The Empty Chair

It is 13 December, in the year of our LORD 2016. 

My beloved Benjamin, my husband of 26 years and father to our children, stepped from earth into eternity on 2 October 2016 at 8:30 pm.  By the loving grace of the LORD of all creation, I was at his side, holding his hand as he took his very last, long breath.  When he did not take another in, I realized that the reality I'd been ignoring, avoiding, pretending wasn't rushing at me like a freight train had finally arrived in the station -- I became a widow and single mother.

Hospice came to our house and sweetly cleaned him up and dressed him.  The hardest task in the universe was handing his clothes to the nurse and leaving the room.  After he was dressed in the lovely blue shirt I liked, our entire family gathered around him -- including my father and a minister from church -- and we prayed and absorbed the reality that Benjamin was singing with the angels and worshiping at the feet of his Savior while we are left reeling.  

It is 13 December, in the year of our LORD 2016.  We are between Thanksgiving and Christmas; holidays full of family, joy, happiness, and love.  As the world marches ever forward around us, celebrating and joyful, I am locked in some strange timeless fog, struggling to courageously step forward into the new life that the LORD has laid out for me and battling to release the heartbreaking past of Benjamin's devastating illness and the sadness of the days leading up to his death. 

In the aftermath of Benjamin's funeral, I have learned that grief is an strange, volatile emotion.  It casually rides into my day unpredictably like it owns the place, swirls around like a raging tornado wreaking havoc, and then leaves without regard for the damage that's done.  In its wake is my deep, sobbing emotions pouring from the gaping wound grief won't (yet) let heal into a hurt that cannot be described in words. 

But now, over two months later, I have finally reached a point where I can just write this little post on this little blog that's floating in a sea of millions of blogs, all detailing lives, and trials, and celebrations.  And to be able to just write this is one more step of probably millions that will take me forward into whatever tomorrows God has planned for me.

At Benjamin's funeral, which was bizarrely surreal, as I sat looking at his closed coffin at the graveside, I asked the LORD for a sign that my beloved was safely in His loving care.  The wind started to blow gently, causing one of the many yellow roses on Benjamin's coffin to burst into petals that floated here and there and down into the open grave below.  For many days after, I would see yellow butterflies here and there.  

"Rest easy, My child.  I have him.  Lean on Me."

It is exceedingly hard to erase the final weeks of Benjamin's life from my mind's eye.  Many a dark and teary night, as Benjamin restlessly lay in pain in the medical bed next to me, I would cry out to the LORD.  One of the questions I'd often ask was about the promise Jesus made in Matthew 5:4. 

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

I would say, "LORD, what will that look like?  Can You please help me see it when it comes?"  The LORD answered my question -- though it took a while for me to see it -- because the LORD of all creation cares for me.  

Through the loving hands and feet of His children, He has surrounded me with love and hugs, with supportive prayers, with warm, hot meals, with help for the house I neglected for 2 years, with pretty much any need I could envision.  Many of these loving children of the LORD I had never met before.  But they've walked with me -- sometimes for only minutes, sometimes for hours -- and held my hands or shaking body as I sobbed over the reality of loss.  But in every case, they are the LORD's touch in my life, called to help by the very One who created it all.

I have been comforted, just as Jesus promised, by the children of God.  

I still sometimes beg the LORD to tell me why we were chosen for this path, but I know the answer won't be given on this side of eternity.  Benjamin knows, though.  I see through a mirror dimly, but Benjamin sees it all face to face (1 Corinthians 13:12).  One day, I too will know.

I can't really end this blog post on a upbeat note.  Upbeat is an uncommon experience for me right now.  The sunny-side-up-glass-half-full gal that I've been for decades is struggling to see the light of today.  I can't open his wallet.  I can't move things around on his computer desk.  I can't go through the box of personal things brought from his office desk.  I can't open his closet in the bedroom.  I can't move his phone.  The pain it too real, too close, and too paralyzing.

But, I know this.  I know that God loves me because God is love (1 John 4:8).  I am assured that He cares for me (1 Peter 5:6-7).  Jesus told us that God would provide for us (Matthew 6:26).  And I know that if I persevere, that Jesus has prepared a place for me (John 14:2).  I trust the LORD to walk with us in Benjamin's absence as Father to the fatherless (Psalm 146:9).

Psalm 103:1-5 NASB

103 Bless the Lord, O my soul,
And all that is within me, bless His holy name.
² Bless the Lord, O my soul,
And forget none of His benefits;
³ Who pardons all your iniquities,
Who heals all your diseases;
⁴ Who redeems your life from the pit,
Who crowns you with lovingkindness and compassion;
⁵ Who satisfies your years with good things,
So that your youth is renewed like the eagle.

Oh Abba Father how I love You.  You know my grief and You keep my tears in Your bottle.  I know You care for us.  I thank You, Father, that You have comforted our family through the hands and feet of Your children.  I thank You that You are always with me.  I won't hide that I'm concerned for our family's future, but You have already planned it all out.  All I have to do is trust.  I pray that You'd help me with my unbelief and draw me so close to You, that all I have is joy.

Abba Father, I don't know what hurts the readers of this blog may bring when they pause on the internet highway to read, but I pray that You would meet them at their point of need in a very real way.  I pray that You would manifest Yourself in their world, their hurts through the hands and feet of Your loving children.  I pray that You would bring them comfort as You've brought it to me and that Your loving embrace would surround them.

I thank You, Abba Father, that You are trustworthy and true, that You are light and love, that You are hope and grace, that You are mercy and forgiveness, that You are my all in all.  I love You, I praise You.  You are wonderful.  Amen.

Newness of Life

It is the 14th of September, in the year of our LORD 2016.  This is the eve of Benjamin's 51st birthday.

In my kitchen is, or was, a lovely houseplant; a gift from my mother-in-law to our 2nd son.  It flourished and flourished, first on the patio, then in the kitchen by the window.  It loved the filtered light, and I often turned the pot to keep it evenly growing.  It was lovely.

Then, one day, it inexplicably started dying down.  One by one the lovely green leaves turned brown, leaned over, and fell off.  We checked the water and the position of the pot, but could not diagnose the cause for death.  Eventually, only one leaf still remained, a strange, brown reminder of a once lovely and flourishing plant.

Benjamin once commented how much he liked the plant and wanted me to find a replacement.  I started my search to no avail.  Eventually, I ceased to look as Ben started to be more and more frail and sick and my need to be at home increased.  The search for the plant was forgotten and the pot remained in the kitchen.

Today, I went to the kitchen to warm leftovers for lunch, and then I saw it.

On this presumably dead plant is a single green leaf.  It's very tightly wound still -- so not yet open -- arching it's way toward the light of the window.  I stood in quiet contemplation, realizing how close I'd come to moving the pot outside to be reused, but could never make myself remove it.  

Out of the brown, seemingly dead plant, is rising a new life.

Benjamin is extremely frail now.  He is often confused, sleeps most of the time, and walks with an unsteady gait that causes me much concern.  As I watch his life wind down, I spend enormous amounts of time speaking to the LORD.  I've ceased asking Him "why" and have consistently asked Him for reassurances and direction.  

"What do I do now, LORD?"
"How am I going to get through this, LORD?"
"Where are our lives to go from here, LORD?"

Last night, I asked for reassurances again.  Today, I see new life springing from what appeared to be death.

It makes me think of the story of Job.  His life flourished, but then the storms came.  His faith was tested.  He had moments where he questioned the LORD.  And then, in the end, Job was restored.  The death of his former life was replaced with the newness of a restored life.

And through it all, Job praised God.
  
Job 1:20-22 (NASB)
²⁰ Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head, and he fell to the ground and worshiped. ²¹ He said,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked I shall return there.
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

²² Through all this Job did not sin nor did he blame God.

There is no indication that the LORD ever shared with Job the "why" of his storm.  And, likewise, I don't think the LORD will share with me the "why" of our storm.  

The life our family once had -- flourishing and green -- is coming to an end.  Out of that life will rise a new life for our family.  I trust that.  I trust the LORD.  I know He will never abandon me (Psalm 94:14), nor forsake me (Joshua 1:5). 

He didn't promise that life would be easy.  He didn't promise there would be no pain.  He never promised that I'd have all the answers.  But He DID promise that He would be with me, He would care for me, and He would protect me.

This is hard, but I love the LORD through it all.

I pray that my story might lift you up today, sweet reader.  Maybe you have a moment in your life like the plant -- some part of your life -- that is dying down, slowly and painfully.  But please know that God will spring newness from that as you stay faithful to Him and trust Him.  Give your anxiety to Him, for He cares for you (1 Peter 5:7).

Hebrews 11:1 (NASB)
The Triumphs of Faith

11 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 

Stormy News

It is 5 June in the year of our LORD 2016.  Our family has now been on this cancer journey for 21 months.

In the book Daniel chapter 3 is the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego.  Now this is a story I'd heard as a child.  I had a memory of the story, but I had apparently not ever actually read the story as listed in the Bible.  A bit of a failure on my part, I suppose.

Anyway, not long ago something came across my Facebook feed about this passage and the author mentioned something she'd not noticed before.  Lo and behold, I'd not ever seen it either.  I've since read it a couple of times because it's presence resonates with me whilst on this journey.

In short, the story is of 3 young men who chose to worship the LORD.  The king of their time, Nebuchadnezzar, built an image of gold and decreed that when the music played, everyone was to fall down and worship this image.  As the story goes, the 3 young men did not fall down and were reported to the king.  He demanded their compliance, but they refused.  Below, is what they said as taken from the NASB version of the Bible, Daniel 3:16-18.

¹⁶ Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-nego replied to the king, “O Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to give you an answer concerning this matter. ¹⁷ If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire; and He will deliver us out of your hand, O king. ¹⁸ But even if He does not, let it be known to you, O king, that we are not going to serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.”

Verse 18 is the "it" to which I refer above.  These 3 young men declared that "if it be so", God would save them.  Then, in verse 18, they acknowledge that it might NOT be in God's will to save them.  But either way, they were serving the LORD and not a created idol by the king.

This is interesting to me, because this is how I've taken to praying regarding Ben's health.  I pray for full earthly healing and abatement of pain, but I follow that with "if it be in Your will."  It is heartening to read a story in which the heroes hold the same prayer pattern.  

The last time I posted, Ben's cancer marker had declined from 34 to 33.  I celebrated this number because it was a ray of hope, a feeling that perhaps it IS in God's will to heal Ben.  That, perhaps, we will emerge on the other side of the stormy valley with a great healing testimony.

Well, all that came crashing down this past Friday.  It's been a month since we heard Ben's CEA value.  And, on Friday, we learned that the CEA value had risen to a whopping 62.  62.  A hope-crushing revelation I was utterly and completely unprepared to hear.  I felt like someone dropped an anvil on me.  For a moment in time, I floated away from the sterile room to the Throne of Grace and cried, "why".

I cried in the doctor's office, I cried later in the afternoon with my head resting on Ben's tired chest, and I cried myself to sleep that night.  In the midst of that, Ben decided he wanted to go to the final weekend of the Georgia Renaissance Festival.  He was unable to rise Saturday morning due to pain.  Sunday was the absolute final day.  Praise be to God, we made it.  

Rain chance at the Festival was 80%.  There wasn't a drop to be had.  It was a cool, breezy 80 degrees Fahrenheit -- it actually felt very nice.  It was mostly cloudy, hiding the sun away from Ben's sensitive skin. Ben's pain was manageable and we didn't have to leave early.  We sat and listened to music, jokes, drums.  We held hands.  We walked.  We were.

It felt like the LORD said, "I want you two to have this day together, to hold hands, to be a couple.  It's storming; take some rest."

I declare the same as the boys before Nebuchadnezzar.  No matter what the LORD's will is, no matter what earthly pain it may inflict on me, I will worship the LORD.  He is my Rock, my Salvation, my Banner, my Protector, my Provider, my Comforter, my Savior.  I love Him.  I trust Him.  I will not give Him up.

This is a busy week, upcoming.  On 7 June, Ben will have another P.E.T. scan.  On 8 June, we will learn the results and a decision on future chemo and/or medical trials will be considered.  On 9 June, we celebrate our 26th anniversary together.

After that?  It's in the hands of the LORD, the Creator of heaven and earth.

Psalm 28:7 NASB

⁷ The Lord is my strength and my shield;
My heart trusts in Him, and I am helped;
Therefore my heart exults,
And with my song I shall thank Him.

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.

The Power of Prayer

It's May 11 in the year of our LORD 2016.

Not an awful lot has changed for Ben in his cancer battle since I last posted my strange story in April.  He has moved from hydrocodone to oxycodone for a pain reliever.  Hydrocodone tends to make him "not care" and he doesn't like the feeling.  Both drugs are in the same family (as I understand it), but the oxycodone is treating him better.  

When his pain is controlled, he's mainly up and about, acting normally.  When his pain is not controlled, he lies about or sleeps, waiting for that moment when the pain reliever breaks the grip of unrelenting pain.  It's a strange balancing act -- one to which I can't really contribute much beyond "did you take your pain reliever yet" -- and my heart aches for him and his struggle.

On the bright side, we learned at his last office visit that his CEA marker dropped from 34 to 33.  It's such a small decrease that the oncologist warned us against reading very much into the value.  Of course, I excitedly tucked that spot of news into my happy day hat like a giant peacock feather and have been bunny hopping through my days with it in tow.  I'm an optimist.  Give me a tiny sun beam and I'll take the whole kit and kaboodle.  It's who I am.  

And, admission time: viewing the positives as highly as possible, no matter how small, gets me through my day.  And, right now with depression putting it's naughty foot through my door, I need all the joy I can muster.  

So, the LORD impressed on me to write this next bit quite some time ago -- last fall actually.  I didn't do it then because I wasn't sure how to present it.  But something happened today that propelled this to the forefront of my mind.

Over the 20 months since Ben's diagnosis, we have been the subject of much prayer.  It's the buoy of our lives, the pillar that holds us, and especially me, up when it feels like to me that every little bit of life is crumbling around us.  If it weren't for prayer and the LORD's hand, I'm not sure how I'd be walking through this.

But, I've learned something of exceeding value in all this time.  Something you may know already.  But I didn't.  And since learning of this great treasure, I have been working to make sure I pass this treasure along to those in my world whom I touch, however brief.  It's a work in progress, and I'm a slow learner. 

There is nothing more powerful in this universe than prayer.  And it's power is felt like rushing waves when you run into a loving family member or precious friend and the first thing they say is, "come here and let me pray over you."

Being held in someone's arms as they speak the word of the LORD over me has a value beyond diamonds.  For a moment in time, I feel like the LORD is holding me close through the arms of a living, breathing follower of Jesus Christ and IT FEELS GOOD.

In my life, I've said on countless occasions, "I will pray for you."  And, embarrassingly, I probably forget for days to actually just, you know, PRAY.  Or, forgotten completely.

God doesn't want us to forget to pray.  It's good for us, because we get alone with our Abba Father in heaven.  It's good for those for whom we pray, because like Ben and I right now, prayer is a buoy in the storm.  You can FEEL when people are praying for you, and sometimes you just need that feeling.

But truly, the power of being prayed over right at the moment you are with someone is absolutely beyond value.  And, quite honestly, I might never have understood this if not for this powerful storm raging in our lives.  It may have taken something this big for me to learn something so simple.

It would do me little good to share my treasure without the event that precipitated my post.

My daughter participates in recreational gymnastics at a local business.  We arrived there today, just a little late, and as we approached the door the lady who runs the desk came out.  I didn't realize she was walking right up to me, until she stopped me.  It turns out that one of the wonderful teachers passed away last night.  

The look her face told me she was heartbroken.  I was holding a basket of crochet, but I reached out anyway, pulled her into my arms, and prayed out loud over her.  It was brief, but I had to do it.  I couldn't refuse.  God wasn't letting me go of that responsibility.  And I felt so happy to have been a vehicle for the LORD's love on this sweet lady in her time of pain.  Itty bitty me.   

I doubt I would have ever done that before our storm.  Maybe I would have.  Maybe the day would have come and I'd bravely lift my voice to heaven over someone who is practically a stranger.  But maybe not.  Maybe I would continue to be silent in the face of moments of tender mercy from the LORD through my actions.

I don't know the answer to that on this side of heaven.  But I'm glad that I have a new treasure to share, and that the LORD was able to put that treasure to use through me.  It reminds of me Psalm 8 (emphasis mine).

³ When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers,
The moon and the stars, which You have ordained;
⁴ What is man that You take thought of him,
And the son of man that You care for him?
⁵ Yet You have made him a little lower than God,
And You crown him with glory and majesty!

I am grateful to the LORD of all creation that He was able to teach me and use me.  I am grateful that He can use each and every one of us in the very same way.  That He waits patiently for that moment, and that He could touch the lives of others through our loving obedience.

Matthew 18:20 NASB
²⁰ For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst.”

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.

The Weapon of Battle is Prayer

I'm standing in a room, dimly lit.  Across the room, I see my husband Benjamin, walking through a door with no window.  He turns to look at me, smiles, then continues through.  A bright, comforting light briefly fills the room as the door closes behind him.  Just like that, he -- and the door -- are gone.  I am gripped by a sadness I cannot put to words.  My chest aches.

A moment later, another light fills the room, so I turn to look. It is similar to the light of the door Ben took, but not quite the same  - it lacks the warmth, the comfort.  To my side, there is a double entryway through which the light is streaming.  It's an unnatural light -- not quite daylight, not quite bulb light.  I cannot see the doors.  There's a distant murmur, sounding somewhat like people talking.  I walk that way, drawn by the light.

At the doorway I pause.  Just through the door is a table.  On the tabletop are Bibles and crosses.  As I step through the doorway I see someone who seems familiar running toward me, hands out for an embrace, face twisted into a strange smile.  As they arrive to embrace me, they turn into a strange mist.  I am enveloped by this mist.  It's warm and comforting for a moment -- like that feeling you get when you are cold and then sit in your warm car.  But, it becomes mildly uncomfortable.  It feels like humidity, like something you can't shake off.

The murmur is more distinct now.  There are people talking here.  I cannot quite make out words, but I can tell by tone of voice they are grumbling.  They are angry.  They are wailing in sadness.  Some shake their fists at the sky.  Beyond the people I see a wall.  It's opaque, but it's apparent that something is beyond the wall.  Whatever is beyond is indistinct and unreachable.  The wall has no door. 

I turn back to look at the door through which I came.  Over the top it says "Freedom."  I throw off the strange mist and step back through the door.  There's a strange resistance as the person who embraced me tries to pull me back toward the light.  Her allure is strong, but I resist it.  Back inside the room, I look back.  Above the door it says, "Bitterness."  The open door, the streaming light all beckon me.  It would be ridiculously easy to step through the door again.  The person has their arms out, ready for embrace.

As I examine the original room, I see another door.  It is a single entryway, and the door is closed.  Above the door is the word "Freedom."  I am in such pain, that freedom appeals.  I walk to the door.  It has no lock.  I put my hand on the handle and push.  There is a slight resistance, but after a small amount of effort the door opens.

Beyond the door, it is misty or foggy.  I cannot tell.  The light is dim, like a rising sun over a foggy night.  Of what little I can see, a narrow path of sand winds through a deep green grass.  There are flowers and trees off to the sides of the path, close enough to see, but not close enough to touch.  I can smell something sweet.  Overall, it's quiet.

Someone walks to me and wraps a blanket around my shoulders.  I hear a voice that says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."  (Matthew 5:4)  I look into the face of my Savior.  In the midst of my mourning, my deep hurtful ache, I feel a moment of peace.

I try to take a step, but I feel heavy and burdened.  My back feels tired.  I don't think I can go on.  I hear the voice again that says, "take my yoke for my burden is light."  (Matthew 11:30)  Again, I feel a moment of peace.

My Savior takes a few steps ahead of me and pauses, looking back.  I take a moment to glance back toward the door through which I walked.  There is no table here.  The sign above the door says "The Wide Path".  (Matthew 7:13)  I can still see the bright light of the other entryway; I can still hear the murmur of voices.  It would be so very easy to go back.

I look back toward the sandy path.  My Savior is standing there, waiting patiently.  I take the two steps to stand beside my Savior.  It's still foggy, I am still aching in grief.  I feel a moment of peace.  My Savior says, "I said you would have troubles in this world, but I have overcome."  (John 16:33)

He waves His hands toward the sky, the fog clears for the moment to reveal a gorgeous mountainside.  The yellow sunshine bathes the mountain in bright, welcoming light.  My eyes follow the path from the mountaintop to the place where I currently stand.  It's rocky, rough, and steep.  I am barefoot and weary.  I cannot imagine walking the path.  I decide it's too much.  My Savior says, "I will never leave you nor forsake you."  (Deuteronomy 31:8)

Just ahead is a cistern with flowing water.  The sound is familiar and comforting.  We walk to it together quietly.  I am very thirsty, and my Savior gestures to the water, so I take a sip.  It's cool and refreshing.  My Savior says, "You will never thirst again."  (John 4:13-14)

As I stand at the cistern, I realize that my aching sorrow is still with me.  But, unlike the doorway of Bitterness, which beget more bitterness, I am feeling moments of peace within sorrow.  Peace feels good and satisfying.

This path is really hard.  The other path was easy. This path offers peace, the other path offers the company of bitterness heaped on bitterness.  I decide I want to chose the harder path, the path of peace.  I look at my Savior and say, "I am afraid."

My Savior says, "look at the birds of the air.  I care for them.  I will care for you."  (Matthew 6:26)

The mist returns.  I cannot see the path anymore, nor can I actually remember what it looked like.  I just remember that it was a hard path.  In faith, I take a step.  And, at my side, is my Savior.

< >

It is Sunday, 17 April, the year of our LORD 2016.  

You know, I wish I could say, "what a week!"  But, I cannot.  I had this "vision" on Friday morning.  As I lay in bed, struggling to force myself to rise to prepare for Ben's chemotherapy, I saw this in my mind's eye.   I rushed to the computer to write it down before I forgot it.  

Why would I have such a vision?  It's simple.  I have struggled against bitterness all week long.  Anger.  Resentment.  Frustration.  Confusion.

And each and every time I've had to give them over to the LORD.  I can't fight those feelings. They would be ridiculously easy to embrace. To wrap around my mind and soul like a ratty yet familiar old blanket.  They stand at my fingertips, beckoning me to them.  "Come," they say, "be angry."

I reject bitterness.  I don't want it.  Bitterness is like a strange food with a good taste at the start, and a terrible aftertaste that lingers forever.

I have tasted the goodness of the LORD (Psalm 34:8).  I have watched Him move in mighty ways.  I've seen things happen that can ONLY be Him.  I've felt His peace wash over me like a cool waterfall, rinsing away the dirt of the day.  I want the peace that only come from Him (Philippians 4:6-7).

But, I'm human.  Bitterness is an easy treat - well within reach and quite easy to swallow.  But, I don't want it.  Prayer is the power that chases it away.  My human nature tempts it back.  It's a battle waged only in prayer (Ephesians 6:12).

As I sit here tonight, typing this, a few things have changed.  Ben is now taking a stronger pain reliever, a prescription called hydrocodone, and he's still experiencing pain.  He had a Vectibix treatment on Friday morning, and I took a picture of the device they use to administer the drugs.  It's my opening picture today.

Whirrrr.  Whirrrr.  Whirrr.  I will not stop hearing that sound.  Well, actually, I will.  For nearly a year, I could *still* hear the sound of the machine in Ben's hospital room when he had his colon resection in August 2014.  I can't hear it anymore.  I won't hear these anymore either.  One day.

But, I'm still glad I had that day with Ben.  At one of our visits to the Cancer Center, Ben stopped to purchase a salad from the Healing Cup.  Another man was in line beside us.  He pointed at Ben and said, "I'm paying for that man's purchase with mine."  Sweet, blessed goodness.  

I'm not sure why I've shared this strange thing I saw while I lay half-awake, half-asleep.  It feels weird to post, but I'm posting.  If you are tasting the fruit of bitterness, I encourage you to examine the Scripture of the LORD of all creation instead.  Perhaps, that's why I post such strange things.  Someone, somewhere needs it.

So, LORD, I pray that if someone can use my words for their encouragement, strength, or as an antidote to bitterness, that they will accomplish Your task and Your will.  I'm just a child of the King.  My little words are are but a vapor.  Your word will endure forever.    Please touch the hurting heart of whomever is reading this tonight.  Bring healing to their hurt, and roll them up in such loving comfort that they cannot find the words to describe Your amazing presence.

I love You LORD.  I trust You.  I want to walk with You.  Please help me put on a shield against bitterness, and put on the peace that can only come from You.  I love You, LORD.  I love You.  <3

Ephesians 6:16 NASB
¹⁶ in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.

A Trip of Prayers

It's Wednesday, April 6th of the year of our LORD 2016.  The day is cloudy and cool.  Ben feels decent enough that he's up and around.  We have the windows in the house open along with the back door, so a breeze is making it's way front to back in our house.  For supper is "homemade" pizza using pre-made pizza crust, pre-made jarred pizza sauce, and pre-cut pepperoni.  "Homemade" is a stretch, I suppose.

Our Tuesday began with unexpected van repairs to the tune of $422.  The front tires were frayed.  A belt on the engine was cracked in multiple places.  I was suddenly glad I arrived when they opened.  As I surveyed the tires with the service manager it dawned on me that this was now my task.  Ben couldn't pay attention to tires anymore.  Mental checklist enabled.  Perhaps a true written list is a better move.

The drive to Atlanta on Tuesday was long and tiring.  Ben was not up to driving, so I drove there and back -- around 3 hours each direction.  There were so many crazy drivers swapping lanes wildly, an 18 wheeler that tried to run us over, and a 10 car accident on the opposite of the interstate from us on I-285W, looking quite terrible.

Ben was relatively quiet so I spent much of the time on the drive silently talking to the LORD.  I'm not entirely certain of all the topics I touched on, but He remembers.  It felt good to just communicate with Him and lay all my distresses at His feet.  It always feels good to talk to the LORD.  It's the listening I must work on.

My talks makes me think of our children.  I recall how they'd come to us, tearful and heartbroken, because of a toy that was no longer working or was outright broken.  With big tearful eyes and a trusting heart, they'd hand to toy to myself or Ben.  Their sad eyes would plead, "fix it."  We'd gently take the item from them and examine the damage.  Sometimes, we could repair the toy, leading to elation. Sometimes we could not, leading to a child's sorrow.

So, we arrived at Emory just in time for the appointment for lab work.  Navigating to find a parking space, walking to find a correct building consumed frustratingly large amounts of time -- or so it felt -- such that Ben actually was in the lab 30 minutes after the appointment time.  Their setup was seemingly quite efficient, and we soon found ourselves sitting in the waiting room for the doctor.

Cue fear.

Fear, for me, is a curious thing.  It pounces on me unexpectedly, like a stalking animal.  It makes my heart pound, my stomach starts feeling upset, and I am unable to concentrate on anything beyond ... fear.  It leads to a ridiculous cycle of increasing fear.  The chaplain at the Cancer Center told me to focus on what exactly drives my fear and identify it.  I'm still working on that.

The doctor is a extremely patient man.  He is very obviously not in any hurry to leave, takes a seat comfortably in the examination room, and answers every question that Ben has thoroughly and with enthusiasm.  He's very passionate about the cancer trials at Emory, and about appropriate and correct information for Ben and I to use to make good decisions.

But he does confirm what the oncologist at the Cancer Center told us -- there is no cure.  This care is all about extending the time that's left without robbing that time of it's value.  And value is defined wildly differently by every patient.

The doctor does make treatment suggestions that can be performed at the Cancer Center at home.  He suggest an immunotherapy trial, stage I, at Emory that he feels is the best option -- but only if the cancer has a specific marker.  He also suggests checking UAB when Ben balks at numerous drives to Atlanta.  I don't care about the drive -- I'll drive to the moon if there's a cure for Ben there.  But driving saps Ben of precious energy.  I understand his reluctance.

We leave his office, one hour later, armed with more information.  Ben says to me, "I'm not sure about chasing treatments."

I knew he'd say that.  I understand what he means with that too, even if it's quite painful to hear.  Treatments make him feel rather poor. They destroy the intestinal system causing it to vacillate between diarrhea and constipation which then leads to excessive pain.  Treatments cause extreme fatigue, pain, and a general feeling of malaise.  What type of quality of life is lying in bed all day, miserable from symptoms?  It's a question I can't really answer.  It's only a question that Ben can answer - the man I love so very much, who's walking the walk.

I spend the entire trip home thinking of what it means and I start talking to the LORD again.  I tell Him I'm afraid, that I'm not sure what to do.  I tell Him that I don't quite understand, that I'm struggling with the destination of this journey.  I tell Him I love Him and I trust Him and that I need Him to water my mustard seed of faith, cause it's taking a beating.

Partway home, I stop at a rest stop somewhat west of Auburn just to walk and shake off the the mounting sleepiness of the long trip.  It's shortly after 8pm.  Ben and I are standing outside in the cool air, listening to the whir of vehicles on the interstate, admiring the stars and I suddenly feel a sense of peace.  I have this moment in time, this precious hand-holding whilst staring at distant points of light that the LORD calls by name (Isaiah 40:26).  I am going to remember this moment.  This moment is peace.  This moment is us, husband and wife, walking the toughest journey I've ever experienced.   And somehow I experience ... PEACE.

Isaiah 40:26 (NASB)

²⁶ Lift up your eyes on high
And see who has created these stars,
The One who leads forth their host by number,
He calls them all by name;
Because of the greatness of His might and the strength of His power,
Not one of them is missing.

Amazingly enough, I sleep well after we get home.  Not sure how, since my mind was a-whirl, but the LORD can calm the raging sea (Mark 4:35-41), and He can calm me too.

So, on Friday of this week, the 8th of April, Ben will see his regular oncologist.  He's thinking, praying, pondering what he's been told.  He's considering the genetic testing of the tumor, to see what markers it contains.  He's considering genetic counseling, in case our children need the information for their futures.  And he's considering the extra treatment option.

But, the final statement of the word of man is that the medicine of man cannot cure Ben.  We are simply buying time, precious time.

Going back to my story about our children and their broken toys, I think of the LORD.  I've come to His feet, my eyes looking to Him.  I've handed Him the object of my sorrow.  I don't know His answer yet, regarding the brokenness of my heart over Ben's condition, but I am going to trust Him.   Just as our children trust us in our imperfect parenting state, I am going to trust the perfect Father.  Don't get me wrong -- it's very hard.  But it's what I am going to *choose* to do.  I have chosen to follow Jesus.  No turning back.

As for prayers, Ben is visiting Social Security Thursday for disability evaluation.    On Friday, Ben will speak with the oncologist.  Please pray for these things to move forward smoothly, for us to hear and respond to the LORD's calling, and for us to accept the LORD's will in all these things.  Pray with thanksgiving, for the LORD is good (Philippians 4:6).

Philippians 4:6-7 (NASB)

⁶ Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.  ⁷ And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.

The LORD is my Shepherd

I hung out a load of clothes today.

This activity is a strange thing.  I love it so much, yet I've only done it once since September 2014 when Ben received his Stage IV cancer diagnosis.  Before today, it's simply been beyond me to do it, such a simple task.

But, today was a day to hang out clothes. It was a day to reach into the past and pull an activity that screams "normal life" into the present.  It's gorgeous.  The sky is a beautiful blue, no clouds.  The air is cool but not cold, warm but not hot. In short, it's just a perfect day.

I watched the light breeze blow the towels gently.  I listened for birds but heard none. The hawk must be nearby.  He likes to hang out in the pine tree in our front yard.  I could hear children screaming, laughing, crying at the nearby private school.  Shadows still covered the clothes line, but the sun was peeking through the newly growing leaves of the trees.  The ground was damp.  And, nearby, was a rose in full bloom, a plant placed lovingly by my gardening son just for me, just to see while I hung clothes up.

So, it felt amazingly good to stand outside.  It felt like I had a breath of the normal that "once was but is no longer."  And I needed that breath.  Badly.

I've not blogged since November.  I think I mentioned I don't like blogging, mainly because I don't like talking about myself and my family.  But, I've blogged because the LORD seems to impress something on me and I give in and start typing.  If I have something to encourage someone, I mustn't keep it to myself.

This blog entry, though, is different from past entries.

Since January, we've been aware that Ben's CEA tumor marker is trending upward.  We didn't see the value every time we visited the Cancer Center, but when we did see it, we noted that it was, unfortunately, steadily rising.

In January, he tried Vectibix in conjunction with an antibiotic called Doxycycline.  Three doses in (around 6weeks), it because very obvious that Ben was reacting to something, and it was pretty severe. His hands all the way to his upper arms swelled enormously.  He was first taken off the Doxycycline, then the Vectibix.  The decision was made to return to full dose Folfiri following  a P.E.T. scan on February 23rd.

The scan confirmed what the CEA marker indicated -- the tumors were larger.  So, we proceeded with the Folfiri and Neulasta 3-day regimen, expecting that this chemotherapy would do like it had in the past -- reign in the growth while Ben recovered from the Vectibix.  After he recovered, he would try the Vectibix again at a 1/2 dose.

That was the plan.

But there is a reality.

On March 18, at a seemingly regular office visit, the oncologist delivered the news we'd been fearing we'd hear.   His CEA marker was almost back to his post-op value in September 2014.  It had nearly quadrupled from a low of 7 in January to a high of 26 on March 18.

In short, the chemotherapy is no longer working.

Ben's discussion with the oncologist took on a strange, surreal feel.  I couldn't contribute, or speak.  I just listened.  And in the end, Ben made his decision.

No more chemotherapy.

The number of bad days far outweighs the number of good days.  Out of every 14 day cycle, Ben might have 4 good days.  So, he chose to have more good days without chemotherapy, rather than have so many bad days with a therapy that's not providing him very much.

I never dreamed it would come to this, yet deep deep inside -- knowing that Ben's care has always been palliative instead of curative -- I knew this day would have to be faced.   

We are planning to seek a second opinion from Winship Cancer Institute at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia.  Our appointment is April 5th.  Ben is very stoic and pragmatic regarding the trip.  I am more hopeful and optimistic.  

So, where do we go from here?  In the time being, Ben is still using the Vectibix.  He's taking it alone -- which is not how it's intended to be administered -- because it might still be a ray of hope.  Or, it may be part of the human nature of "do something".

Outside of that, I'm treasuring moments.

I recall one day, long past, when I was sitting at the Cancer Center watching Ben sleep during a chemotherapy session.  I recall thinking how much I disliked being there, hearing the whirring of the machines, watching the bustle of the nurses.  And, in the midst of my pity party, I had a stunning thought.

"What if I look back on THIS day and wish I could be here?"

And I switched my attitude, starting being thankful for the machines, the medicines, the hectic movements of the facility.

How prophetic.

In the garden of Gethsemane, we see the LORD Jesus praying fervently to the LORD regarding the upcoming crucifixion.  He spoke to His Father, alone, three times.

³⁹ And He went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.”  Matthew 26:39 NASB


⁴² He went away again a second time and prayed, saying, “My Father, if this cannot pass away unless I drink it, Your will be done.”  Matthew 26:42 NASB


⁴⁴ And He left them again, and went away and prayed a third time, saying the same thing once more.  Matthew 26:44 NASB

According to the commentary, Jesus was facing the "cup" of God's wrath.  He was seeking confirmation of God's will that this was the only way to bring salvation to all mankind.  (Reference)

As I try to imagine the setting, the pain, the sorrow, the plea, I come to a startling conclusion -- Jesus took on sin for all of mankind and, for whatever moment, God didn't look at that sin.  Such pain, to be separated, if only for a moment, from the presence of God.

Jesus knows sorrow.

He knows my pain right now.

This blog probably leaves more questions than answers.  How long does Ben have without treatment?  We don't know.  What will this journey look like? We don't know.  Will Winship at Emory have a treatment we've not tried?  We don't know.  

This is a journey on the path of life as placed by the LORD of all creation, on which there is just enough light for the step we are on.  And slowly, step-by-step, we walk along that path, trusting God's timing, God's provision, and seeking God's strength.  I know this -- I'm holding my Abba Father's hand.

That's what we do know.

We know that all things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28).  We know that God has a plan for us, not for calamity but for a future and a hope, and that when we pray, He will hear us.  (Jeremiah 29:11-13).  We know that God loves us so much, He sent Jesus so that we can believe and have an assurance of eternity (John 3:16). We know that God cares for the birds of the air, and that we are worth more than they (Matthew 6:26). 

Please don't take this blog in the sense that I have it together.  I don't.  I'm an emotional time-bomb.  But, when I lean all over God and His promises in the Bible, I find peace.  It flees under my human nature, but returns when I call out in tears.

I think it's been on my Facebook feed before, but I'll just reiterate it here -- you don't know how much you need Jesus until Jesus is all you have.  Jesus is all that stands between me and utter terror.  I think I'll stand with Jesus, no matter how hard the journey.

For those who have been praying, please continue your prayers.  I truly am unsure what exactly to pray for, but the Holy Spirit will intercede for us with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26).  He knows. God knows.

John 14:27  (NASB)
²⁷ Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.