An unencumbered Christmas season

Sadly, the Christmas season is a short one this year. Like most of you, I have lists and expectations, and yet I feel inclined to share with you what I’m learning. One of the main reasons I share my thoughts with you is so that you have the benefit of my mistakes. Many years ago we decided to keep traditions that felt like us and let go of expectations that are less meaningful and that just keep me busy. So don’t hate us because we don’t bring you homemade fudge and double dipped chocolates. I decided that those of you who know us will know we care about you based on interactions we share throughout the year, and you will have to trust that.  I’m more inclined to go with what I feel like rather than what looks right.  So I may have a few little friends over for lunch instead of making fancy teacher gifts.  (I don’t know how to make anything fancy.)  And I don’t always do teacher gifts at Christmas.  Let’s be honest, sometimes I skip teacher gifts altogether.  (This year we did Todd’s honey at Thanksgiving that took maybe ten minutes to pull together.  That feels like us.  Crafting makes me irritable.)

I feel torn every year between wanting to treat my kids and wanting to not spoil them at Christmas.  I want to use our money to help the teens in the community who don’t even have a bed, but do we give everything we have away and fail to acknowledge the sweet kids sleeping next to us?  These quandaries are ever-present, and yet I feel to make Christmas nice for our family in modest and thoughtful ways.  And that there will be enough somehow (I never understand how this all works out) to give more where it’s needed.  A lesson I always marvel at: in God’s eyes there is always enough.  He never stresses, He calmly tells me our needs and wants will be met.  And that He has plenty to give.

Along these lines, throughout my adult years I have felt heart tugs longing to donate to all poor and cold children in town, to visit the lonely people, to tangibly let new people know they are loved. And yet, how can I do all that in one month alongside concerts, extra school volunteering, church stuff, shopping, cooking and entertaining extra family in town? Let alone find time to read all my sweet Christmas books and watch “It’s a Wonderful Life”? And so, in answer to yet another heart-felt prayer, I was told to not be so concerned about the timing. God doesn’t measure time as we do. He softly showed me that to serve quietly, simply, consistently and individually in various ways throughout the year is ok, that everything doesn’t have to happen in one month. And so that let me exhale, relax and know that small and simple acts spread throughout a year do “count,” that I am not a selfish or stingy person because I can’t do all the good things I want to do in four weeks without getting grumpy.

I learned something else very surprising last season. As most of you, I long to heighten the spirit of our home and family during this season, to think of and act more like Christ, to embed the true meaning of Christmas into the souls of our children. And yet, the more I had tried to make that happen over the years, the more frustrated I became throughout December. Isn’t that weird? I don’t recall how I figured it out, but it finally dawned on me that the Gospel of Christ is JOYFUL, and we are not solemn monks, to be so serious and proper that we miss out on what Christmas is about and what Christ’s life was really for. It is to bring us joy and happiness, and we embrace Christ when we emulate and radiate and share that. And so, on a simple level, it occurred to me that to have the true spirit of Christmas in our home we could do things that would bring us closer as a family, that would help us laugh and have fun, to serve spontaneously and within a realm that is manageable financially and time- and energy-wise. So, last year we spontaneously grabbed the kids one school night to see the lights, another night I made cinnamon rolls and we sat by our fireplace while Todd read a story to us, we walked along the cold festive streets of an old-fashioned town with hot chocolate another night, we helped where we could, I challenged each of us to create or do at least one really thoughtful gift. Just small activities and memories that really made me feel light and happy. I’m not good at exuding joy (I’m such a serious, task-oriented gal), and yet I feel like Heavenly Father has given me something to go on. He wants us to embrace the simple, joyful experiences of this life, to settle ourselves down and to let His love show in everything we do. When we are quiet and peaceful instead of harried and hurried, we can most easily feel and then share the true Spirit of Christmas: Christ.

What it does

I’m not being falsely modest when I say I’m really not that spiritual.  By that I mean I’ve never seen a spirit or been had any tangible experiences with spirits.  I know people who are and do, and I’m sort of in awe of them, wondering why them and not me.  I’m good with it, though, because in all honesty it’d scare me to death.  So I’m happy to keep our realms mostly separate.  But at the same time, prayer is my lifeline.  I don’t care if I interact with other spirits (I’d rather not), but I rely on Heavenly Father intensely.  Oddly enough, I sometimes struggle to recall a single answer to a prayer.  Whereas other times I feel like my whole life is a DNA strand of responses.  I think it’s so constant that I can hardly decipher where my questions end and answers begin, they’re so intertwined and being played out simultaneously.

I thought about this just yesterday as I was driving to the mall to meet a friend to walk.  With the other old people I relate to better than my contemporaries.  Todd had been researching the pain I’d been having and gave me his conclusive diagnosis and helpful hints that morning.  Out of nowhere.  It’s going on three weeks, so it’s not like we’d had a special conversation about it.  In my heart I’d wondered if there was something I could be doing, wondering if it was normal, could I be more proactive.  A silent prayer, not wanting to entirely give up the pain because I know it’s all part of the process and good for me, yet willing to do more on my part if only I knew what that meant.  An inspired husband, when he could’ve been playing games, sleeping or looking up who knows what else, spent his late night finding answers for me.  I know it’s a stretch.  Most wouldn’t connect the dots and necessarily attribute that as an answer to a prayer.  But what is a prayer and what constitutes an answer?  To me, prayer is when I’m talking to Heavenly Father.  Not necessarily on my knees by my bed.  In fact, those prayers seem almost too formal and stiff.  I talk to Him all the time, I have questions, I’m sad, I can’t think of who else to share my joy with who will care that much.  I worry about my kids.  I feel helpless to comfort friends.  I’m far away from my mom and sisters.  I petition Him to watch over them.  I wonder what I can do, given my limited talents and resources, to help and serve.  I need peace in a complicated and troubling world.  You know I like to write, but I’m not an eloquent speaker.  He never complains.  I don’t know how to say a prayer that would be worthy of transcription, we just talk.

So I think He knows my concerns.  So many—most—of my prayers are just thoughts of my heart.  That I’m honest about.  That I tell Him about.  And this little question was one.

How do I expect Him to answer?  I’ve always wanted—and still long for—a good long sentence, prose I can capture and record.  I don’t know if my answers come that way.  I have one experience, but it’s tiny and hardly a sentence even.  Most of the time I anticipate ideas and feelings about my concerns.  And even though I’ve seen it so many times over the years, and I know it’s how it works, I’m always surprised when people are my answers.  Regular everyday people like you.  A beloved man taught, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs. Therefore, it is vital that we serve each other.”  I’m certain that He inspires us with good ideas.  Creative ways to help each other, the motivation to even move with our ideas.  He propels us to go and do.  Through each other He answers so many of our prayers.

I don’t know if I’ve told friends out loud that I’m praying for them, but I know I’ve written it.  It seems to flippant and fake and like some church lady to say I’m praying for you.  But it doesn’t.  And it isn’t.  Because it’s genuine.  Even if it sounds trite.  People have written it in nearly every card—I’d say upwards of 99% of the cards actually—I’ve gotten in the past month or so.  And it always seems to accompany the hugs.  I love it, I accept these gestures.  I’m overwhelmed by your generosity, that you would log me and my family away in your busy minds, burdened and bulging with so many other concerns.  I’ve wondered what all these prayers are doing, what’s become of your efforts, what this experience would be without them.  As I prefaced this with, I really am not that in-tune with spiritual dealings, I’m not sure how it all works.  But I can tell you how it feels on the receiving end of being prayed for.  Because I think you’d like to know where your prayers are ending up.

I can tell you that before anyone knew, I felt so sad.  I felt alone, waiting for results, worrying what it would mean for me and my family.  I told two friends and my sisters.  That eased my anxiety immediately.  Not just because I shared my heart, but because I started to feel their prayers in subtle but buoyant ways.  I felt myself shifting, more accepting of whatever would be my new future.  I felt calm and light.  Even though I was admittedly scared.

As we began to tell people who would need to know, like our kids and parents and siblings, I know the prayers intensified.  I’ve had people from all over the country and world telling me they’ve been praying for me.  I know and trust that He honors those prayers.  And so I wonder about the results of your efforts.  I haven’t lived through this without prayer, so I don’t know what that would look like, but I can tell you how it feels with prayer.

It feels like when Todd and I were flying home from a week in North Carolina, high above the cities and commotion below.  We were in our own little cloud bath of bubbles.  Suspended, cushioned.  At peace, calm.  I’ve felt insulated, carried.  Matter-of-fact, able to confront each new appointment and day with confidence and peace.

I prayed about the doctors assigned to me.  I wanted assurance that they were the right ones for me.  I received a peaceful witness even before I met my surgeon.  He was the one I was most concerned about (obviously) and so I specifically prayed to know.  Then, when we met with him and talked, I felt overwhelming gratitude.  I knew this was a good fit.  I felt so blessed with calmness, certainty that it would be ok, that I’d be in good hands.

I’d also been assigned to another doctor.  But I wasn’t completely on board.  I asked my nurse if there was any chance at all for the other one I really wanted. But he’s very well-known and respected, I knew it would be a long shot.  I was doubtful, but she left the room, came back and told me if I could be there at 7:45 the next morning I could have him.  Maybe not what you’d call an answer to a prayer, but I sensed a small miracle.

We’ve been blessed to know how to handle this all on the home front.  I feel like we’ve been sensitive to know how each child is doing.  I remember several days after finding out I had cancer, knowing we needed to tell our sons but not knowing how or when.  I was doing laundry and had a distinct impression to go and talk to my 16 year-old right then.  It was the most perfect opportunity.  Just right for some quiet conversation, hugs, and an exchange of love and tears.  It was just what our hearts needed at the right time.  I’m so grateful for that inspiration.  And similarly with our college son.  We found the perfect time, and I felt to let Todd handle it.  It felt just right.

I’m also being blessed with the ability to learn to accept service. It’s coming, it’s not easy.  It is possibly the hardest part.  Because I know the sacrifices of time and money and family and convenience you’ve made to bring meals, to assemble packages and run to the post office.  To leave your chores to sit with me and visit.  I love that you are in-tune to know what will help our family.  I feel a part of this because people have asked me how they can help.  Knowing their hearts and knowing how good it feels when someone accepts a small act of service, I’ve wanted to help them know how to help me.  Heavenly Father has given me good ideas!  I asked one friend to come paint my nails and another to come wash my hair.  I’ve asked others to take my kids and another to please sweep my floor.  I’ve asked four friends to drive me to appointments and on errands.  I’ve asked my kids to do extra chores.  I’ve asked my youngest daughter to help  me get ready and to take a bath, way back on those first few tentative days.  I’m so practical, not very fluffy, so these acts have meant so much to me.  But it’s the prayers that helped me know what to ask for, that have given me the ability to even ask.  Because it’s so not like me to want to depend on others and to ask for help.

I’ve been blessed by your diverse acts that prove to us how intimately He knows us.  You’ve maybe had a random idea come to you that He knows would touch our hearts just right.  Some of you came to the hospital, some just showed up at our door on a cold, snowy evening.  Some brought breakfast or lunch and intimate sharing.  All of you have made me laugh.  Some brought baskets loaded with snacks and indulgences.  Others just brought themselves.  Some sent flowers, others sent words of comfort and encouragement.  My sisters and mom put their lives on hold for a week to come and selflessly just be with me.  Each act of service felt prompted and showcased each friend’s personality.  I feel He uses our natural gifts and abilities to bless one another.  So it may not seem that inspired to do something that seems so natural to you, but I feel He inspires us to act, to share our gifts in ways that showcase His love.

I’ve felt inspired to know how to serve in tiny, homebound ways.  I’d love to be out doing more with my arms, lifting spirits and moving boxes.  But I’m not even sure I can make bread at the moment since wiping my counters still hurts.  But I know He wants us to serve, and so ideas come to me just like they come to you.  Because I know He wants to bless me by feeling useful.

I’ve felt physical strength beyond my natural capacity.  I know it’s not just because I’m relatively young and healthy.  It’s more than that.  I’ve felt encouraged to move through my stiffness and soreness.  I’ve been able to shop for hours a week after surgery.  I’ve been able to do most of my regular life.  It’s still tight and sore, but my range of motion is good.  I’ve felt enabled and empowered beyond my expectations.

More than even the physical strength, I’ve felt your prayers blessing me emotionally and spiritually.  I believe this is the area of our lives I’ve felt the greatest impact.  I feel so calm, at peace, happy, light, energized.  I’m excited to wake up every day.  I don’t feel the least bit distressed or depressed.  I will say honestly I’ve cried in the mornings.  It’s been sore, I feel stiff, I hate remembering that this is my new normal for another day.  But I imagine that’s normal, I don’t really care if it is or isn’t though, it’s just how I feel.  But I’m impressed by how quickly the tears dry, how easy it is to move on, to admit it stinks but to get on with the task at hand.

I have felt His overwhelming love.  I feel as if you’ve all had a hand in helping me experience true love.  Gratitude and love have been the overarching feelings of my heart.  It almost consumes me.  I know your prayers have given me that gift.  I feel closer to Todd and the kids.  Like cardboard walls have been cast aside in friendships, that our hearts are easier to read.  I feel so indebted to my Heavenly Father and so incredibly humbled to feel a sliver of the pain our Savior felt in my behalf.  Your prayers have helped strengthen all these relationships.

So as I’ve thought about the power of prayer the past month or so, I’m keenly aware that it is strong.  And real.  I cling to admonition given many years ago to ask myself how I’ve seen the hand of God in my life.  What would that look like?  To me, it is a million tiny pulses of energy in a million different ways.  A smile from someone, an answer to a question in something I read or hear, a feeling of peace, motivation to make a small change, a random idea to help someone, a call from a friend, a hug from one of my kids, tokens of love from a loving Father.  Close.  So close.  But reliant upon us to help Him answer His children’s sincere petitions.  I feel that you’ve been doing that for us this month by praying for us and acting on promptings you’ve received.  I know prayer works.  I’m not sure how, but I know what it feels like.

O Remember, Remember

Small Acts of Service

The mercy of a gradual goodbye

I can’t help but wonder about transitions.  Some approach us with clear deadlines, expectation, advance notice or ceremony, others without much warning, a bit more gradual, allowing us to say goodbye to a loved one or phase of life without fanfare.

I think part of the graduation drama, for instance, is found entirely in the pomp and circumstance.  We attend something akin to a funeral.  Which is good.  Closure.  Pictures.  A time to unite with friends and loved ones one last time.  I get it.  But what a potential tear-jerker.  The summer that follows is easier, looser, with former classmates starting colleges and vocations at various time, thus never requiring a final goodbye.  I remember writing in each others’ yearbooks that we’d see each other during the summer, and so it was hard to pinpoint when our mourning should begin and end. These kinds of farewells are made up of a lot of see you laters followed by unintentional absences that have lasted going on 25 years.  Easing the pain of cutting ties.

Similarly, I remember knowing the date a good friend of mine was moving from medical school to residency.  I made cookies, had my card in hand that morning for her, only to ever find their truck.  And so we never had the awkward encounter of admitting we’d never see each other again.  This happens all the time as friends have woven themselves in and out of my life.  Thankfully the last few weeks and days before a move are a crazy quilt of bustling activity and erratic and frenetic scheduling.  Trucks are both premature and late.  Dates have a way of changing on a dime.  Because most families relocate during the summer, it sometimes feels like we’re all on vacation.  Until fall sets in and I realize it’s becoming an extended trip.  Mercifully helping me avoid the inevitable tears that would’ve surfaced had it happened another way.

Our dear friends are currently separating, moving on, leaving the little world we’ve created between our families over the years.  But I have no idea what the details are because her troubles are concurrent with mine.  We are two ships passing in the night and so she has somehow tiptoed out of my life, while I feel helpless and toggled to my house, unable to help carry her burdens the way I’d like.  I hate it, but I can’t imagine helping her load a moving truck.  My bending heart would snap and all I’d be is a slobbery mess of tears, providing no support or perspective.  I can’t help but wonder if it’s good for us to say good bye in such a strange way.  It seems wrong, but I know it’s been easier.  Because I can’t begin to know how to tell her in person how much her strength and courage and faith have meant to me, to hug her knowing I don’t know when I’ll see her again.  We’ve exchanged texts but have never really come outright and said goodbye.  I need to go over.  But I’m afraid it will be so final.

I can’t help but love the way my dad transitioned from this phase of his life to his next.  Quickly, efficiently, without warning.  Sitting on the sidelines as a spectator to so many friends my age watching their parents slowly dying is a heart-wrenching trial.  I felt buffered from the acute pain of having to say one last goodbye to someone so close.  We were always planning the next trip, knowing we’d have cinnamon rolls at Christmas and that he’d show Avery how to use his industrial sewing machine next time. Taking his health for granted, it never occurred to any of us he’d be nearing the end.  And so in that bubble, I was insulated from the harsh reality of one last knowing hug. 

I marvel at how our culture insists we keep busy following a loss like this.  We needed to choose a funeral date and home.  Someone needed to alert those across the seas and down the street.  Our assignments required us to write our talks and to acknowledge floral deliveries.  To compose thank you notes and collect old photos.  It was a merciful shroud of business that kept us from mourning too deeply or from detaching ourselves from people who need and love us.  It all eased us over the emotional hump.

I relive summer days with Andrew, who in August would be heading to college.  We had a few bulleted “lasts,” but we had a million scattered ordinary moments that cushioned my emotions.  A completely normal request list to clean his garage, to do his dishes, to write his thank you notes.  We continued to tease him, to hound him, to wonder if he’d ever “get it.”  So our sorrow in seeing his life with us coming to an end was tempered by the fact that we were still in the middle of his life with us.  Except when I made a point to point out the obvious.  A last dinner out.  Finishing up one more game night.  A final road trip.  His last day home with us.  What good were all those notations?  Except to intensify a pending loss.  Interestingly, I ended up down in his college town a week before he and the others arrived, so I never had to watch him pack up his room or sweep his metal shavings into the trash in the garage.  I just caught up with him when he and the others made their way down to Utah the following week.

In fact, even dropping him off at his dorm was unceremonious.  He and his dad had been loading a trailer for us to take home early the following morning.  We’d moved his stuff into his dorm earlier that day, but he had a regular home-cooked meal with us at his grandma’s and about 10 that night we thought it might be time to take him to his dorm.  Nothing like a grand send-off, just a few tight hugs, a few awkward moments and see-you-laters.  We needed to get back.  And so, just like that, we’d detached ourselves from each other.  Not like the movies.  But just like us.

Interestingly, it was like that with my friend and her son during their last week together before he left for another country on a mission for two years.  They’d planned all these “lasts” only to be hampered by company and unexpected details, leaving them little time to pine or really let their pending separation get to them.  The day for him to leave just snuck up on them, and that was that.

Same with age.  What a blessing to grow old a day at a time, marking no significant difference year to year.  What kind of ceremony would it be, to be gathered with friends to say goodbye to our youth?  At what point would we suggest such a commemoration?  So merciful that it’s only in pictures we’re forced to acknowledge what we used to look like.  Because it’s such a slow and gradual process, we find the aging pill easier to swallow.  A merciful way to say goodbye to brighter days.

I guess this idea’s been on my mind because I’ve kind of thought of myself as a pre-surgery Caren and post-surgery Caren.  The original version contrasted with a new, broken, inferior model.  I cried so many nights in Todd’s arms thinking about it.  Wondering if things would ever be the same.  Knowing they wouldn’t.  So I hesitated embracing each day as surgery became more eminent.  I was afraid to love as deeply, fearing it would hurt too much to not have it be the same.  But mercifully, I had to have a smaller surgical procedure the week before my major surgery that helped ease my tension.  I was sore from it.  We were so busy.  We were tired.  We had a full calendar and lots of visits.  Before we knew it, the mastectomy day came and went and I was blissfully eased into a post-surgery room without having had a “this is the last day of our life as we’ve known it” party.  Mercifully, I never had to completely say goodbye to our former life.  We just sort of went with it and ended up on the other side.

I guess I’m just grateful for the diffused edges of difficult transitions I’ve had to make over the years.  Rather than facing so many endings with a definitive, fine-tipped Sharpie, I feel the mercy of a wide-angled watercolor brush, helping to soften the pain of a fresh absence, of saying goodbye to a cherished friend or phase of life.  It doesn’t always work out this way, and sometimes we’re called to a bedside as an aged parent takes her last raspy breaths or we tearfully wave goodbye at the airport knowing we won’t see him for two long years.  We end up with a little of both kinds of goodbyes in life.  I’m just saying that I look at the distractions and sort of sloppy pages here and there as a blessing, a way to take the edge off an otherwise-emotional chapter of life.  A tender mercy in a tiny trial.

An honest assessment

It's 6:30 on a beautiful Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week.  Just wanted to jot a note as it's fresh because sometimes we’ve strung a whole event together as we look back on it, not remembering the individual knots we’ve made.  We gloss over the details, forgetting the valleys or failing to acknowledge the peaks that have made our hearts soar.

I’ve cried every morning I’ve been home when I’ve woken up.  Maybe it’s because I remember, it all comes back to me that this is my reality for another day.  I know—I really do know—that today will be better and easier than yesterday, and I love that!  Because I made it through that and I keep collecting days that push me further and further to becoming “better.”  But I still cry.  Only for Todd.  Because it really doesn’t last long.  Just a few tears of acknowledgment that this stinks, that I hate it, I’m so very, very sore.  It’s not that I’m surprised.  I knew this was how it was going to be.  I anticipated it.  Not like I lingered over it, obsessing over it.  What does that do?  It’s fine, it’s life, it’s textbook.  It just stinks so much.  And it hurts the most in the morning after a night in the same position.  It stings and burns so much to sit up.  Try lying down from a bed and test your chest muscles and your back muscles as you get up.  There’s no really great way to get around it.  I feel like I’m ripping individual muscle fibers like a piece of beef, like I’m injuring my wounds to the point of no repair.  I’m stiff and without even meaning to, I just start to cry out of nowhere.  Maybe it’s normal.  I don’t know.

Believe it or not, I’m still trying to decide which one has been more painful: this or my emergency c-section.  I honestly think this is better.  Because I can walk and do stairs and move around so much easier.  Laughing stings no matter what.  But that can’t be helped.  Like I’m not going to laugh.

I’m also trying to decide if the mental anguish of not knowing was worse than this physical hurt.  I think almost yes.  It makes me think about Christ in the Garden of Gethsemene and how painful that part of the Atonement was, the mental and spiritual heaviness.  When I was younger I’d focused on the physical pain on the cross being the main Atonement.  But I’ve learned that was only part, that the Garden was where He really suffered.  And I wonder how I feel.  I think this is easier than the few days I spent alone with myself, in another dimension, wondering what would become of me.  If Heavenly Father really thought I would be better off helping Him over there.  So anguishing to come to terms with His terms.  Because I knew, even though I hated it, I knew His way would ultimately make us happiest.  And so I spent quiet days even though I’d be making copies and shelving books at school, helping my friend in her pretty new kitchen, making dinner like always, wondering if I could accept His plans.  I wondered if that really was going to be my Test.  And so it’s easy to see why this is easier.  I even have a little booklet, a stack of them actually, that tells me what exercises I can do and what successive days should feel like.  I have drainage we can measure, pills that are scheduled.  I spend some parts of my days resting, a lot of the time I’m just up but doing quiet activities.  It’s a pretty straight-forward process, the recovery will continue to get easier, and I’ve known others who have gone through it; it all is fairly routine and that gives me comfort.  I know most physical issues resolve themselves.  I just know that as hard as this week is for me and how painful it’s been, thinking about possibly leaving my family was more heart-wrenching than even this pain.

I’m the kind of person—maybe like you—who can handle something once I’m assured it’s normal.  I don’t want a concerned look to cross a doctor’s face.  I want his confirmation that the gauges on my back look completely great.  I want to know it’s normal to feel like I’m in a constant mammogram machine—both sides, all sides—all the time.  I can handle that.  Once I knew I’d be leaking blood and fluid by the cupful for days and maybe weeks, I could take it.  And so I continue to read along in my hymnal about all the recovery stages and rest assured that thousands of others have apparently been pushed to their outer physical limits and are doing fine now.

I’m trying to be a good patient.  Because I want to heal quickly and get on with life.  I don’t want to linger here.  I sleep my regular night hours, and can get up and bathe and get ready for the day.  Put away some things here and there.  I’ve eaten normally since the first morning after my surgery.  (I got into my room Tuesday night at 7 p.m.) I have a pretty hefty appetite, and so that hasn’t been an issue.  My mom was eating lunch beside me yesterday and she marveled.  “You eat a lot of food, Caren.”  I looked at her bowl of grapes and cottage cheese and didn’t think much of it.  I had minestrone soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a container of fruit, a completely normal lunch for me.  She just eats her calories in chocolates.  But it warmed my heart so much because my little nine-year old made it all for me.  She was also the one who helped me with my bath, taking off my sweatshirt, helping me with a new one, holding my four drains for me.  I can’t tell you how impressed I was with her kind service.  So sweet.  I lie down for maybe an hour and wake myself up snoring.  Repeatedly.  (I have a sleep study for apnea next month.  Good grief.)  I write thank you cards and look over recipe books.  I started a Pintrest account (!) and showed my sister a favorite blog, 100 Days of Real Food.  I’ve looked at fluff magazines and have rested again.  We watched Beezus and Ramona because my mom and sister had never seen it.  We watched Afterlife on Netflix (one of my favorite shows) and Ben Carson’s story, Gifted Hands, as a family last night.  Pretty low-key.  I haven’t washed a dish.  Or even filed.  The drawers are too heavy.  I’m being good.  Really.

I’ve started doing my exercises.  Well, not my exercises.  Theirs.  Resting with my hands high above my head.  Opening and closing my fists, moving my arms all around.  Reaching.  In the hospital it was excruciating to lift my arm for the blood pressure cuff.  I’m noting how easy this is in comparison.  I am a proactive kind of person.  If there’s something I can do to prevent a negative outcome in the future, I’m all over it.  Just tell me what to do.  So I rest with my little exercise booklet on my blankets, reminding me.  It feels good to have some say in my healing.

Yesterday was the first day I was without many visitors since the second I woke up Tuesday night.  I only had two the whole day, and one came bearing chocolate and the other one was one of my best friend’s families.   How I love them both.  It was almost strange to have it so quiet.  I have loved—absolutely loved—seeing all of you.  Even though I was so tired in the hospital, I was never, ever disappointed when someone peeked a head in.  From CNA to the Director (our bishop).  I just marvel—and start to cry (so this part has got to be short)—when I think about all the people who raked the leaves from their day to get in the car, to drive twenty minutes, find parking, take the elevator to the new part of the hospital, check to figure out where my room was, buy flowers and write a note somewhere along the way, and to mentally prepare themselves for rejection as they open the heavy door to my room.  What friendship!  What love!  I nearly flowed out of my watery bed with all the sweet tears I cried every time someone new would stop by.  I still can’t wrap my head around it.  And of course I’m crying now.  Mostly people stayed about 20 minutes.  I loved it because I love them.  So much.  I am not an errand girl.  And I’m not a quality time girl.  So it never occurs to me to go visit someone in the hospital.  I just send notes.  Because I’m lazy that way.  So I just couldn’t believe people would do that for me.

Two came Wednesday night after all the action of the day.  At different times.  One is a 24 year old friend who is like a little sister to me.  Wow, how I love her.  She brought a mason jar full of sunflowers and dried fall stems.  So like us.  And her.  She raises sheep.  She lost her card but brought me half a sheet of ripped scrap paper.  That I’ll always treasure.  She is one of the prettiest girls I know.  But she is the real thing.  We marvel all the time how beautiful she is on the inside.  She is amazing.  Todd helped her out and showed her where to put the flowers (since I couldn’t have them in my room) and he came back awhile later saying she’d broken down crying.  I had no idea what to make of that.  I didn’t understand one bit.  I just know she is one of my favorite people, and I love her so much.  A bit later we were walking around the floor (I’d been up a few times that day already on walks but they were concerned about me not passing gas.  Can you even imagine a good answer for that question.  The lady-like side of me was appalled, the patient side of me was concerned.  What a quandary!)  So we were making the rounds and ran into one of my favorite big brothers ever, bearing two pink roses.  Seeing him with his pink shirt woke up those dumb tears again.  I couldn’t believe he would take the time to come see us.  His flowers remain my favorite.  I think because they showcase his personality and remind me of something my dad would do.  His wife’s text made me laugh, and my love for them just soared.  He walked with us for awhile.  I liked his company.  It felt so good to see him.  He’s enough like family—as were all the visitors—that I couldn’t even care that I had on funny gowns (two so the back wouldn’t fly open) or what this particular mission was about.

Todd came early each morning before work and stayed late each night after a full days’ work, reminding me of college days when he’d stay late enough to tuck me in at night and then bundle himself into the dark wintry night to walk the 1-2 miles home to his apartment.  He has been a faithful supporter, trying to balance providing for us and attending to to his work responsibilities with wanting to be around for me while taking care of the kids and the home-front.  He has walked this tightrope splendidly, I’m in awe of his strength and gentleness.  My sisters have said my recovery has a lot to do with him and his support.  I completely agree.  I just can’t imagine having a different kind of husband.  Probably because I see the kind of men you all are, and I know you’d be exactly the same way.  Your wives are so blessed to have you, and I know you’ve had to be strong in some pretty trying situations.  This is what it means to be a man in my eyes.

I'm also indebted to my mom and sisters so  much I don't even know how to begin.  I can hardly believe they would take days, a week, out of their lives to come and just sit with me.  To strain blood and fluids out of my little hanging bulbs, to check stitches, to wash our clothes and cook for us.  To keep a schedule of pills and to get up early with me, to help me sit up, lie down, and get up.  They have run errands for me, bought treats and snacks.  Fielded phone calls and visitors.  Asked doctors questions, insisted I go get my rashes checked on.  Gave me a hard time about being up so much and gave me that look when I told them I was having a church meeting here on Friday.  They've made me laugh till I thought my stitches would burst.  They've brought me tissues when they saw my tears dripping down my eyes when I was lying on my back wounds that seem to hurt no matter where I put them.  Cheri has documented the whole thing, taking pictures of the sorry look of things as well as gallery-worthy photos of the kids.  Cheryl has validated me, she knows what it's like to be a mom in our family.  She is tender and nurturing in ways I just am not.  She just is.  My mom makes her home in the kitchen, dishes are efficiently and effortless whisked into their places by the time everyone is home from errands.  It's a well-oiled machine, these women of mine.  I just have no words for  how much I love them and appreciate them.

I left Thursday afternoon, after another morning of visits, beginning with our good friend (also  a doctor and bishopric member) who came bearing cinnamon rolls and juice.  How sweet!  So many doctors attend church with us, so they’d peep in throughout the days; I just couldn’t get over how thoughtful that was when they are busy well-known doctors with tight schedules.

My home had become a funeral parlor since I’d been gone and I was overcome again.  I told my sister I couldn’t even think about it without crying.  Every single time I started to mention something someone else had done, tears just started dribbling out like an old incontinent woman.  I was completely on edge, my emotions were so raw and I was so vulnerable, I just couldn’t—and can’t—get over how loving and generous and kind and thoughtful and creative everyone’s been.  I really, truly am overwhelmed.  A designer friend (that sounds weird, she’s a decorator/photographer) who I don’t always see showed up just after I arrived home with her daughter, carrying a tall skinny purple orchid that looked just like her.  And a bottle of fudge.  I couldn’t believe she would think to do that.  That is still so interesting to me.  Because it hasn’t been necessarily the people I always hang out with who have reached out to me.  Some of them have been more distant friends.  It’s just so mind-boggling.

I’ve gotten three fluffy blankets, luxurious, cloud-like varieties.  One anonymously.  It’s killing me.  Because how will they know how much it meant to me?  How will I ever be able to tell them it was perfect, that I’ve never felt so enveloped in love?  I ache to tell someone.  Two friends came over to wash my hair.  People keep asking me what they can do and so I’ve tried to really think what I need.  I knew I would like that, so I asked her before I even went in if she would be willing.  I loved how creative she was to bring her 18 gallon tote and have me lie on the bed!  She and another friend I don’t usually see brought over a HUGE basket overflowing with magazines and treats, movie rentals, popcorn, lipsticks, lotions, brand new books just for me (one is by Melissa Gilbert with old-fashioned recipes and stories about life on Little House!).  I was completely taken off-guard.  Who would spend all this time and money on me???  I just loved having them in my house though.  So much.

Another friend spent the morning with my sisters and me, I’d told her from the very beginning all I wanted was for her to come hang out and to keep laughing with me.  We share the most embarrassing stories—we have so many between us—and she is one of my easiest, most enduring friends, we go back to early college days twenty years ago.  A breakfast casserole.  Lotions, a gift card.  Random packages in the mail with robe and thank you cards?  A beautiful book of inspiring photographs and words.  Freezer meals.  And fresh meals.  A neighbor bearing a package of fluffy socks and nightgown (which I haven’t worn since I was about 12—I’m so excited!  If I can ever get my arms to work like that again).  Who thinks to be so nice?

I could write a paragraph about each of you.  I’ve kept a list.  I just hate that all I have is notecards.  How can a little piece of paper ever convey the love I feel for you in my heart?  Gratitude, indebtedness, awe, I need another language.  English isn’t doing it for me.

I’m still embarrassed to say I’m not sure I’m doing that great when I pray.  I get stuck from the very beginning.  All I can think about is how grateful I am.   But He is foremost on my mind when I’m lying quietly.  Because I want these same blessings for my friends.  I’m embarrassed that I haven’t been more spiritually in-tune.  I feel like I’ve missed out on some inspiration because I’ve been distracted.  I know I’m in a prime condition to receive something more, but I feel bad that I haven’t been receptive.  That honestly does kind of bother me.

I talked to my CNA one evening in the hospital.  I talked to everyone.  I see us as people, as potential friends.  Who cares what side of the bed we’re on or who’s been to school longer?  We’re all just here playing a little part.   Anyway, I know where all my helpers grew up, we’ve discussed their families and their pets.  Where he’s going hunting this weekend, and why they were drawn to this line of work.  One CNA just five years older than me tentatively asked me what kind of surgery I’d had done, and of course I told her all about it without hesitation.  She confessed she’d been diagnosed just three weeks ago with breast cancer.  All I could think about was how hard it must be to continue on with her regular work while carrying this burden inside of her.  She told me everything.  I empathized deeply.  Because now I can.  I assured her that her case wouldn’t hurt this much.  She would just be having one side done.  She wouldn’t be doing reconstruction at the same time.  She would do just fine.  She pulled up a seat and we talked and talked some more.  I felt a deep love and concern for her, so sad that she’d been living a similar uncertain kind of walking nightmare.  But I was more saddened because I knew in a way it would be harder for her.  She has a job, for starters.  I’ve been so spoiled.  I just didn’t know for sure if she’d have a network, a similar kind of support at home.  I wondered if her faith strengthened her and gave her power to draw on.  My heart reached out to hers, and, again I felt how easy I have it compared to so many.

Not to say it’s exactly dreamy.  Just that I’m not in the burn unit, being scrubbed twice a day.  I’m not tentatively holding onto life by my toenails.  I’m not anguishing over my kids and our severed relationship.  Or scared for my life, running from an abusive husband.  This is surface pain (well, and some muscle pain) that is slowly (like cold molasses slow) healing.  But I’ve loved feeling good enough for visitors and even a little trip to the airport to get my mom (my sisters assured me that lots of people wear pajamas in airports these days).  Another funny (and squeemish) part was Friday night when I realized my pain pumps that were connected to my back and front were empty.  (Those are the two black bags I was holding up in my picture.)  Meaning I could get rid of them.  My husband, being a vet and all, was elected to do the surgery.  It was soooo funny!  Ripping tape off even a relatively furless back is so sore.  And I yelped in pain with each tape fiber release.  Because it’s meant to stick.  Then tubing was wrapped up in more of it all over my tummy.  (I tried to up my ab workouts in the weeks preceding this surgery just in case of exposures such as these but I’m afraid to say there is just more virgin white residual baby fat skin than tight, tanned, toned muscle.)  Then he had to pull out tubes from each of my four quadrants.  Long tubes about 12-15 inches each.  Talk about a weird and icky sensation, feeling them uncoil themselves from being embedded within me.  SO gross.  But progress.  I only have four drains left.  They’re sewn into me.  Can’t wait to see what that’s all about.

I’m sorry this is so long, imagine if I’d tried to handwrite it in my journal.  I just think it’s valuable to have these memories logged somewhere so I can access them down the road.  And know that they’ll be accurate.  I’m doing fine.  Really.  Not awesome.  Not dying.  I don’t know that I’d be brave enough do this again, which is part of the reason I opted to do both at once, or that I’d do it just so I could buy a bigger bra.  I did it to hold onto life a little longer.  So with that motivation rattling beside these strange wires inside me, I’m making it.  Even though it hurts like the outer edges of hell, I’ve never felt so good.

Matters of the heart

In assessing the past few months and years of my life and observing the lives of those around me—as I have a tendency to do—I’ve made some assessments.  Bet you didn’t see that coming.

As overstated and cliche as it is to mention, everyone around us and among us is dealing the challenges, headaches, frustrations, broken hearts, just the variables of life. Inevitable yet trying.  I’ve wondered if there’s a spreadsheet or definition that helps us categorize one challenge as a mere inconvenience and another as a serious trial.

I don’t know that there is a clear answer.  Because one person’s trial, say a divorce or the death of a pet, is another’s blessing.   Depends on the person and circumstances, not so much the event itself.  A broken arm would devastate an Olympic swimmer, while a broken promise could debilitate a woman in love.

I’m no expert in trials.  If you know me at all, you know I’m not glazing over the facts, I’m telling you the truth.  But even though the issues I’ve waded through have never been much to write about, there’s a difference between the uncomfortable physical ones and others.  Because the real challenges have always related to my heart.

I’ve never dealt with much physically compromising really (well, until maybe later today).  I remember getting knocked down on the cement at daycare when I was maybe 11, roller skating when a heavy door swung open right into my soon-to-be-soft-and-blackened eye.  I’ve had gum grafting on both sides of my mouth at the same time, wisdom teeth pulled, all sorts of orthodontia, given birth five times—one emergency c-section that seemed to take months to recover from and once to a 9 lb 2 oz baby with no epidural.  I climbed over a fence at track practice only to have the barb at the top push its way through my upper thigh, leaving both me and my leg attached to the fence. That felt awesome.  I spent a lot of my daycare days with pink eye and tonsillitis, an occasional strep throat.  Like all of you I’ve had the flu, spent days shivering on the couch.  I know what mastitis feels like, same as a lot of nursing moms.  Hailing from Southern California, I’ve endured my share of sunburns and blistered shoulders, but not too much more than aches and an occasional pain for the most part.

What’s really distressed me have been the heartaches.  And these are the trials I anticipate will continue to taunt me.  My heart is more fragile than my body.  More tested, more sensitive.

Jealousy throughout my school years.  Relationships that could’ve been closer but were marred and stunted from my own insecurities.  How I wish I could go back and wrap my arms around the girlfriends I was jealous of.  I’d like to just start fresh and be their biggest supporters and cheerleaders, regardless of how they felt toward me.  I know I could be a better friend these days.  I’ve learned so much.

Feelings of inadequacy through these same years, not recognizing my gifts that were uniquely mine to develop and share but always surmising that I simply didn’t have anything to offer.  How destructive and taxing to carry such an unnecessary burden.

My heart is still a little saddened over missed opportunities throughout the years to be a kinder daughter, a more engaged sister and mom, a more forgiving friend, a more nurturing wife.  Admittedly yes, those holes do eventually fill, but the memories of what I left unsaid or undone are good reminders of what a pained heart feels like.  

This isn’t a true confessions blog post, although wow, wouldn’t that be a list?  Just a sampling of how tender our hearts can be.  Even after all these years I can conjure up sad phases, cracked ego days, a million bruised heart hours and years.  The other list in mighty short in comparison.  Although maybe if I had been the athlete I always wanted to be I would have better stories for you.

I’m not by any stretch minimizing a chronic disease, a paralyzing accident, any of the myriad ways our bodies are compromised in large and small ways.  Just that in the grand scheme of life here and later, these physical ailments will be healed completely.  But what really hangs in the balance always goes back to our hearts.  Will these physical set-backs make our hearts stronger or will they break us?  Will our hearts become hardened and bitter or soft and tender?  Our hearts don’t change just because we die.   And so our job now is to perfect them, which is more difficult than any surgery or body cast, stretching us and humbling us like no physical therapy or wig can.  Perfecting our heart means giving it away, accepting a larger, stronger, better version in return.  So whether it’s exercised through devastating divorce or damaged digit, loss of love or losing locks, the trial isn’t what defines us, it’s how we use our hearts that refines us.

So even as I venture to the hospital in a few hours to get worked on a bit, I’m just not that worried.  I know my shell is only that, it will hurt and it will bruise, it will look different for awhile, but it will heal.  Sooner or later, I’ll welcome a perfect version down the road.  It’s my heart I want to keep tabs on.

So far

I thought it might be good to log some thoughts along the way, a precursor to my major surgery on Tuesday.  Just a little re-cap of how it’s all gone so far.  Because I’m sure these vivid days will fade and will be all but forgotten if I don’t.

I can honestly say I’m doing fine.  It’s been a great, great learning experience, and I’ve felt overwhelmingly carried.  Loved, at peace, joyful, even energetic and strong.  But admittedly, days here and there have been sprinkled with tears.  Not as often as I’d thought, but showing up at the most random times.  I cried the evening after I found out.  Alone in my bathroom with Todd.  Sobbing.  Because I just didn’t know if I was going to die or stay awhile longer.  I was overwhelmingly sad for him, I’ll be so unattractive when I’m bald and cut apart, our life will change in small but significant ways, and he’ll have to deal with so much and carry such a heavy burden.  But that seemed to be my main crying spell.  It was a good few minutes, a release, a normal response I imagine.  There have been quiet moments, alone with Todd, when I realize things will never quite be the same.  But I don’t dwell on it too long; just seems like a waste of energy to stress about things I can’t change.  And so I indulge for a moment, admitting to myself that I’m sad about it, but I move on.  There’s so much more to use good energy on!

Unexpectedly, in the beginning I didn’t have any idea how to pray about it.  I didn’t feel like it was my place to ask to be preserved if that wasn’t His will, so I just sort of avoided the whole topic at first.  After a few days I realized all I had in me to pray for was for help to see this through His eyes.  If He thought I was ready for this, then I knew He’d help me through it.  Whatever it ended up looking like.  I prayed for strength to accept His ideas.  And so far, those days of not knowing have been the hardest part.  Waiting for results and wrestling with my emotions, trying to align my will with His.  That if He thought this would be best for our family eternally, then I would try to come to terms with that, I would try to accept it.  I hated even thinking about the possibilities.  I wondered if dying might be eminent.  I wondered if that would be the best for our family, I tried to wrap my head around it.  And I have to admit, I gave him my thoughts.  I told Him I would work even harder, that I would could get more done on this side of the veil than the other.  I wonder if he laughed a little.

As the weeks have progressed, the most overwhelming feeling I have when I talk to Him is gratitude, just overwhelming thankfulness.  For living in a time and place with such amazing medical advances.  For trusting me with this.  For the people at every turn who have helped me and been so kind.  I have hoped and asked that these experiences can help me share my faith with others, that I’ll learn some things along the way.  That the kids will feel peaceful and ok.  But other than that, I’m embarrassed to say I really don’t pray much about it.  I’m not sure what to ask, I feel so incredibly blessed that I feel weird asking for anything more.  I feel like a little kid praying for myself this way, asking for more when I already have so much.  I feel close to Him.  But I still wonder if there’s more I should be doing.  I just feel so spent lately by nighttime.  Squeezing in hours of doctors appointments into already full weeks.  Talking on the phone, emailing, and texting friends, family, nurses, the kids’ teachers, etc.  Writing thank you’s for everything people have done.  It’s as if I’ve taken on a part-time job.  And so I wonder if I’m giving Him enough of myself and my time and my energy, if He knows how much I love Him and how blessed I feel.  I hope so.

I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have a “traditional” trial, one that most people view as being a substantial hardship.  But I don’t feel like I’ve truly experienced it yet, which is why I wanted to record some feelings before my double mastectomy and reconstruction on Tuesday.  This problem has a pretty straight-forward solution.  Not every trial does.  The hard ones are those I see so many of my friends dealing with.  More private in nature, more heart-felt.  More long-term.  With no quick fix.  Even with this sitting in the back of my mind, I’ve felt my heart breaking for loved ones going through divorces or loneliness, friends who have family members in critical condition or parents who are worried about their kids.  So many of my tears have been for them lately.  Like so many of you, I pray, wondering what else I can do.

We never gathered our kids together for a pow-wow about it.  In fact, we were running out the door and I had to drop off the kids and Bronwyn asked where we were going.  I just hurriedly told her I had an appointment because I have breast cancer.  “Hurry, let’s go!”  Avery intercepted a text awhile back and asked me if I had breast cancer.  That was pretty easy, and Callum just somehow knew.  The boys were harder, and I put it off, knowing they were old enough and sensitive enough to take it more personally.  So we’ve cried.  But we’ve laughed a lot.  We’re casual, open, relaxed, at peace.  I’ve told them the funny parts of what I’ve been through, we’ve laughed over the wig choices.  I’ve shown the little kids my bruising and incision from the node removal.  But we don’t talk about it that much, it’s just not in the forefront of our lives.  It’s just another development, along with our broken dishwashers and homework we’re not that great at doing.

I guess I put off telling people for a few reasons, mostly there wasn’t much to tell until I knew what I was dealing with, a cyst or a life sentence.  And when I did mention to a couple of close girlfriends that I’d been waiting for the results, it made me sad because it made them sad.  I hated hurting their feelings and making them worry.  People wanted to know what they could do.  I didn’t know how to be more honest: nothing.  I am still healthy and energetic, the same as always.  Just scared to know how serious it could still be.  I think during chemo it will be great to entertain my kids.  Recovering from a c-section a few years back, that’s what made me the happiest: knowing my kids were happy.

Avery suggested we make some meals to freeze.  I loved it!  I’m excited to see my kids pull together.  I want them to see self-sufficiency in action.  I want them to know we can unite as a family and work together.  And yet I know it’s important to let them see people serve.  It’s so humbling, you all know I hate it.  But I acquiesce because I care about my friends.  I know how good it makes us feel to do something tangible when loved ones are going through hard times.  I know we all need to take turns, and so I hope to learn to balance humility with self-sufficiency.

The best thing friends have done with me is just to laugh with me. I’ve had some of the most embarrassing appointments, I can’t help but relay them to my friends.  It’s weird to have come to terms with the body I’ve lived with for 42 years and now to be having the plastic surgery I always thought I wanted.  Just interesting how now all I want is my regular self.  I don’t mind people knowing or anyone asking me questions.  Nothing is off-limits.  It’s fascinating, I’ve learned so much and you know how much I appreciate a good teaching moment.  It’s also good to move on and talk about them after a couple of minutes.  You know I hate being in the spotlight, good grief.  I just don’t want to be like the old ladies who can’t quit talking about their colonoscopies and diabetes.

I don’t know that I can itemize all that I’ve learned quite yet.  I’m only at the beginning really.  I found a lump back in July, got in to the doctor by September, had a mammogram and biopsy within a couple of days, and waited.  That was Thursday.  By Tuesday I could barely hold myself together, so I finally called.  So not like me.  But I couldn’t focus on much else.  I remember on my way to my mammogram seeing the Cancer Center off to the side.  I couldn’t help but wonder if it’d become part of my new life.  But now here we are, I’ve been cramming in a million things these past few weeks and am ready to wash with my special surgery soap again on Monday.  It’s been a whirlwind, but good.  I’m realizing how powerful prayer is.  I’m learning how valuable loved ones are.  And how wide that circle is.  I know now it’s not flippant to say or hear “I’m praying for you.”  And how it’s not limited to a few close friends.  I feel love from near and far, all expressions have been equally meaningful and touching.

People have hugged me, teared up when we’ve talked.  Mostly people have told me they’re praying for me.  My son’s college ward (congregation) fasted for me—I loved it!  A friend brought over a note and a sweet children’s book, Going on a Bear Hunt, highlighting how sometimes we can’t go under or around but have to go through an obstacle.  Three friends pitched in to buy my a subtly pinkish sweatshirt with a loving note.  I can still feel the soft touch of women who have held onto my hands.  Another friend brought our family a grocery sack of gourmet snacks, fun napkins, egg nog and other indulgences I’d never buy myself.  A young student made me a small pillow for under my arm to make resting more comfortable.  Isn't that cute? Our friend brought me a pink breast cancer awareness pen from his work.  A woman I work at church with brought over a cleaning bucket loaded with snacks and treats for the kids, luxurious soaps I’d also never buy myself.  A friend had her mom make a prayer shawl.  My kindred spirit friend from years and years ago sent me the girliest package that is so like her: slippers and two pairs of pajamas and fun magazines.  I still can’t get over the generosity.  A practical friend who speaks my language brought over six containers of frozen cookie dough balls.  What could be better?  Two friends have already brought us dinner when I spent part of the day under anesthesia, even though I was fine, just so I could spend more time on other pressing issues.  More dinners next week.  Endless texts, Facebook messages, cards and emails.  Phone calls and get-togethers.  I feel pampered beyond belief.  I’m moved by how kind and generous everyone has been.  I really can’t get over it.  A big part of my thoughts lately has been assessing how I’ve responded when loved ones have had a challenge.  Have I been there?  Have I helped?  Did I know what to do?  It makes me want to serve better and more.  I’m so inspired.

My sister had this same experience at 34.  She has been invaluable from the moment I told her.  An absolute strength.  I asked her a million questions, she researched and called her doctor for me.  She rallied her friends even though I told her not to tell anyone around here.  Her friend sent me a book.  Their foundation offered me a donation.  She and my other sister and my mom are leaving work and kids and responsibilities to come help out for two weeks.  I can’t even tell you how stubborn they are.  And how guilty I feel.  Because I’ve never been in a position to do anything like that for them.

There have been so many tiny miracles that have shown me that He’s aware of each of us.  Doctors assigned to me from my church, one whose specialty is breast care.  My pathologist is a good friend, and I know he expedited results to ease my mind.  An anesthesiologist firend happened to stop by while I was waiting for my procedure.  So nice to see a familiar face!  My friend in the cancer center was one of the first people we told, she drew my blood that first morning.  Just over and over, I’ve seen His hand in my life.  One that stands out happened just after my little surgery last week when Todd and I were in the recovery room.  Of all the days and places she could’ve been assigned to within the hospital network, my dear neighbor friend from yesteryear saw Todd as he was sitting with me and was able to come be with us and wheel me out.   Her daughter had just gone through this the previous year.  I couldn’t help but burst into tears as we visited.  Not at all because I’m nervous or sad or worried.  Just out of pure love for Heavenly Father, I couldn’t believe He would take time to send me a tender hug this way.  I was overcome with happiness,  knowing again how intimately aware He is of not just me, but each of us.  He loves us, His children, and shows us in small ways, a million different ways.  This was just an especially poignant moment for me.

I cried the last Sunday I was at church too.  A sweet, sweet friend of ours lost his wife to breast cancer a few years back.  I knew he knew.  He had on a bright pink tie and wrapped me up in his huge strong muscly arms, and I again burst into tears.  He tried to comfort me, but it wasn’t about that.  It was that feeling of love that I felt.  I don’t know that my emotions knew any other way to go except out my eyes!  And so it’s been with every person I’ve told or who has found out.  Most of their eyes have become a little shiny, and there’s been an immediate connection, a feeling of love for each other.  I’m a touchy, huggy person (but careful with who since I’ve had some bad experiences), and so I have loved the hugs, just loved feeling close to brothers and sisters we’ve come to love as our family.

One of the very first and most spiritual experiences of all of this was in October, General Conference weekend.  I asked two friends if they would give us blessings that Sunday afternoon.  So while our kids played gymnastics on the lawn with the dog, we gathered for a memorable hour together, intimately connected as friends.  I felt calm, at ease, willing to accept the future but also feeling that maybe this wasn’t quite my end, that maybe I’d be permitted to linger a bit longer.  I promised in my heart that I’d work hard, serving in any way He wanted.  I still cling to that special time with our close friends.  I felt the Spirit so strong, I felt a tight bond with the other two couples.  I felt completely enwrapped in love,  knowing that He really does have a plan for me and my family and that He is completely aware of me and each of us. It really was an amazing experience for me, I wrote about it in my journal so I’d remember more of the details.  I’ll always treasure it and appreciate the love and goodness of our dear friends and a loving, knowing Heavenly Father.

I have a favorite scripture I cling to, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?  What greater witness can you have than from God?”  That idea has carried me through so many days throughout my life.  Our eternal perspective and our faith help me see little hiccups like these through clearer lenses.  I just feel blessed and at ease.  It’s the perfect time for a little wake-up call.  My kids are not too young, I’m not too old.  We’re just at a perfect place in our lives to see what we’re made of.  And I’m happy to say, I’m realizing it has nothing to do with me.  It has all been the work of you and a loving Heavenly Father that have made this past month so good.   Prayers have a way of levitating another, I feel like I’ve been riding on a cushion of soft air, the prayers and thoughts of loving friends, people whose goodness is nearly tangible.  There aren’t enough thank you notes in my box or even at TJ Maxx to express my appreciation for all you do.  My only hope is that someday in some way I can pay it all forward, that I can live a better life having lived through this short trial, that I can serve in more meaningful, thoughtful ways.  The way you’ve been serving me.

To see just one of many inspiring talks on the enabling power of the atonement, click here