He grinned at me and talked of the Tooth Fairy and his anticipated dollar.

I shook my head, trying to look mournful, “The Tooth Fairy has had some economic setbacks, Toothless. I think you’ll only get a nickel this time.”

His eyes sparkled and his dimples flashed, but he said with a touch of hesitation, “No-ho, Mom. You’re kidding, right?!” He half asked, half stated that last part.

I rumpled his hair and his daddy chimed in. “Nope. I talked with the Tooth Fairy last night, and she said no money anymore. She’s going to have to pay you in Ritz crackers.”

Bear nodded. “I LOVE Ritz!”

That. dear. boy.

After he skipped off to his room, assured that there would indeed be something from the Tooth Fairy, I looked at Bri and watched softness wave over his features. He shook his head gently and sighed, “I love that boy. His heart is so big. He just accepts things and is thankful.”

Yes.

I have so much to learn from my Bear.

He counts it all joy.

He hesitates, he hurts, he struggles, he cries, but he accepts it and turns it all to joy.

That night he put his tooth in his little tooth box and placed it under his pillow. He checked a few times to make sure it stayed there, fluffed his pillow and climbed in bed. We had just finished reading a Magic Tree House book together and he was excited to start the next one, chattering away about knights and magic and books and reading. Bri was gone (a meeting then going back to work for a bit), so I stayed upstairs in my room across the hall–the kids just feel safer when I’m up there with them and Daddy’s gone.

I fell asleep (probably before Bear did), but I remembered to leave a note on Bri’s pillow reminding him to be the Tooth Fairy when he got home. Then Bella woke me at 1:30 with her coughing. We are both fighting bronchitis and the coughing, oh friends, the coughing.

She climbed into my bed and I plumped up 3 pillows and sat with her on my chest, soothing her, stroking her hair, rubbing her back, singing to her, comforting her when the coughing came. It was 3:30 before she finally fell back asleep. I texted Bri to see when he would be home (yes, he was working until 3:30 in the morning!) and looked over. There sat the reminder note and dollar on his pillow.

I eased Bella down and walked over to Bear’s room. He looked like a mummy all wrapped tight in his comforter. I slid the dollar under his pillow and kissed his forehead and then stood there gazing at him. Joy washed over me.

Being the Tooth Fairy is one of my favorite roles. Not because of who it is… my kids know it’s really us… but because being the Tooth Fairy means I get to sneak in their room and lavish on them. Bring them joy. Then I can stand there and pray for them, that God would grow them healthy and strong and wise and brave. That they would know the joy of Jesus’ peace. That they would be men and women who are devoted to Christ, who aren’t afraid to be radical.

And I realized.

Bear already is radical.

Just by choosing joy.

He skipped into the kitchen the next morning with his dollar, eyes shining. I’m going to put this in my piggy bank! He raced upstairs and then came back down and hugged me. Thanks, Mom. Oh, and by the way, you can put some Ritz in my lunch.

I laughed and squeezed him, and my heart exploded with joy.

He brings it.

By choosing it, he brings it.

And I am blessed.

Outside my window…sprinkles of snow falling and then melting away.

I am thinking…about how the boys will be home very soon and we can all curl up next to the wood stove together with popcorn and hot chocolate and maybe even a movie.

I am thankful for…a fridge full of food, heavy blankets on chilly days, crackling fires, red curls, phone calls, unexpected lunch with my Brian, just living LIFE.

From the kitchen…the hum of the dishwasher finishing its final cycle… chicken thawing for buffalo chicken wraps… piles of filing on my desk. (I’ll get to it, I promise.)

I am wearing…brown, brown and more brown along with some green and my new peacock pendant from my mom.

I am creating…long lists of books to check out at the library tomorrow. I cannot tell you how much this thrills me.

I am going…to stay at home with my loves. Couldn’t ask for a better afternoon.

I am reading…The Blue Castle, Somewhere More Holy and The King’s Cross. It all just depends on the mood I’m in.

I am hearing…Bella-Girl sing while she paints next to me: here in the death of Christ I live.

Around the house…remnants of our Super Bowl party: popcorn pieces under my couch, squished floor pillows, black TV cables snaking from room to room (evidence of my Brian’s ingenuity), bean bag chairs, forgotten hats–I. love. college. students!

One of my favorite things… anticipation. There is so much to look forward to, isn’t there?

A few plans for the rest of the week…recovering from bronchitis is first on the list. But lots of errands and shopping and baking and cleaning and just doing what I’m made to do.

Here is a picture thought I am sharing… She loves her Raggedy Ann & Andy!

What happens matters, my friends… it all matters.

At the end of the day my exhaustion and pain often overwhelm, and it is rare for me to find time to write anymore. I hate this feeling. My words seem stolen from me, and the catharsis they once were is gone. It is one more thing the struggle of life has taken from me, and I ache with the longing for words to come.

But I am writing now… full of gratefulness for clear scans and no surgeries looming.

Yes.

The scan showed no sign of cancer and no need for anymore surgery.

What this means is we don’t know why I’m still having so much abdominal pain, although over the past week that pain has been diminishing some.

I see my oncologist next week and we’ll discuss what it could mean and where we go from here.

But at least we know there is no cancer.

In the near future I will head over the mountain to the hospital to meet with a geneticist to see what they recommend. I have already had three genetic tests for my specific cancers, and they have all come back negative which means my cancer isn’t something I can pass on to my children. But they want to look deeper at me… more specifically at my chromosomes to determine if I have a genetic mutation that is causing my different cancers. If so, then this might help determine when/if another cancer will come and help me know how to help prevent it. It seems like so much to comprehend

As for how I am? I never know how to answer that question. Every day is different.

In general I am doing well. Or fairly well. I fatigue easily, and I find chemo brain to still be extremely frustrating. Last week I was cooking supper and halfway through I completely forgot how to cook. I couldn’t figure out what the recipe meant and how on earth to mix cornstarch into the sauce to thicken it. I knew I should know, but my brain just. wouldn’t. work.

It was scary and frustrating at the same time. Thankfully, my Bri was home and started packing up everything on the counter and stovetop. “You don’t need to figure it out tonight,” he said. Then he went out and bought us supper.

As our friend, Joe, tells me, “He’s a good man, Ang.” Yes. Yes he is. I’m so thankful he’s mine.

We are learning that the new normal that we keep waiting for will probably never come, and we are learning to be okay with that. Normal will change for us on a consistent basis, and as hard as that might be for someone who doesn’t do well with change, I’m learning to accept it.

Learning to accept.

Thankful for what’s given and choosing to move forward.

There’s a scene in the movie, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where King Caspian has reached the edge of Aslan’s Country and is given the chance to enter. He has longed to be with his father again, and now is his opportunity. He reaches out and touches the wall of water then turns back to his friends, to Aslan, to his life. When asked why he didn’t enter, he responds with something along the lines of, “I’ve spent too long focusing on what was taken from me and not enough on what was given.”

Grieving is a hard place to be. It will always be a part of me, a part of this, of us. But I am taking steps forward… away from grief and tasting grace.

It is a struggle. Daily I see and feel the effects of six surgeries and four cancers and lupus and fatigue and pain and scars and the inability to be and do what I have been and done for years. There is all the time my family and I have lost together and the moments we haven’t had were our life a “normal” one. I struggle with all the sacrifices my husband and children have made for me. It is a hard place to be. But I don’t want to be stuck here either.

There is a place to grieve all of this, I know, and there will be moments when it all hits like a tsunami and takes my breath away.

But, oh y’all, look how much I have been given!

There will be so many moments where God’s grace will steal my breath away… so many moments where He already has.

His grace fills me.

Look. how. much. I. have!

Yes. So much has been taken.

But look what has been given.

I could not ask for more.

It is the nature of grace to fill the spaces that have been empty…

~ Goethe

So this morning I told Ash that part of the manhood ritual of turning 10 was a name change and we were changing his name to Ishbosheth. We will call him Ish instead of Ash from now on. He wasn’t buying it. He ducked his head, hair falling over his eyes, and smiled a half smile and shook his head at me.

Wait a minute.

Ten?

TEN?

Ten years ago I held my firstborn in my arms and wept. Brian held him and looked at him closely, “He looks like an Asher, doesn’t he?” Oh, yes, he is definitely an Asher.

Asher.

“Happy. Blessed.”

That is my boy.

In all of his intensity and exuberance, there is a quiet happiness and a loud blessing to his life. He laughs uproariously and smiles softly. The last five years have been hard on him–so very hard–and yet he holds on to hope and joy and happiness in the midst of it all.

And he teaches me.

He teaches me that even when things are hard–even when things don’t go your way–even when you fail–there is always grace and forgiveness and joy and change waiting and chasing and finding us.

And we are blessed.

I look at him in awe these days. Just this whole growing up thing. He’s such a little man now.

He’s a brilliant child. Brilliant. Always has been. But he takes no pride in his brilliance. He just is who he is. And he’s okay with that. He’ll shrug and say, “I have the mind God gave me.”

We talked this morning about King David dancing in front of the ark of the covenant and how his wife scorned him for dancing with ordinary people without his kingly finery. She told him he was a fool. He told her that it wasn’t about his greatness or his foolishness. All glory and praise go to God. He is the One Who is great.

Then we talked about what that looks like for us. How all of the things God has given us are ways we can glorify Him. How when someone says, “You are awesome. Look how well you read or how well you run or how well you did on that test,” our response is to point to God and give him the credit. “Thank you. It’s only because God gave me the ability or the strength or made me this way.”

Asher grinned that half-smile again. “I am who I am because God made me amazing.” I love his confidence in who he is. He knows we are all amazing creatures, and he is glad he’s amazing, too.

Confident. Handsome. Strong-willed. Intense. Exuberant. Brilliant. Wise. Thoughtful. Caring. Driven.

That is my dear boy. And that’s only the beginning of who he is and who he will become.

Ash ordered chili and cornbread for his birthday supper and mint chocolate cupcakes. Those ten candles looked like so many! We opened presents and wrote cards and Bear called Ash, “Best brother ever!” And Bella girl drew two pigs and told him how much she loved him.

It wasn’t a perfect birthday night. We had some fights to break up and Bear told me he didn’t like my mean voice (*sigh*). But we forgave and hugged and moved forward. That’s what we are all learning… to move forward in this life.

So no, it wasn’t a perfect night. But it was perfectly us… that’s the beauty of this it all. And when Ash looks back on his 10th birthday, he’ll remember a scavenger hunt that led him to discover an upcoming trip to Medieval Times… just Ash and us.

He’ll remember how we spent last night re-reading old stories I’d written about them and laughing at the silliness of it all… How Bear peed on Bella and how Ash drew on his walls with permanent marker and blamed it on Bear and how Bella Girl loved her “yipstick”. (And I’m hoping he won’t remember my lack of foresight in reading about our last day with our kitties. Bella and Bear both cried for an hour last night! *sigh* We miss our kitties.)

He’ll remember we let him stay up later than usual so he could read his new Harry Potter book for an hour.

And I’m hoping he’ll remember how when I asked him before supper what the best part of his birthday was so far, he laughed and said, “Ask me after I open my presents.” But then he lept into my arms with a bear hug.

And he hugged me and whispered.

“You’re here.”

And he sat with me, holding me with his head on my shoulder for a long time. So long that I was the one who had to pull away when the timer for the muffins went off.

Yes. Life has been hard on him these past years. But he has become so wonderful because of it.

So very wonderful.

It seems like yesterday he was 18 months old and saying “Ashes happy. Eat yogurt.” (His first sentence would be about food.) Now he’s eating 6 pieces of pizza in one sitting and hungry an hour later.

Ten?

TEN?

Ten amazing years. Ten beautiful years.

Ten years that have only made my heart bigger.

And I wonder…

How can a heart that’s so full hold any more?

Happy Birthday, dear boy.

You are God’s gift to me.

I love listening to them. Their boyish chatter as they plan and talk and prepare. My Ash is just as excited for the party as Bear is, and their camaraderie abounds today. I watched them work together today as they bought football cards and divided them between them, then work together on Wii Clone Wars to beat the level.

They are brothers in every way. They push each other’s buttons and fight and compete, and every now and then Ash asks me when he can have his own room.

But when the Wii seized up twice and Bear started to fall apart, it was Ash who knelt beside him and said, “Let’s just give the Wii a rest and do something else. Then we won’t get so frustrated.”

They are brothers in every way, yes, part of which is helping each other along in this life.

It warms my heart to hear them chattering away upstairs… only it doesn’t sound so boyish anymore. It sounds like growth. It sounds like best friends.

And it’s a beautiful sound.

I was playing soccer with Bri and the kids. This wasn’t some backyard soccer game; it was a real game on real turf against real pros. We were all in professional uniforms, and we knew what we were doing. However, we couldn’t keep up with the other team. After all, Bella against David Beckham? Unless she can distract him with her cuteness, she’s getting nowhere.

Anyway, we played and we tried and we fell and we were bloodied and bruised. All of us.

We struggled to defend our goal. They still hadn’t scored on us even though they obviously had the upper hand. But then Beckham cut around Bella and then me and kicked a long shot. I turned to watch the ball hit the edge of the goal and go in diagonally.

Our goalie dove, touched the ball, but didn’t have enough of a hand on the ball to block the goal. They scored.

Our goalie?

It was my mom.

(For those of you who know my mom, you know she’s not an athlete, but she was always out there playing with us as kids and now she does the same with her grandkids. She just enjoys the game and the time together, the playing.)

Anyway, she got up, dusted off her uniform, smacked her hands together, looked at the opposing team, smiled sweetly and genuinely and said, “Bring it.”

And I stood in the middle of the soccer field and cried.

Then it turned into some weird thing about mom and me trying to build a fire in the woodstove and the wood was too wet… so on and so forth.

I woke from that dream and cried some more.

Because that’s how it’s been for my mom through all these past four and a half years. She has been there, our goalie, and she always leaves saying, “If you need me, you call. I’ll be here.”

She’s in that middle place. That place where her parents are declining and her daughter is fighting cancer, and she serves constantly. I often wonder when it is her turn to get a break.

And it’s not just me she serves. She serves her friends, always ready to offer a ride to the doctor or make a meal or sit by someone’s side to just keep them company.

That’s who she is.

People tell me all the time how spoiled I am (I sometimes say it, too), because my mom is here and so amazingly helpful. The truth is I am blessed, but not spoiled (unless you consider cancer four times being spoiled). She is doing what she is called to do, and God has chosen my path, that my mother and father would live close and be able to care for us the way they do.

A few months ago Mom and I were talking. I don’t really even remember what we were talking about, I just remember the phone call the next day when she told me how I had hurt her with my words. Because, y’all, I sat with my mom and said something about her not having suffered. I was meaning physical suffering when I said it… but y’all, what the heck was I thinking?!

My mom not suffer?

Sometimes I think she is suffering more than any of us.

(And can I just say how thankful I am that my mom can call me and confront me and be real with me? And she forgives me so easily.)

On Monday we watched Father of the Bride together, and we both bawled through the whole thing, because you know that part where the daughter is talking about getting married and all the father sees is a 7 year old in pigtails?

Y’all, that’s what my parents see every time I look at them and say, “It’s cancer” or “They think they see something and there need to be more tests.” They see a little seven year old Angie with brown pigtails and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. And they would do anything, and I mean ANYthing to care for us and help us.

Mom has suffered so much, but she has been an amazing example of strength and dignity in suffering. She pushes through and does what needs to be done, because, well, it needs to be done. She knows somebody needs to defend the goal for us. And if you ask me, she’s scored more goals with her strength and faith and trust than the opposing team has ever scored against us.

So the next time you see my mom, I dare you, say “GOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL” to her.

I can just picture her response.

She’ll laugh. She’ll toss her head back and laugh fully, kinda like me. And she’ll shake her head a little embarrassed at the attention, kinda like me. Then she’ll put her hand on your arm and she’ll lean forward and say something funny, kinda like me. Then she’ll point to Jesus and say how much He has done for us, how He’s the one Who’s gotten her through, how He deserves the glory. I know this because she’s the one who taught me how to do the same.

And if you don’t want to say, “GOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL” to her, would you give her a hug?

Trust me, she needs one.

“Joys are always on the way to us.
They are always traveling to us through the darkness of the night.
There is never a night when they are not coming.”
(~Amy Carmichael)

Joys are coming.

I am clinging to this these days. My heart is spinning faster than my head, and it seems at every doctor’s appointment my head is spinning more and more. I’ve had appointments for genetic testing, eye ulcers, follow-ups, blood work, physical therapy, CAT scans and now two more tests loom, and I’m tired.

The weariness of it all has enveloped me, and honestly, y’all, I feel like David says in the psalms that the darkness has covered me. I must whisper truth to myself through the nights and scream it through the days.

Here are a few things I find myself preaching to myself:

I don’t have cancer! Not right now. Be thankful.

The genetic tests showed that my cancers are NOT genetic. This is huge. Be thankful.

My eye ulcers have healed and along the way, I found a new eye doctor that I really like. Be thankful.

Healing is a miracle, whether it’s a hangnail or a surgery. Have you ever thought about that? How miraculous our bodies are? How God created and wired us to heal? How often I take it for granted.

Each healed hangnail is a miracle. Be thankful.

I have doctors that care about me for who I am. They call each other on the phone and figure out what’s best for me. They aren’t afraid to refer me to another doctor who might know better. They check up on me. And they pray for me. Think about that last one.

My doctors pray. for. me. Be thankful.

We have technology that allows doctors to look inside my body and find out what’s really going on. That’s amazing to me. That God has gifted men and women with the minds, abilities and technology to light up my insides and see why I’m in pain. Be thankful.

And what is going on?

The recent CAT scan was inconclusive. There is a thickness around the surgical site that he wants to see better to see if it’s still swollen from surgery, if it’s just because of where the colon bends, or if there’s something wrong with the incision needing another surgery for a fix.

There is also a lymph node sitting next to the colon they want to check out. It’s not swollen. It’s not alarming. It’s just there. But because of where it’s located, he wants to light me up and see if it’s cancerous.

So next week will be long and brutal with three days of liquid diet and IV’s and nasty stuff to drink, and y’all, as brutal as all that will be on my body, my fears have already been brutal on my soul since we scheduled all this 3 days ago.

I’m tired.

So very tired.

But I’m trusting.

I have to.

In the darkness of this night, I am choosing joy. It doesn’t always show up in happiness. My body is tired, my brain is overloaded, my heart is frustrated, my soul is lonely… but there is still joy.

Because no matter what these scans show. No matter what I am walking through… joy is ALWAYS coming.

This means I can be thankful.

And have hope. Hope that does not disappoint.

And as Mr. Beaver says in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, “There’s a right bit more than hope. Aslan… is on the move.“

Yes.

Joy is coming. Full joy.

I love you, Mom, so so so so so so much.

They appear on my pillow, my mirror, my computer, and sometimes he just walks right up to me and sticks one on my shirt.

My Bear.

His gentle and peaceful ways touch my soul, and especially when my life and heart feel so chaotic these days, his tenderness is a much needed balm. He has no idea how he reaches me, and every time I see those dimples, my heart just about explodes.

Last night we snuggled in his bed and pretended to fall asleep and snore. Each time one of us would snore or snort, we would dissolve into giggles that probably drove poor Asher crazy as he lay in his bunk above us trying to read. Bear didn’t want it to end, and each time I thought it was over, he’d start giggling again until we ended up just laughing and not even knowing what we were laughing about anymore.

I looked into his green eyes after we had both taken a heavy, happy sigh, and I wondered if he’d remember this moment. He’s old enough to. That’s the part of him growing up that I like–the memories he’ll have and hold onto. But this growing up thing? I don’t like it one bit. Oh, you can tell me it’s good and it’s right and it’s how it’s supposed to be, and I’ll tell you I know that, but I still don’t have to like it.

Nope, not one bit.

This growing up thing.

It’s like holding onto drops.

Only I’m not holding on. I’m opening my hands and holding loosely, because this gift? This boy whose sweetness wins the heart of just about anyone who knows him? He has a life to live, and my holding onto him only keeps him from becoming all that God has for him to be. So I let go, and I discover along with my Bear just who he is supposed to be.

And y’all, let me tell you, it’s fun to learn his life with him. So much fun.

Guess I’m kind of liking this growing up thing a bit, after all.

He turned eight on Monday.

Eight!

I just had to catch my breath again.

Eight?

We’ve spent a lot of time together lately, my Bear and I. We’ve been busy building legos and practicing sketches and reading and cooking (Bear is now the chief scrambled egg maker in our home). We had a date last week and picked up Chick-Fil-A and entered the world of Narnia together, and he curled his little body into mine as we watched. “Mom?” he whispered, halfway through the movie, “This is the most awesomest night I’ve ever had.”

That dear child.

He has no idea.

Often I look at my Bear and think, “There are no words…”

But tonight when I think of my Bear, it seems I can’t stop the flow of words.

So I will end with this, my own little public sticky note…

Happy birthday, my Bear. Thank you. You are making my life the most awesomest ever, and I love you so so so so so so much!

Ruth Haley Barton, Sacred Rhythms

There is so much I want to say, so many joys to express, so much grief to share, so many tears to weep, so many questions to ask, and occasionally there is anger in it all, and often there is this burning loneliness knowing I am the only one who fully bears and understands all I walk through. I am learning to accept it all, to sit with it all, to be real with it all…

My silence isn’t for lack of desire in writing. The days are full of very good things and very hard things. They are full of caring for my home and family, and I am finding that I have little time or energy for more than this. Most days I am okay with this, after all, my calling as wife and mommy is primary and I love being and doing what I have been called to do and be. But some days I want to rant and rave and ask all the questions– the whys and the hows. Why must I crash at 7:30 at night and not have the energy to spend with my husband? How am I to tend to all of these wonderful things I am needed to do when I can barely tend to myself sometimes?

As always, I stop and breathe and inhale the sweetness of grace. That I need not be all things to all people, that I only need to be me. And being me means saying “no” to things I might want to do, so that I might say “yes” to what is important… caring for my soul and mind and body and caring for my family. And I shut out the noise of my false guilt that wonders what others must think of me. Because I hear it so often, “You look good.” or “You don’t look like you feel so bad.” And I brush it off with a laugh and an “It’s amazing what a little make-up and shampoo will do for you.” Because y’all, a little make-up and shampoo may do a lot for the outside, but inside there’s still pain.

Pain that leaves me having another CAT scan next week. They are looking to see if anything needs to be repaired with my colon. If so, I am facing another surgery. If not, then it is probable that I am still just needing to heal.

Then there’s this morning when I woke to screaming pain in my eye and head. As the day progressed, things got worse, and I went to the eye doctor where I learned I have two ulcers in my eye. Who knew that was even possible? I am on 3 medications for that, and the doctor prepared me with, “You’re going to have a pretty miserable weekend.”

So tonight I am sitting with tears and a little bit of anger. My plans for the next few days have been radically altered, and frankly, I’m tired of altering our plans.

But I stop. And I breathe. And I remember that God directs our steps. And the sweetness of grace refreshes a weary spirit. I can make snow globes with the kiddos next week, and we can bake cookies another day. If the Christmas brunch doesn’t get made, it will still be Christmas. (However, I am making Italian Stew for Christmas Eve if I have to do it with one eye closed!)

It may not feel like Christmas sometimes, and these past few weeks, I have felt that gnawing ache of the loneliness of walking through pain and feeling the weight that something’s wrong. Or rather that something’s not right.

I recently had someone ask me how I got out of bed in the mornings.

I had to catch my breath and sit before I could answer. I had never really thought about that before. I shrugged and said, “I have no other choice. Who will care for my loves? Who will be wife and mommy and daughter and friend if I am not? I do what I must, and in choosing to do that, I find great joy, because I am doing what God has called me to do even if it’s hard.”

But y’all, it’s more than that.

My feet touch the floor each morning, because every day is a new opportunity to bring Him glory. Even in the muck and mire of this life, I can bring Him glory.

After all, He left glory for me.

And I stop. And I breathe the breath of Heaven.

And in these days where I wonder if life will ever feel “right” again, I know the answer.

Christmas.

He came to take all of this wrong and make it right, only it’s not right yet. But one day… One day the second Advent will happen and all will be made right.

And this gives me great freedom. Freedom to buy and lavish presents on my children (something I love to do… what a beautiful picture of the love God lavished on us!), freedom to wrap and bake and decorate as I can, freedom to give and bless, freedom to sing carols and look at sparkling lights, freedom to cry and ache, freedom to eat good food and take longs naps and be with family, freedom to celebrate…

..to really celebrate Christmas.

Because it doesn’t have to be ideal to be Christmas.

It just has to be us… giving glory…to Him.

Well. Perhaps you should consider wearing more skirts and different pants, you know, so you look nicer.

She’s five, y’all. What will she say when she’s fifteen?