Cathie

            Memory rises to fill my vision.  Blue sky, sun-shot surf rushing the shore near the bottom of the hill.  The curve to the right on Hastie Lake Road.  The memory of my dear friend Cathie, who took her flight to heaven on January 2, 2016.  Grief is a bright looking back, the knowing that time spent with her is gone this side of glory.

            I still imagine her zipping about Heaven in her electric-powered wheelchair.  Silly, I know.  But that sight somehow sums up the Cathie I knew.  Her rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes and low vision did not stop her.  The chair gave her freedom and speed.  I remember her zipping down an aisle at a flute recital in which I played.  She was going for a seat near the front. 

            It’s not that we knew each other long—five years?  In fact, we became close only the last months before I moved away from the island.  It’s that I felt so at home in her home.  My visits back (just three of them) defined by tea and ginger thins near bedtime, dinner and wine with my brother at her house, conversation and cold-brew coffee mornings.  Sorting through mail, sharing stories, going on errands in her van.

            Why this sun-filled scene today?  I don’t know, but grief’s bright looking back is both hollow with loss and brimmed tight full with joy. 

           

           

           

Life Itself

            Two years ago tonight, I discovered a lump.  My life changed.

            Now a full year out from cancer treatment, my life continues.  I am the same but different.  It would be nice to claim some huge leap into life after cancer.  However, life still plods along in its ordinary way.  Simple joys, everyday problems, daily routines define my days.

            I had imagined some grand and glorious new beginning for my cancer survivor life.  Instead, ordinary is my life.  And there is something to be said about that. 

            In an odd way, the year of cancer treatment was both peak and valley.  The peak was in an inexplicable peace and joy—the presence of God—that sustained me through the valley of suffering.  (Whether that sentence is sentimental or splendid I do not know.)

            Everyone says that after cancer, you find a “new normal,” and I guess that is true.  Health-wise, this new normal is more confusing.  Are my various complaints—fatigue, skin rashes and sores, more memory glitches, aches and pains—from fibromyalgia or cancer treatments or a complicated combination?  (I don’t know.)  Am I emotionally and spiritually healthier?  (I hope so.) 

            So I am going to post this nighttime journaling because I want to mark today on my blog.  It’s 11 pm, just about the same time I discovered the lump two whole years ago.  The miracle to embrace every day, in the midst of the ordinary, is life itself.

Text and Pray

Last Sunday, a series of texts from my dear friend Lee appeared on my phone over the course of several hours.  (Lee and I became friends because of breast cancer:  she was starting chemo about the time I was finishing radiation.)

At 12:17 pm, she sent two texts:

            Are you OK

I don’t know why but I’m very anxious for you praying for you and I love you please be careful

I did not see those texts for over an hour.  At 1:31, I replied:

I’m fine.  Just saw this.  Prayers always appreciated.  Morning service went very well—God showed up. (that’s what I always pray for)

Lee texted back at 1:41:

What were u doing at 11:30--?

I saw that text at 2:26 pm and wrote back:

I was talking with people after church.  Who knows?  You could have been praying me up for some later (or even earlier) time I need prayer and protection.

At 5:40 pm, there was one last exchange:

            Are u busy

            No

And then I called her.  She told me that during the sermon at her church, she suddenly had a load of anxiety crash down on her concerning me.  As soon as church let out, she nabbed a prayer warrior friend and they prayed fervently for me.

Do we have any idea what that was about?  No, but God does. 

And I am struck, once again, by the Father’s care for me.  And blessed by Lee’s immediate prayer response when she suddenly sensed danger. 

To quote Rick Warren, “God is a caring, consistent, close, and competent Father.”  He knows all our needs---past, present, and future—and often calls on His children to pray at just the right time.  Imagine all the intercession happening at any given moment all over the world, and all because our Father, the great I AM, loves us and prompts us to pray for one another.