Cast your cares

My husband recently had the opportunity to attend a fly fishing retreat for men who are facing cancer.  It was introduced to us by a friend who discovered the organization called "Reel Recovery".  He was accepted and drove to Colorado where he stayed in a mountain lodge for two nights and learned how to fly fish.  Brett's a fisherman.  He spent a great deal of time in his childhood fishing with his dad and he has taken our kids on fishing adventures from time to time.  He has never fly fished and has always wanted to learn how.  It's ironic that cancer gave him that gift.  He came home excited, refreshed, and peaceful.  It was a calm I hadn't seen for quite awhile.  Men are not good at talking about their feelings and fears.  Something about having the common bond of cancer and fishing allowed these twelve men to open up and share and experience beauty in life for a few days.  It really made me think of what it means to cast your cares.  When he cast that fishing line away from him he truly was casting away months of worry and anxiety and felt safe and happy.  He did not feel alone and at times when he was alone on the water it was peaceful and soothing.

I'm not good at casting my cares.  I prefer to carry them around with me and find new ones to add to my pack.  I'm a worrier and I don't like the unknown.  I need to put a picture of fly fishing up in my office at work as a reminder to "let it go" and "toss it aside".  If I do so I may find an amazing reward at the end of my line.

My son wants to play baseball beyond high school.  It's been his dream for years and he is working very hard to make it a reality.  Yesterday he had a tryout at a junior college with a strong regional program.  He wanted it so badly that he was very tight and nervous and anxious and he didn't perform his best while the coaches were watching.  He is a great player but I have to agree with him that they probably didn't see what he is fully capable of giving.  He was down.  What was amazing to me is that he was invited back later to watch a practice and he definitely cast his cares.  He managed to toss the frustration of the morning out into the deepest part of the water and reel in a very positive outlook about how much he learned from the experience.  We don't know what next year holds for him.  I hope it includes an opportunity for him to continue to play the sport he loves but I am glad that he can keep learning and see the positive side of all things.  If he has learned to do that in life then he is a big step ahead of his mother.

As I walked around that campus I choked back tears.  Baseball or not, next year marks a turning point.  He'll be out of the house in some aspect.  He won't be there every day to make me laugh (that's what he does best).  He won't be there to debrief and share ideas.  He's moving on.  I decided that there is a huge difference between what I want for me and what I want for him and I'm trying to focus on what I want for him in life which means casting him out into a big body of water and knowing and trusting that what I reel in will be an amazing adult man who still takes time to make his mom laugh now and then. 

Brett said that fly fishing is definitely not as easy as it looks.  There's an art to the cast.  I am working on perfecting my cast.  I'm practicing casting my cares and releasing.  You can't hold too tightly or your line will not go to its desired destination.  I'm practicing...

In my rear view mirror; a love letter

If love is a journey then we've certainly covered many miles of hills and plains over the past twenty five years.  We've taken turns in the driver's seat and changed vehicles along the way.  We've seen dark nights and beautiful sunrises and once upon a time mountains that glowed purple in the moonlight.  I thought I'd take a moment to look in the rear view mirror.

September 3, 1983- a first date-  Tootsie-  Were we really only 15 and 16 years old?

Puppy love, break ups, make ups, break ups...

August 15, 1987- The big day.  Did we have a clue what we were getting ourselves into?

Our atlas pages go in this order:  Wheatland, Laramie, Saratoga, Grand Canyon, Farmington, Eau Claire, Laramie.

1987-  The loss of a brother- our first storm to weather.  Little did we know how much our future son would be like him!

1992- Life as we know it changed in an instant when the nurse put her in your arms.  You were afraid to hold her until that dreadful moment when the nurse advised to treat her like a football.  From then on you rarely put her down.

1995- We were just crazy enough to do it again. What a beautiful baby boy.  Our family was complete.

Jobs secured and changed, moving trucks, goodbyes to special friends- hello to new ones...

Trips with the kids, volleyball games, baseball games

Life cruised along until the car came to a screeching halt in 2009.  Cancer...

To say life changed overnight is not even close to representing what happened.  Our whole lives were turned upside down and we quickly learned what was important.

Our bank account took a hit but our memory account has grown exponentially.  

So, here we are.  Twenty five years later. We'll celebrate by marking the end of chemo.  We will jump back in the car and hit the road- anticipating bumps.  The only thing that has changed is that we will no longer count the miles ahead.  Instead we'll savor each leg of the journey as a gift and make memories as we go. 

Thanks for making the drive with me.  Thanks for sharing the view.  Thanks for not kicking me out of the car from time to time.  Thanks for making the stops along the way to rest and stretch and get reoriented.  I wouldn't have chosen any other driving partner!

Happy 25th!

Teetering

In the past few years I have felt secure in the fact that I had discovered the secret of life- balance.  Life is a series of ups and downs, you take the good with the bad.  I view life as a scale- save and spend, add to one side and take from the other, try to maintain the balance.  For the most part this metaphor has guided me in decisions and through trials.  

Today my heart is heavy and I am not seeing a scale but a see saw and I'm teetering somewhere near the middle seeking balance.  A mother sent her 18 year old son to the movies and he was killed.  There he is in his baseball uniform swinging for the fence on the t.v. screen and my heart aches.  My daughter climbed into a vehicle full of her rugby family to say what is most likely a goodbye to a dear friend who is a mere 21 years old. Her mother is keeping vigil praying for a miracle.  My heart aches.  Things are hitting too close to home. 

How do you find balance?  How do you ache for a mother who lost her son and celebrate the blessing that you can call yours after a good game and laugh with him?  How do you shed tears for a mother losing her daughter while celebrating the blessing that yours stopped by for a hug this morning?  How can you be sad and happy at the same time?  How do you watch people die from cancer and know that pain and fear and continue to celebrate that your spouse is cheating death?  

I still believe that life is about balance.  I still cling to hope and faith and know there is a reason for every season and it is not mine to question.  I also find myself thankful, as strangely as that sounds, for these painful reminders of the absolute precious gift of having time with those we love.   I am thankful that today I cry in pain for mothers who have lost children and tomorrow I will celebrate with one of my favorite mothers in the marriage of her beautiful child.  I am truly happy that both sides of the scale can be filled.

But, today I shed some tears and ache and teeter.

My Own Private Metaphor

The boy struggled.  There was a lot of pressure.  Some didn't believe in him- at times he didn't believe in himself.  So much he wanted, so much he wanted to prove,  so many disappointments and near misses.  Heartbreak breeds character and his grew.  His parents heard what a great kid he is and how proud they should be of him.  And they were.  But, they, too, dreamed of his break out moment- of that defining moment when he owned what he was capable of and got to taste just a little bit of victory over fear and anxiety and frustration.  

His coach grew tired of the "Put me in" and did just that.  He took the mound and his mother sat in the car and watched him play on the radio, feeling every pitch.  Her confidence in him never wavered but her heart couldn't watch.  Baseball is such an up and down game.  One day you're on top, one day you're striking out.  To an outsider lacking true passion for the game it can feel very cruel.  

His father watched from the fence also feeling every pitch and smiling, knowing the boy was doing well.  

It wasn't until the top of the last inning that his father realized the boy was throwing a no hitter.  The boy himself hadn't realized it- just remained focused on getting that win.  As the last pitch was thrown, the last out made, the announcer congratulated the boy and it hit him.  His father ran to him and both were overcome with emotion.  They embraced.

To the outsider this was simply that; an embrace, a congratulations, a celebration of the boy's first no hitter.

To me it was a metaphor.  It was one I will cherish.  The boy running to his father, the father running to the boy-  both realizing that the boy had thrown his first no hitter-

both realizing that the father was there to see it...

 

Fire and Rain

-And with these our Hells and our Heavens so few inches apart,

We must be awfully small

and not as strong as we think we are-

Rich Mullins

There is a fire raging in nearby Colorado.  It is destroying homes and wilderness.  It is filling the air with smoke and ash.  It is making the sky dark.  It is threatening the lives of those who choose to fight it back and protect us.  I understand why we say fires are raging- this fire has a fury- it rages across the pine beetle infested mountains and foothills.  When I awoke this morning miles away the winds had shifted and the smoke burned my throat.  This fire is strong.  It is powerful.

Yesterday as we drove home through the canyon that runs parallel to the active fire there was this beautiful juxtaposition.  On one side was a huge smoke plume and gray skies and haze.  On the other side was a storm building with the evidence of rain falling, the sun providing backlight. It was beautiful and peaceful.  There came a point where the two met and my mind wandered.  What is it like in that spot where the rain meets fire?  Where is that exact point where the two connect?  Then I realized it is exactly where I am standing in life, between my Hells and Heavens.

My life right now is a meeting of fire and rain.  I'm standing in the middle turning in circles being burned and quenched, often in the very same instance.  My daughter got married last weekend.  The day could not have been more beautiful. The wedding was a celebration of her and a new son and a new branch of the family.  It was a gathering of friends from near and far.  It was a rejoicing in God's greatest gift- and the greatest of these is love.  It was a beautiful peaceful rain.  My baby girl got married last weekend.  She will never truly come home again.  She will never again inhabit that messy bedroom downstairs or tumble up the stairs in the morning trying to be grumpy and end up showering me with laughter.  My mind has been full of memories- fixing her  hair, fixing her scrapes and bruises, fixing her favorite meal.  Now someone else will be doing the fixing.  I'm the back up.  This is as it should be- and she picked well, I would have selected him for her myself-  but there is a sense of loneliness and sadness in the midst of so much joy.   There is a bit of fire I'm fighting back as I settle in to the new normal.  

My son is growing up.  He is amazing.  I watch him and I am so proud of the man he is becoming.  Lately he's had to make some tough choices and he's gone through some struggles and he's handled them with such grace.  He is my gentle summer rain.  It is every mother's wish to raise a child to become a giving, caring, responsible, thoughtful, independent adult.  But, when you do your job well you are setting the stage for them to leave.  It's rain meeting fire.  It creates this beautiful and painful middle ground.

There are other fires and rains meeting in my life.  Tumor markers go up and tests are ordered yet my husband is alive and well today and we are lucky enough to truly enjoy each others' company in this now very quiet house.  Cancer is a fire, choosing to find the blessings that lie beneath it is rainfall.  

Pine cones only release their seeds under the pressure and heat of fire.  Fire creates new growth.  Rain allows this growth to create beauty all around us.  This fire and rain in my life is creating beauty.  I have to allow the pain and joy to coexist if this is to happen.

I was given a precious gift recently- a bowl of amazing rocks.  Rocks are not harmed by fire.  Rocks withstand the heat and pressure and the rains come and wash them clean. The rocks have been a symbol to me lately and I held one tightly as I cleaned my daughter's empty room and when I pondered next week's tests and results.  The rocks remind me that this fire will not consume me, and the giver is a gift in my life.  She is a rock for me when I feel I may crumble.  She stands at the point where fire meets rain daily and she knows the beauty and pain.  

We are small and not as strong as we think we are.  I believe that is why God provided friends and rocks and weddings and daughters and sons and fire and rain.  He knew I would need all of these things to make my way in this life and I am thankful for them- even when I don't want to be. The fires rage on but I am choosing today to face the rain and receive its soothing.

Ode to my Son on the Eve of Seventeen

Since he was born he's been swinging for the fence. He took the bull by the horns and decided to make his arrival early. When we made him wait he settled in and dug in his heels- part compliance, part ornery.  He had to be coaxed out and he took his good old time arriving.  It's okay, he was worth the wait.

His father immediately welcomed his future baseball player.  But, we should have known Ryan had his own plans.  He did not like baseball as a young child.  In fact, he showed no interest at all.  Dad suffered in silence as he indulged skateboarding, football, video games, and swimming.  I still clearly remember the day- in Ryan style at the last minute- that he came home and announced that he thought he'd like to try out for baseball at the age of 11.  He missed the t-ball days and little league days but Dad made up for lost time quickly.  The bats were purchased, gloves were oiled, buckets of balls were collected.  He made the majors with two weeks of baseball under his belt.  He came to it naturally.  The sport fit him like a glove.

Though a natural player, baseball did not come easily.  His first season was tough as he learned rules and tried out positions.  We have many entertaining stories of the patience his coaches displayed and their willingness to let him try out anything.  The boy carried every piece of equipment with him in his bag just in case.  When his team ran out of catchers toward the end of the season he begged "Put me in, Coach!" and his coach reluctantly announced, "I'm going to let Ryan catch."  Ryan and his coach survived the rest of the game, we all discovered the kid could catch a bit, and we all laughed. 

Ryan didn't connect with the ball at first but he always swung with conviction, aiming for the fence.  He did get his first home run that first season.  I stared with amazement before sprinting to the parking lot to get the ball.  It is in a display case in his room, joined by a few others over the past years.  

Ryan has done many things over the last five years that have made me proud.  They aren't the things he might think they are.  Ryan is a team player.  You won't find one more supportive of his fellow players.  I love that about him.  He spends extra time working with the younger boys- remembering that first season and what it was like for him.  Ryan is respectful to adults.  Coaches tend to discredit him because he came to the game later and he is younger than his grade level peers.  One or two have been cruel.  He has never uttered a disrespectful word on the field to a coach or a referee.  (He's not a saint, I'm sure he has said some choice things in the dugout.)  He keeps his head up when the game isn't going his way and he takes many things in stride always believing his time is coming.  And, Ryan always swings for the fence knowing that parking lot is out there and I'm always ready to sprint to retrieve the ball.  


I've been watching Ryan lately.  It's not been an easy start to the season.  He's had good days and bad.  He's struggled to make his hits and pitches at times.  It's not the start he wanted.  He has an incredible amount of talent, potential, and passion and I am certain it will burst forth soon.  For now, he's learning life lessons through baseball- and teaching me a few at the same time.


I hope I always support those who follow behind me and walk beside me.  I hope I am always respectful in public situations.  I hope I can learn to take things in stride.  And, most of all, I hope I always swing for the fence.


Cancer has thrown us a few curve balls.  We've swung and missed twice.  But, we've put on the rally caps and as Ryan has taught us we will swing for the fence.  It's time for a home run and some celebrating.  


Happy Birthday, Ryan!  Keep swinging for the fence.  You're going to change the world around you.  Just look how you're changing me!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tmeMljNdvDo

Decorating is no Piece of Cake

 My daughter is getting married.  Wow, yeah she is getting married in 18 days.  We recently had a shower for her.  A dear friend recognized how crazy and overwhelming our life is and agreed to help me organize the shower.  Then, she and her mom pretty much lovingly took it out of my hands and threw an amazing party.  My only job was to get the cake.  I insisted on taking that duty.  It was the least I could do.  

My daughter is not particularly fond of cake.  She asked for one from a local retail store's bakery so I obliged.  I went to the bakery section and there was a very cheerful young lady decorating cakes behind the counter.  I selected one and asked her to write "Congratulations, Kylea" on it.  I could not see behind the counter and she worked with a big smile and walked around the end of the counter to hand the cake to me with great pride.  The cake was beautifully decorated and said, "Happy Birthday, Kylea".  She was so proud of her work and, admittedly, it was beautiful.  I just did not have the heart to tell her it was wrong.  I accepted the cake and Kylea and I walked away to burst into laughter.  You see, this is the metaphor for our life.  We want "congratulations" but we often lovingly and carefully get "Happy Birthday" and have to learn to deal with it.  

I decided to keep that cake and tell the fun story and just get a smaller one for the shower table.  So, we went to a local grocery store bakery.  I asked the young decorator to write "Congratulations, Kylea" and you can see how that worked out for us above.  The young lady handed it to me a little less proudly this time realizing it was an epic failure and not quite knowing how to handle it.  I took it and yes, I paid for it. I don't know if I was dumbfounded or if I simply just didn't want to ruin a young person's day by complaining. By this time my daughter and I were shedding tears of laughter.  The metaphor continued. 


Later that afternoon as we puzzled about what to do with two cakes, neither acceptable for a beautifully prepared table at a shower, Kylea had a brainstorm and we made a trip to the florist.  Here is what resulted:

She did a fantastic job of making lemonade out of lemons.  And, in the end, the cake tasted wonderful and all was well and we came away with a great story to share. We made some great memories that day and we learned a lot about life from those two cakes.


You see our journey with cancer has been two cakes.  We were sailing smoothly and we found out about the cancer, our first cake.  It was not at all what we wanted but we accepted the challenge and fought and came out on the winning side.  However, the second cake (round two of the cancer journey) arrived and it was an epic fail.  Cancer on the liver was not the cake we wanted at all.  I would like to believe, though, that how we have dealt with both rounds of cancer thus far is a beautiful flower covered cake and that we have made memories full of laughter along the way. Cancer is not a piece of cake but it can be beautiful some days if we let it shape us and decorate us along the way.