when she discovered the true function of my clipboard as a drum.

                This seems to appease Baby Girl as she rests her head upon my chest. She now has all my attention.  She pointed to the tambourines in the instrument bucket. I shook my head. “That is too loud to play right now. We have to wait until more of our friends wake up.” She gave me her famous pouting face, but soon became intrigued pointing to my different facial features.

                Her finger landed on the corner of my eye lid—“Eye,” (pronounced more like a pirate’s “aye” from Baby Girl.) I nod in encouragement. Next, my nose—“Nuh.” Another nod. My ear followed—“Eee.” And lastly my mouth—“Mah.” This continued for another five minutes, as she recognized the details of my face, delighting in my undivided gaze resting solely upon her.

                Without warning Baby Boy starts crying, awaking the rest of the early birds. I kiss Baby Girl on the forehead and sit her down by the instruments. “Now you may play with the tambourine.” She giggles in surprise, as if I just offered the most treasured gift, as if she forgot all the while that she was waiting for anything;

                                                attention diverted

                                                                from the delay in her waiting

                                                                                to the full enjoyment of her location where she waited—

ON me, upon my lap, within my presence, enwrapped in the fullness of my love.

                I go over to sooth Baby Boy with one hand while folding his sheets with the other. But my mind continues to grip the simplicity of the previous moment with Baby Girl, replaying the seconds, squeezing them so tightly that profundity is bound to ooze forth and birth enlightenment.

***

“Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart: wait, I say, on the LORD.”

–Psalm 27:14—

                Driving home and this verse strikes my heart almost as abruptly as lightening upon the earth, transforming the interior of my car into a sanctuary of praise. How many times have I read this cry of David, transcribed it into my journal, only now it seems to be written upon my heart in color rather than black and white.

                So many times I tripped over the word “wait”, choking down the exhortation, and then demanding my portion of courage and strength the promise seemed to offer. Yet, I failed to see the position of waiting that is the source of all courage and strength—on the LORD. Curled upon the lap of Abba, Daddy, reveling in the sublimity of Perfect Love, mesmerized as I memorize the radiance of His countenance, as Baby Girl once did with me, lost in the thick presence of His Shekinah glory.

                On the Lord—this is indeed different than waiting for the Lord. Waiting for the Lord seems to be more of an old covenant concept implying lack. It was appropriate for the Israelites to wait in faith for deliverance, salvation, sanctification, wisdom, and healing. The Messiah had not yet come. But we walk in the ecstatic blessing of living on the other side of the Cross. Jesus delivered us from every power of evil. He saved us from the grips of sin and death. He became our sanctification through the transfusion of His righteousness. He filled us with His Spirit who is the embodiment of all Wisdom. And He absorbed our every infirmity and injury so that we may experience His divine health. Christ accomplished all of that through one bloody sacrifice, a sacrifice brimming with the full condemnation of God’s wrath towards humanity so that we might stand free. How drastically different was the ticking second before Jesus drew His last breath and the second that immediately followed death. In one instant, humanity was transferred from the pit of “awaiting the promise” to the heights of “IT IS FINISHED!”  And now we stand free of all condemnation, forever reconciled into the deepest place of God’s bosom, intoxicated by the sweet wine of freedom, possessed by Holiness Himself.

                The Israelites were waiting for the fulfillment. But we now stand fulfilled.

                The only mention I find of waiting for the Lord in the New Testament is in reference to Jesus’ return, and this waiting is completely void of lack. “Therefore you do not lack any spiritual gift as you eagerly wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to be revealed” (1 Corinthians 1:7).

                Pre-Cross: humanity’s eternal state was one of waiting for separation from God to forever be eradicated. Post-Cross: humanity’s eternal state is one of resting in the joy and peace of perfect union with God. Yes, I wait for the sacred dreams in my heart to come to pass. But my eternal position is not one of waiting for but resting on. Perhaps this is the joy of abiding.

                I arrive at the house, eager to begin my weekend. Ascending the stairs I see Mama, knees bent to stomach, curled upon the couch asleep. Bald head covered by beanie, face paled with exhaustion, body weakened with the surge of Benadryl and drugs of treatment from chemo earlier that afternoon. A smile crosses my lips as I observe her bent position, so still and childlike, as if His hands cupped under her back and cradled her close to His heart. Ah, she is waiting on Him.

                Waiting on Him through the taste of salty tears caused by the pain of swollen mouth sores. Waiting through the multiple weekly hospital visits and the habitual blood tests. Waiting through the consumption of Coumadin pills and doses of amino acids. Waiting. On. Him. It is here that she has learned to rest because there is nowhere else to go.  And indeed she has discovered there is nowhere else she would rather be. What location in life, even if it were full of riches and prosperity but void of being experienced on Him and with Him and in Him, could offer the depth of ecstasy she exudes in her present position curled upon His lap?

                It is here she has been exposed to a new reflection of the Kingdom of God—a kingdom tucked within the crevices of waiting. Waiting has provided her time—time to be a surrogate mother to many young women who have traveled to our home from the distances of Colorado and Texas to the nearness of the Sammamish neighborhoods, time to share life with her mother who has visited extensively, time to thrill in the pleasures of being a homemaker once again after placing the extent of that desired role on hold for the responsibility of the Colorado flower shop, time to speak life into other cancer patients within the church, and first and foremost, time to be loved by Him, for she is His Beloved. Here she waits, under the ever flowing fountain of His jealous love, soaking in the beauty of her identity and the bliss of her location ON Him.

                Mama inspires me. And I think about the beauty of the Kingdom radiating from my waiting experience. No, I may not yet have the opportunity to pray for the dead to be raised in the slums of India, but I have the privilege of praying for diaper rashes and runny noses day after day. I may not yet have the platform to sing praise among the hopelessness of poverty, but I can daily sing Jesus Loves Me to eager baby spirits. I may not have a hand of a romantic love to hold, but my thumbs are grasped by sweaty toddler fingers and my hands cling with pride to my cancer-conquering Mama. This is a life rich in supernatural glory not because of what I am doing, but from where I am doing—On Him.

                And I think back to Baby Girl and her reception of the tambourine. Perhaps this is the only appropriate manner in which to wait, completely occupied by the splendor of the One on which we sit that when the dream arrives we embrace it for what it truly is—not the fulfillment…but a gift.

An Unlikely Answer

           I have a deep love for Israel, the Holy Land, the chosen earthen neighborhood of My Jesus. Daddy first traveled there when I was young and returned with stories upon stories of the majesty of Zion. As a young girl I remember listening with eager ears and wide eyes to these stories from Daddy, threading together the information with a childlike desire to one day dirty my own toes in the red dust of Jerusalem. This dream came true many years later in January of 2011 and ever since returning to the States my heart has been permanently imprinted with profound sensitivity towards Israel. The experience was so dear to me, as I write it is as if I can still hear the symphony of the gentle waves on the shore of the Sea of Galilee and feel the winds of the rolling wilderness brush against my cheek, taste dough’s steam from warm bread in the Jewish Quarter and smell the morning dew upon the grass in the Judean Hills. Mama followed behind Daddy and me, traveling the land last March, and now the three of us connect as a family in a new way with our shared love for this precious country. With this said, we are all grieving for the recent outbreak of war between Israel and Gaza.

                The other night I was lost in thought regarding this war. As Christmas approaches, my thoughts led me to sweet memories of walking the streets in Bethlehem, Christ’s birthplace, memories now tainted with the current raging violence and bloodshed upon those same streets. The pain and sorrow the people must be experiencing there led me to think of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, otherwise known as the Wailing Wall. This wall still standing was once part of the structure of Herod’s Temple over 2,000 years ago and it is a wall that the Jewish community set apart to retreat to for prayer and petition to Jehovah God.

                I was overcome by emotion when I visited this site. Characterized by moans and cries lifted to the heavens and men, women, and children hovered over opened Torahs and  rocking back and forth to rhythmic supplications—this wall is held together by much more than ancient stones. Between the seams of each rock lie written prayers on paper folded tightly from a questioning people desperate for an answer. This tradition has continued for hundreds of years—thousands upon thousands of aching prayers written in all languages gluing prehistoric stones together in this Wailing Wall. And yet, I couldn’t help but think that the backbone of most of these prayers questioned, “When will the Messiah come?” And the answer is confrontational—He has already come. He is here now.

                And I think upon Jesus’ statement in Luke 19:40, “If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." This wall is not one dedicated to mail questions into heaven, but a monument from heaven to constantly remind the people of the Answer. These stones stand year after year whispering over and over again the Name above all names who is the Answer—Immanuel. Such holy irony—questioning prayers inserted into the wall of the Answer. And I think, how many times in my life have I prayed in questions when I am standing in the midst of the Answer?

***

                It is the eve of Thanksgiving. Mama lied sick in bed with a fever, discomforting nausea, and swollen mouth sores. Thus far, it was the worst day of her cancer experience. Due to her weak condition, we canceled our holiday plans to drive to Oregon to be with family and decided to throw together a last minute feast. That night, after a busy afternoon of cooking side-by-side with Lexi (Aaron’s girlfriend), I was alone in the kitchen finishing the last of the baking. With knuckles kneading pie dough my mind unlocked and burrowed into thoughts that transformed into vulnerable prayers. I smile at this consideration—prayers buried deeply into crust soon to be birthed into hungry bellies. Prayers of questions mostly centered on my changing relationship with Aaron.

                Through the years, Aaron was as close to me as my shadow, my side kick, my playmate, my companion, my best friend. He knew what I was thinking before I uttered a word, which is remarkable given the odd nature to how I think. And what I treasured the most is how my position alone as his older sister beckoned his look of admiration towards me. And now the requisite change of growing up and falling in love with a soul mate has brought with it the pain of letting go. I want to clarify how much I adore Aaron’s girlfriend, Lexi. As I spend increasing time with her I see more and more how perfect she is for Aaron. But it does not negate the pain of, in many ways, being replaced by another. Aaron does not need me the way he once did. And this is a necessary good. But it is hard.

                I knead faster, burying my sorrow further and further into dough. Why do we have to grow up? Can’t Aaron have Lexi and everything still remain the same? This happened so quickly—can’t we have one more Thanksgiving with no change? Vulnerable questions squeezed into my Wailing Wall of pie dough. And I pause before I ask more questions and wonder if perhaps the Answer is uttering in response.

                The Holy Spirit leads my thoughts through countless memories of praying for Aaron’s future wife—curled under covers in my footy pajamas slurring child prayers, silent prayers lifted during instrumental refrains singing our Moulin Rouge duet together on our way to high school, and prayers embedded into sand on our morning walks along the Mozambique shore this summer.

                This scroll of memories ceases when Aaron and Lexi enter the kitchen as I finish the last of the lattice crust topping. I look intently at Lexi as grace invades my vision. And I no longer see her as the epitome of change but the embodiment of countless answered prayers, an extension of divine grace from the Cross just for me. A subtle laugh escapes and I realize that the answer was present before the question was raised. And I think again, how many times am I living in the wake of an answered prayer yet never receive the gift of the answer due to my preoccupation with other questions?

***

                In the Spring of 2010 Mama visited Grandpa Dick, her father, in his assisted living home. Upon her return she told me the following story that has forever made an impression upon my heart. During her time visiting Grandpa Dick she serenaded the patients within the home with a flute performance. Mama noticed a fragile elderly woman paralyzed from the neck down listening with joy to her music. This woman’s condition was so serious her head had to be supported by extension rods and a halo. Her shoulders were contorted in an unnatural position as she sank into her wheel chair. Yet this did not prevent her from releasing her spirit in loud song whenever Mama played a recognizable show tune or hymn. This woman sang aloud with a voice marked by age yet beautiful nonetheless, offering support to Mama’s hour-long recital.  

                At the end of Mama’s performance, she acknowledged this precious woman and told her what a lovely voice she had. The woman responded with a glimpse of glory from her past. She was formerly an accomplished opera singer before her handicapped condition. Mama, so intrigued, further asked, “What is your story?” And the response is one I will always remember. Her delicate voice replied not in spoken answer, but in the well-known song of praise:

                “I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free.

                His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”

This angelic paralytic disguised in a halo of steel rather than heavenly gold radiated joy inexplicable that Mama has recounted ever since. And I as well.

                As Mama finished unfolding this story to me, she concluded her thoughts with a simple desire, “I hope one day I will be able to sing with such joy even in the midst of great trial.”

                And my eyes now fill with tears induced by awe of the Almighty as I embrace the moment of now. I divert my attention from mind forming written words to the melody that floats in elegance around me, Mama playing songs full of Christmas bliss on her flute. Her flute has offered an avenue to express her soul before God when words are utterly inadequate. I lean far over to see her, the back of her black cotton beanie covering bald scalp, beams of light radiating from her dancing gold instrument— prayerful breath traveling through her gold breed of Wailing Wall transcribing heart language of music into the heavens.  Holiday joy kneaded deeply into each note.

                And again, grace invades my vision, and I see past the flautist in the grips of chemo into the heavenly reality lying underneath this realm of the natural. This rare and costly flute was given to her as a gift in July 1998 from an anonymous donor touched by her song. Since then, this flute, deserving of center stage in Carnegie Hall, has not even graced a woodwind’s seat in a symphony. Mama, unreservedly devoted to her family and raising us kids, has not had the chance to make such a debut with her fine instrument. Yet I wonder if God moved upon the heart of one anonymous man to make an extreme offering of generosity in granting Mama the flute of her dreams so that fourteen years later, in the crux of cancer, she may have the means to live out the miracle she petitioned two years ago: her flute “sings with such joy in the midst of great trial.”  Within the melody of Deck the Halls, the notes seem to resound the powerful whispers, “I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free…”

                Could this journey of cancer simply be the masquerade of an answered prayer? I do not believe God ever wishes to make us suffer through illness and disease. But I do believe His presence transforms the most ordinary circumstances and despondent situations into holy miracles and prayers answered. All creation shouts aloud the Answer—Jesus. It softly resonates from the most unlikely passages—be it ancient stones in a historic wall, or dough of a pie crust, or the gold cylinder of a flute. And this thought makes my knees quake overcome by such fierce grace that is impossible to escape. If Jesus is the Answer, and He is in us and therefore entrenched deeply into the ordinary moments of the passing day, is not all of life simply an answered prayer?

Perhaps the truest reality today is not the ugliness of cancer but the beauty of the Answer.

                Perhaps things truly are not as they seem to the natural eye. Perhaps the heads of the most joyous saints are not adorned with a ring of glory but a halo of steel or a bald scalp. Perhaps the war torn streets, and the pain in changing relationships, and  the nausea of chemo—the circumstances that cause us to question—are actually testaments from heaven ordained to lead us to the Answer. Perhaps the greatest miracle of Jesus was not the feeding of thousands or the raising of a dead man but His restraint upon the Cross.

                What appeared as the worst day of doom in history was truly God’s greatest eternal destiny for humanity. His death, while initially the cause of great suffering and unmet expectations, was the means to forever connect the gaping separation of a wicked people with a holy God so that we could forever live by His life in perfect unity with the Almighty. His death defeated forevermore the power of Satan and every principality of darkness so that we may experience divine freedom all our days. His death made a way for the Answer to dwell in the hearts of a questioning people so that we may no longer be inclined to doubt but instead rest in trust. His death paved a path for a malicious criminal to be made a royal son. His death transformed the abandoned harlot into a beloved bride. Behold the greatest miracle ever known—restraint from the Omnipotent God upon a bloody Cross. An event often scorned but full of wondrous grace. And behold an unlikely answer—supernatural joy further grasped within the apex of cancer.

                The notes from Mama’s flute dissolve soft in the dining room. She slowly rises and returns her flute to its stand. But I cannot move, caught within the weighty tension of grace. I close my eyes, sink into the cushions of the couch, and rather than question the Answer I answer the question hidden within all questions—“Jesus, You are good…”

Bare-headed Beauty

November 9^th—the day we all were anticipating in curiosity yet dreading due to the irrevocability. The day Mama would be marked obviously across her head with cancer’s ink stamp. The day her beautiful locks would be shaved and formed into a wig. Yesterday, once a hovering anxiety, now a moment of the past.

Mama has always been a woman of extraordinary physical beauty. The bite of aging has not marred her in the slightest. Wrinkles have not found their home across her brow, perhaps because she constantly tightens her facial muscles throughout the day in wild bursts of smiles and laughter. Yet, when the extraordinary is encountered with such frequency the danger is that it diminishes into the ordinary. Magnificence mixed with regularity many times turns to common. And so Mama’s beauty has become such a customary sight to my eyes often I am blinded to the rarity of her loveliness.

But not this week. This week my eyes awakened to absorb the radiance of her beauty, especially that seen in the glamor of her dark hair. For when the clock is ticking, racing, rushing towards a sudden end it urges the soul to grasp the glory of what always has been. The strands flying off her shoulder in the course of the wind. The slightest bounce of the layers with her every step. Elegant locks framing her cheeks when she bows her head in prayer. Even the adorable tousled frizz after a night upon her pillow. It is her covering. Her glory. And this week I treasured every ounce.

It is Friday morning and we set off to our destination—Anton’s Hair Company. Not the usual salon experience. A father-son business tucked away off the main road, hidden within the montage of other offices and professional services. Not to be noticed by the nearby traffic and average consumer. Its location is intentional—concealed to preserve the dignity of the hurting, the sick, the despondent that walk through the doors.

Leaving the driveway and I see Mama’s profile, eyes focused on the road before her. It is quiet. Solemn. Tense. I gently touch her shoulder and softly ask, “How are you doing, Mama?”

“I knew it wouldn’t hit me until today.” And tears replete slowly meander down her face stitching together in a tight bond the aching of her heart to mine. If pictures speak a thousand words, tears speak a thousand more. I look out the window to the maple leaves and back to Mama’s hair dark maple. And I watch autumn colors of red-orange fall and flutter from the branch of which they once adorned. Soon Mama’s locks will follow suit abandoning the head of which they graced. Leaves of glory and locks of beauty, gone in an instant.

And I search for a remedy to halt my choking thoughts—a prayer aloud not of crying, supplication, intercession, but…thanksgiving. Really? Is this my voice uttering words of thanksgiving minutes before Mama’s hair is chopped off? From where is this prayer coming? But before I have time to analyze its origin, a tangible presence of peace invades the vehicle and we all utter “amen” in agreement. In my head I rewind and play the words of the simple prayer.

“Thank you Jesus for residing within and going with us today. Thank you for your blood that covers every moment in perfect grace. Thank you…” So it continued. And it seemed as if the clock ruthlessly counting down the seconds to this day stopped. Time stood still in the melody of thanks. And all inner turmoil and disorder previously experienced vanished in the awareness that He is here, deeply embedded within, never to escape.

And I see the majesty of thanksgiving that slows time to see the microscopic blood stains of grace, His presence now, within the crevices of each second. And I think upon the mass and matter of life, composed of much more than just closely packed atoms and molecules. Life’s billions upon billions of particles burst with excessive, preposterous, stunning grace. Grace is life, life abundant, today. We inhale sweet, intoxicating grace in each breath and exhale joy-filled thanksgiving. And now my eyes are oriented on the reality of the Cross, more than just the center of our faith, but the lens of our vision through which we see everything else as it truly is—blood stained and beautiful.

And my anxiety for the day transforms into eager vigilance to see grace in the razor cutting away.

We arrive to Anton’s Hair and flood the father-son office with an entourage of estrogen—Mama, Grandma Lou, Cheryl (Mama’s bosom friend and pastor’s wife) and myself. Kurt, the son of the company, guides us to a small back room where Mama’s makeover will take place. We find our seats, Mama’s centered across from the mirror. We warmly encompass her as Cheryl offers another prayer. And I soak in the words spoken as I gently twirl Mama’s long coffee-strands around my index finger.

Memories swell inside. I am five again and run into Mama’s arms after falling off my bike and wounding my right knee. As I nuzzle my face into her shoulder she holds me close with one hand, and with the other she strokes my blonde locks. A touch of consolation. A gesture of tender sympathy. And seventeen years later, roles reverse. And I hope Mama senses the same comfort as her hair passes between my fingers now as I felt then as a child.

The prayer ends all too soon, Kurt sections Mama’s hair into numerous clips, holds one strand lightly between his thumb and four fingers, and the ring of the razor echoes throughout the room. It has begun. My heart skips a beat as the first strand on the back of her head is quickly freed from her scalp. Such frailty, threads thinly growing for years and then abruptly cut away in the blink of an eye. Like the fragility of life. Yet I was captivated, amazed, by the hands that worked so meticulously upon my Mama’s head.

Strand after strand Kurt delicately grasped, gently twisting the lock before the razor touched, and carrying it in both hands as if it was fine glass. He carefully laid each section of hair in a precise place upon a wire rack and made a note of where the specific section should be assembled in the wig. Every thread mattered to him. So methodical and intentional was his work. Such complexity yet his fingers danced in ease from years of experience in the trade.

Working from the back towards the front of her head, Kurt was deliberate in allowing the front strands to remain until the end of the process. He gradually eased Mama into her new look. For the majority of the procedure, Mama appeared the same from her vantage point while in the back the contour of her scalp progressively was being unveiled.

He understood; he knew the delight a woman’s hair provided her and therefore the decorum it needed in being removed. I initially thought Mama may experience shame from the loss of hair. Yet, Kurt seemed to crown her with dignity through his sensitivity and Mama’s self-esteem was not at all dampened.

The last of the strands was removed and Mama’s eyes focused on her altered reflection. She smiled sunshine; without her hair her grin appeared even more massive. She was perfectly beautiful.

After a fascinating method of developing a mold of Mama’s scalp, she positioned an adorable hat over a synthetic hair piece and we left the shop, allowing the master hands to resume his long day’s work of assembling the freed hair into a wig.

And so the party began…a brunch feast, an afternoon shopping, board game fun…and eight hours later we returned to Anton’s to collect the final product.

Kurt uncovered the wig and we were all left speechless. And this state of awe deepened as Mama secured the wig upon her head for the first time. It looked just like her, so natural and perfect, framing her face just right and falling upon her shoulders in the same place as before. Mama was overwhelmed with gratitude as she hugged Kurt goodbye walking out the doors for the second time that day.

In the car driving home I could not manage diverting my stare from soaking in the perfection of Mama’s wig. But I saw so much more than just hair fastened in place. I saw Divine Love redeem the smallest of concerns. Indeed He cares for the minutest details. He cares for each thread of hair, for He numbers them all; not one escapes His knowledge. He cares to position us down the road from a brilliant wig maker. He cares to provide the funds to preserve a treasured piece of Mama through His Body at Eastridge.

And perhaps this wig that I had once dreaded actually contains a bundle of blessings. In five years perhaps it will serve as an altar to which we return and reminisce of God’s faithfulness through the breast cancer journey. In ten years perhaps it is a preservation of time, freezing the effects of aging and greying to forever hold beauty from more youthful days. And in years I hope never arrive, perhaps it will offer comfort to my own future daughters who can forever remember their grandma by stroking her locks of glory as I once did.

And in this wig, I taste it again—grace outrageous. And I give thanks.

Blood Clots and Chemo Update

Much has happened within this past week and a half. Last week Mama thought she had a reaction to the contrast dye used for the CT-scan. Her veins were prominent and blue in her left arm and she thought there was a swollen lymph node in her armpit as well. This caused some discomfort for a few days, but after a while it subsided and, therefore, Mama thought it was improving. However, on October 24^th she decided to go in for an appointment to ensure everything was fine before chemo. While there, they discovered two large blood clots, one under her port and another in her basilic vein near her armpit. This caused some concern, especially due to its proximity to her heart. They immediately began daily Fragmin injections into her abdomen and Coumadin doses. She is improving and they have ceased the injections of Fragmin. She will continue with Coumadin as long as her port is in place.

Chemotherapy went as well as to be expected. We left for the hospital around 7:30 this morning. After completing her new daily routine at the Anticoagulation Clinic, we continued onto the Cascade Cancer Center where she eventually started the infusion. We tried to pass the time lightheartedly with board games, cards, jokes, and reading aloud to one another. We left the hospital around 1:30 and at this time Mama was experiencing some dizziness. She has been resting at the home, taking short naps, hydrating, and eating minimal amounts of applesauce and crackers. She is such a champion, and we are so proud of her.

I will further update as time passes. Her next chemo appointment is scheduled for two weeks from today, November 14^th.  Thank you all for your prayers and continued support, especially with meals and care packages. Mama feels so surrounded by love. It has truly been a blessing.

Thoughts from my journal

Summer has certainly ended for Washington and in its place the customary rains of fall have inaugurated the season. Driving to work this morning I was accompanied by the forceful beat of raindrop after raindrop upon my windshield in a relentless downpour. Each falling drop seemed to add an extra weight upon my shoulders, an increasing gravity that I couldn’t detect until walking through the door at work. This gravity dislocated a pillar within my soul, causing everything inside to shift off balance. I could feel it. The feeling that at any moment this pillar may give way causing the entire structure of composure to tumble into a crumble of emotional disaster.

God, what is going on inside me today?

Looking back on my morning, little things that usually paint my face with a smile caused my eyes to roll in annoyance. The drip of the coffee maker brewing. Copper (our dog) running into my legs in excitement for his breakfast.  Mama asking me how my morning was and the schedule for my day…Moment after moment of precious holiness and still my soul was congested, incapable of inhaling the rich scent of joy.

But why, God?

“These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full”(John 15:11 ESV).

I turn on the lights of the classroom and squint my eyes as the bright rainbow colors of the toddler room greet me. I try to remain busy, sweeping and wiping down the tables before the little ones arrive for the day. I am annoyed at how fast my mind seems to be running before daylight. And I preach the above verse to God, frozen in a moment of vulnerability with my Beloved and forgetting the obvious that He penned the promise to me.

Joy. Full Joy. More-than-human Joy. God-joy residing in me. Glorious-divine-joy whose perfection removes the essence of lack.

Okay, God, where is that joy now? Jesus paid so that I could have it always and forever and I want it NOW!

 Silence. I wait in a moment of expectation, staring at the pile of crumbs my broom’s movement accumulated. And in an ordinary second void of the spectacular, I feel the truth. It was one I was not to be received with the sight of my eyes or the listening of my ears, but with the senses of my heart.

Immediately, before I had time to object, raw tears swell in my eyes. And these tears seem to escort with them the majesty of understanding. And I hear His familiar gentle voice echo in the quarries of my being, “Your tears are safe in my hands.”  

A sweet release. A needed unlocking. And the drops from my eyes inundate my cheeks. I take a prolonged sigh, treasuring the cool of oxygen into my lungs. My tears cease, only leaving the evidence of swollen eyes and a warm damp-streaked face.

Breathing seems to be easier now, and the secret buried deep rises to the surface.

Chemo. Tomorrow.

Ah, this was the cause of my unrest. The culprit of my distress. The enemy that threatened to bring the one thing I dreaded the most…change. More change. Since returning from Mozambique this summer I have been overdosed with change. Change in community. Change in school plans. Change with a potential romance. Change in my relationship with my brother.

And through all this change I have clung tightly to the one avenue of security, my best friend, my kindred spirit, the one who completes my sentences, who has stood by my side through every type of loss—from losing my first tooth to experiencing my first death—whose arms welcomed me into this world and continue to cradle me through the unexpected, and now even this relationship is threatened by change brought on by chemo. So much change.

Of course Mama will still be Mama. She will still possess every quirk of her personality—the way she twirls her head, squints her eyes, and rapidly blinks when she smiles, or the manner in which she purses her lips when she is in deep thought. She will still contain her profound love for beauty and life found in the smallest of daily wonders. She will still nurture the remarkable dreams nestled snugly within her heart.

But she is a woman of incredible energy and enthusiasm. She seems to be constantly satiated on optimism. Her voice characterized by authentic perkiness. Her hugs are marked by such intentionality and tight squeezes minutely shy of cutting off the circulation in one’s arms. Her laughs are so voluminous they shroud the atmosphere in life and bliss. This, this consecrated grain of Mama’s nature that so many times I overlooked because of its constancy, it is this grain that may be temporarily frozen by the frost of nausea and exhaustion through the winter of chemotherapy.  

And I feel helpless. I can no longer delay the effects of cancer as I can the coming of winter. The last of my tears, the castaway of the morning’s emotion, slowly moistens my eye.

The smallest glimpse of fresh sunlight shines through the window and twinkles in dotted patterns on the wooden floor, a portion of the pattern landing atop my broom’s dust pile. I dispose of the crumbs and stare at the light. For some reason it brings me comfort, hope, peace. To think that such clear light gleamed upon unwanted trash, the rejected remains from the ground. There is beauty in the ashes.

And perhaps this is where His subtle answer to my question is to be found. Perhaps joy is too powerful a force to be limited to smiles and laughter. Perhaps its existence is the most glorious when oozing forth from groaning cries and salty tears. Perhaps rainbow beams glitter more awe through stormy skies.  Perhaps light can better reflect off teardrops. Perhaps it is here where amazing grace is inhaled.

Because two thousand years past He penetrated the threshold from heavenly to dust, that He might be called Immanuel, God with us. With us through the laughter. With us through the sorrow. With us in the fruitfulness. With us in the barrenness. With us in the constancy. With us in the change.

And this answer resonates within. Joy is not subject to the laughter. The fruitfulness. The constancy. It is found prior, in the miracle of the “with us.” In the existence of light dwelling upon broom’s crumbs. Of heavenly resting on dust. Of beauty among the ashes. Of Immanuel with us.

Driving home hours later and the raindrops persist. My mind flashes back to the heaviness of this morning brought on by the weight of the precipitation. But now, I see a hidden splendor within these drops. Rather than park my car in its usual abode within the garage, I park just outside under the drizzle canopy. I open my door and feel the rain gently caress my exposed face. I raise my gaze to the thick clouds and allow the downpour to soak into my cotton shirt and jeans. He is here now. Immanuel. Tears from heaven mixed with the saltiness of my own. He is with us in the weeping. And a thin smile creeps its way across my lips. Joy.