Revealing Grace

 It has been six months since I got the most unexpected diagnosis. It has been six months since cold chills flowed through my body reading the words I dreaded on my tiny telephone screen. It has been six months of tears, of hot showers to try and clear the bad thoughts, of making jokes in doctors offices, and closing my eyes for every blood draw.  It has been six months of explaining sadness to my daughter, of leaning into each other when we could barely stand, and of accepting help, meals, babysitting, and prayers.  It has been the hardest six months of my marriage.  And then, one week ago today, I had my final chemotherapy appointment. 16 rounds of grueling treatment came to an end! Finally, the end of long naps, medications, side effects, coming to know my own face without hair, without eyebrows, without everything I counted on to be seen and known in a certain way.  I have been devastated, afraid, and hopeless. I honestly did not think I was strong enough to...

 The other day Emma saw a man walking down the side of the road. He was obviously homeless or struggling, the sort of person most of us generally fail to notice at all.  "Mommy," she said. "I see a man. By the road."  "Oh yea?" I replied.  And with all the love and compassion that a 2-year-old can muster she said from the back seat,  "Yes. He's beautiful."  _____________ In graduate school I used to go to the Norton Simon art museum and sit for a while in front of one of my favorite paintings. They had a wonderful collection of Monet, Van Gogh, and Renoir, but this one was by an artist I didn't know. It depicted a vagrant, or a homeless man, with some rotten fruit.  It was beautiful.  The painter had taken something that is so often looked over and made it into a masterpiece. I bought a print and hung it in my office for a long time to remind myself to find beauty in the things and people that many only see as problematic or unfixable. I ...

 “How are you doing with that aspect of things?” my friends ask cautiously and kindly. I’m quiet for a minute as my mind flashes back to that small, tiny, windowless room where I sat on the paper stretched across a chair, perched above everyone else. “I heard that you were about to start trying for a second baby.” The doctor says matter-of-factly. “Yes.” I reply quietly. “We were supposed to start trying this week.” “That’s probably not a good idea now.” “Yes,” my voice breaks. “I know that. We’ve come to terms with that.” “It wouldn’t be wise to go off medication again, not with a recurrence this soon since your initial diagnosis.” I nod. Unable to form the words. They come out between tears. “Yes, I know we won’t be having any more children.” Sure, we have “come to terms with it” in a sense, yes, but how can one ever prepare for this reality? For the news of cancer but also the news that you will never again carry a baby in your womb? That just as you had prepared...

 Is kindness as potent as medicine? I'm starting to think so.  Last week I really wanted to give up. It all felt so hard and so disheartening. It was a perfect storm of a difficult chemo cycle (including Emma growing molars!) and I really didn't know how to put one foot in front of the other anymore.  And then my people showed up. On Instagram and Facebook you all told me to stay strong and keep going. In my texts and on written prayers dropped off at my house, you all told me that God was with me and that I could do this. You all believed in me. You believed that I was indeed mighty, and you prayed for me.  As I read each and every word of encouragement, I felt my body shore up a bit. My strength reserves started to feel a little more full, and resolve crept back into my bones.  Simple words were my medicine. (Along with a bunch of actual medicine, of course.) With these simple words, like being told I was prayed for by someone who doesn't even believe in praye...

Well, it has been a whirlwind. I came back from a wonderful trip to Denmark, had a biopsy two days later, was diagnosed three days later, and had surgery just three short weeks after that. Honestly, I am so comfortable in my body since surgery. Sure, I look different, but we all look different and I'm not 25 anymore, so I look different anyways.  We have had many days of sorrow in our house. Sorrow that we cannot have any more children. Sorrow that I have to go through chemotherapy again. Sorrow for the time I will miss with friends and for the days when I haven't been able to care for Emma.  But we have also had many moments of joy. Joy for good surgery results. Joy for the ways our community is taking care of us here in Tennessee and beyond. Joy for every day that we have together. Joy for kitchen dance parties with Emma, extra cookies at snack time, and for every good and beautiful person and comment we have encountered.  People often exclaim that they are amazed by ho...

Today it rained. If you have been following my story for the past 6+ years, you know that this means something to me. Often, I feel the love and presence of God in the rain. I don’t know why. I think it started almost 6 years ago to the day when I wrote a post about the rain. Today, I am writing a similar post. 6 years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and on July 6 th , 2018, it was removed with a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and medication. Instead of celebrating my 6-year cancer free anniversary this week, I am scheduling appointments with a new team of doctors in Tennessee because, yet again, I have cancer. I know. We are all mad about it. Here are the practical details: It is on the same side, even though I had a mastectomy. It is teensy-tiny. It is just .4 cm, with my last tumor being 1.6 cm.  Here are the emotional details: We are sad. This puts a wrench in our plans to grow our family. This puts a wrench in our plans to go to l...