My hands sweat on the theater armrest as the walls pressed in on Luke, Leia and Han.  My heart raced and I struggled to breathe. I could smell the garbage that surrounded them: machine oil, food waste and the metallic stench of rusting metal. (Or maybe it was stale popcorn and Coca Cola slicked floors.) I held my breath when Luke went under.

I think I was suffering from claustrophobia contagium. (ok, I made that up. but you get the idea….) Maybe, I’m just too imaginative….Or maybe, I was 10.)

Either way- I was convinced the walls were to closing in on me, too.

As the walls continued to close, panic sets in-  Luke, Han and Leia have no clue they are about to be rescued. They prepare to die and  panic sets in for me too. I am not prepared to die. I peek out through squinted eyes to half protect myself from the scene. The other half of me is so far involved in the scene that I can smell Wookie breath and feel a tentacle wrap around my ankle just above my Black suede “GAS” Shoe.

When Leia chides: “It could be worse.” Han notices impeding doom and rebuts: “It’s Worse.”  I know it’s true. It IS worse.

I feel the seat tighten around me. I hear metal shriek as it’s crushed around our heroes in dolby stereo.

I look at my wrist for a communicator to shout into when Luke cries out “3PO? 3PO? Where could he be?” I want to scream: “-Wait- He’s working on your escape!!!”  Tension continues to build and I think I’m either going to have to close my eyes and plug my ears or go to the bathroom to escape. (And maybe comb my hair with my yellow banana comb that was always in my back pocket… which, now that I think of it, probably caused all my back issues…hmmm.)

When I can’t stand it any more- the walls screech to a stop and then, door opens.

As fresh air fills their lungs, and mine. I let go of the armrests and I remember where I am.

I’m not in a garbage chute.

I’m not being crushed. I’m at the movies with my parents.

I’ll be honest, even before my husband’s diagnosis with and surgery for prostate cancer- I’d been feeling the walls close in. There is so much coming at me from every side that I wonder if there is enough room for my lungs to expand enough for a shallow breath. Doctor’s appointments, (mine and his) rational fears,  (and irrational ones, of course) kid concerns, regular sicknesses (hello- Strep- I hate you.) daily life that includes things like cat-boxes and speaking engagements and laundry and driving duty are all crushing me with the speed and intensity of that garbage compactor scene.  I’m just missing the donut hair do’….

The truth is- what I thought would be our escape…(his surgery) Instead, feels like I’ve jumped into a garbage chute. Right when I thought “It couldn’t be worse” It got worse. My husband felt physically fine before surgery. Not so much, since. With prostate surgery comes it’s trappings…catheters, struggles with incontinence, pain, medications and side effects and waiting on pathology reports and more doctors appointments and survivorship classes, and rehab, and visiting nurses and physical therapy….

My brain had decided that even though the doctor SAID there would be a recovery period, and that the next steps for treatment wouldn’t be decided for months- our case would be different. My brain thought that after the surgery everything would go back to normal. By brian thought the surgery would be our escape. The cancer would be over. Like a scene in a movie: Spielberg would yell: “CUT! That’s a wrap.” and we’d go home for the day.

Well-Spielberg never showed- and (or?) my brain was wrong. (Please note that I was not wrong… just my brain. That is crazy- but trust me- it makes me feel better.) No one has yet to yell: “Cut” Unless you count the dude who removed my husband’s catheter.

Instead of bracing the walls with garbage in a vain attempt to stop the crush… I’ve been bracing myself with juice, (confession:  juicing is a nice distraction and it makes me FEEL like I’m doing something to help my husband get better….) prayer and therapeutic doses of zoloft.

Instead of crying out for C3pO, I cry out for God to rescue me.

I waited.

The walls crushed.

There is just so ….MUCH. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I have to use all my energy to keep my head above water, and I don’t even know how to swim.

Then, the other day- a door flew open. Not a door to fresh air and freedom… but a door to someone else’s pain. It opened in the form of an email…(No- it wasn’t from a Zambian Prince in desperate need of my help…) It was from a friend.

Hmmm…In our crush…..I’d forgotten about other people. The email reminded me that stuff happens… to everyone. Stress crushes towards- all of us. It’s not just me. (Or just about ME… even thought I usually act like the world DOES revolve around me…)

Suddenly- instead of seeing my own garbage compacting walls…. I saw someone else’s. I couldn’t stop my own… but I was pretty sure I could do a  something to help with theirs….I couldn’t fix it.. but I could let them know they aren’t alone.  I COULD help.

When I did, it was like something reset in heart.

While my circumstances haven’t changed… I’m not feeling so crushed by them. Something about opening the door and seeing someone else’s pain and acting on it, slowed the crush of my own.

Maybe my perspective changed. Maybe the center of gravity shifted from ME to others.. Either way- I recognize that Leia was right….. it could be worse. And- someday it may be.

But not today.

Today- the door is open and I am gulping breaths of refreshment in seeing and serving the needs others…..even when I am feeling crushed by my own. Funny how that works.

I think God has a lot more to do with it than C3PO. C3PO only stopped the walls from crushing… God provided refreshment in the crush.

 ⁷ But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. ⁸ We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; ⁹persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 

An interesting study on Psalm 122

Psalm 122

A song of ascents. Of David.

¹ I rejoiced with those who said to me,
“Let us go to the house of the LORD.”
² Our feet are standing
in your gates, Jerusalem.

³ Jerusalem is built like a city
that is closely compacted together.
⁴ That is where the tribes go up—
the tribes of the LORD—
to praise the name of the LORD
according to the statute given to Israel.
⁵ There stand the thrones for judgment,
the thrones of the house of David.

⁶ Pray for the peace of Jerusalem:
“May those who love you be secure.
⁷ May there be peace within your walls
and security within your citadels.”
⁸ For the sake of my family and friends, 
   I will say, “Peace be within you.” 
⁹ For the sake of the house of the LORD our God,
I will seek your prosperity.

It doesn’t make sense.. but sometimes when we’re crushed by our own pain- we need to notice that of others- who can you reach out to today?  Who can you help in the middle of your own mess?

We’ve all felt it- the exhale- after a long breath holding. It is automatic and barely controllable. The “Whoosh . Suck. Effect.”

I felt it today, and I had no idea that I was holding my breath. A number of issues have been up in the air for a while.. and today- one was resolved. The “WHOOSH. SUCK. Effect” was audible, and I was not the only one who felt it.

I didn’t know I was holding my breath. But, I’m not surprised. I’ve done it before- both figuratively and physically. I’ve learned that physically holding your breath usually ends in one of 2 ways- “The WHOOSH. SUCK. Effect” (complete with sore ribs from trying to hold your breath.. ) or, by waking up circled by concerned faces because I’ve passed out on the floor. Neither of which is particularly pleasant. The first gives me a nasty lightheaded feeling followed by a headache…and the second? Is just plain embarrassing.

For me, it’s usually fear that makes me hold my breath. Fear of physical pain makes me hold my breath physically, fear of emotional pain, makes me hold my breath emotionally. My body reacts to the fear as if it’s convinced that holding my breath could stop time or change my circumstances. It doesn’t. Lord knows, it’s TRIED.

Physically- I’ve been known to hold my breath during blood draws. This is not a good idea- people will come running when a pregnant woman hits the floor. I also physically held my breath during my middle son’s worst asthma attacks.. my sides felt like I’d been in a car accident. It took days for things to loosen up and for us to finally figure out that I’d been holding my breath during his breathing treatments.. I suppose I was willing him to breathe- by holding mine.

Emotionally- I’ve held my breath while waiting for an outcome to a problem or while I’m waiting for a decision. I’ve also been known to hold my breath when I’ve been hurt. That sharp intake of breath that you HOLD when you’re physically hurt is what that feels like. (Todays’ “Whoosh Suck Effect” was brought to us by the feeling of FEAR and impending doom that did not materialize. :)

For me-emotional breath holding takes various forms:

Paralysis. (I can’t, or don’t do anything) It’s difficult to DO anything when you are out of or conserving oxygen!

Panting. (I do EVERYTHING possible as fast as possible and hyperventilate myself with activity that leaves me just as lightheaded as holding my breath does.)

Pulling back. Pulling back emotionally can be a form of holding your breath. Like holding your breath when you’ve been hurt physically, for short periods of time it can be a healthy way to heal..and even to protect yourself. But, for long ones it leads loss of necessary fresh oxygen and eventually to an emotional gangrene. Just like cutting off oxygen to a body part would.

None of these do me any good, in the long term. I end up- overwhelmed with all that I should have been doing during my paralysis (I’m pretty much there, now), exhausted from doing stuff I shouldn’t have (been there, done that) and rotten feeling from the inside out from cutting off the oxygen I desperately need from friends. (been there, too)

Here’s the thing. I know better. I know what works and I know what hurts. Yet- I sometimes hold my breath, anyways. Sometimes, it’s not until the “Whoosh! Suck! Effect” takes place that I even know I’ve been holding my breath. Sometimes it’s sore ribs that alert me, long after the fact.

Once in a while, I catch on right at the “Whoosh” when I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. When I catch it early… I’ve learned to pray. When I pray and share with God and others the fear that’s threatening to steal my breath away… I feel myself catch my breath. My ribcage loosens, my breathing slows to a normal rate. The tingly, icy oxygen starved limbs slowly start to warm. Even if the threat or pain is still there, I can continue to breathe, the fear and the pain dissipate. Like when I was in labor- and used Lamaze to help my body deal with pain… I can do what I need to- no longer paralyzed and starving for air.

Are you holding your breath? Has something knocked the wind right out of you.. or is something stressful making you hold your breath for the outcome?

BREATHE. No- really. Take a physical breath. Then talk. To God- He’s already listening. And to someone else. It’s really hard to hold your breath when you’re talking… I know– I’ve tried:)

Dear Lord— Thank you for reminding me to breathe.. thank you for teaching me that holding my breath won’t change my circumstances and usually hurts me in the long run. Lord- help me not to be paralyzed when fear or pain come. Help me to not run panting after busyness and end up lightheaded with exhaustion. Give me wisdom to know when I need to pull back and wisdom to know when pulling back hurts. God surround me with people that share their oxygen,a nd give me courage to share mine . Lord- for anyone who stops by here- may they find a fresh breath from you… oxygen for the body and the soul. Just as real as the first breath you breathed into Adam..I love you Lord- amen.

Genesis 2:7 (New International Version)

the LORD God formed the man The Hebrew for man (adam) sounds like and may be related to the Hebrew for ground (adamah) it is also the name Adam (see Gen. 2:20). from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.

an old song.. that helps me remember to breathe…..

I checked the diaper aisle. Nada.

The continence product section…Nope. (BTW there are a LOT of options in there…think the diaper aisle with fewer pandas and super heroes…) The paper goods aisle? Nope.

The medical supply aisle? (Yes, I know. I should have started there… but, I was a little stressed, ok?) My eyes scanned the shelves. SCORE! Right between a toilet seat lift and a brace for a body part I’m not sure should ever be braced….A bright blue box with what looked like a milk jug doing yoga on the side.

I grabbed the box like a lion grabs a zebra, and dropped it just as quickly. Yes. It was a urinal, but it was a FEMALE urinal. (Who knew?) Which would be fine if it were for me, but it’ not. It’s for my husband, who is recovering from a radical prostatectomy due to prostate cancer.

A FEMALE urinal. It’s probably not a good idea to bring a guy who’s just had his man-parts attacked by a robot (literally- he had robotic surgery- which is wonderful and has a much better recovery than the old school- open approach.) and is facing all the complications that that implies… a FEMALE urinal. Everything I’ve read says it’s important to help your man maintain dignity and  not feel “less of a man” because of the surgery and it’s side effects.

I wanted to bring him a urinal so he could navigate the catheter removal and bladder rehab with MORE dignity and ease. I did not want to send a “Well- now you’re a woman- here’s a girlie pee-pot for you.” message. I searched the rest of the shelves. I pushed other “medical supplies” out of the way. I was convinced that if there was a female urinal there MUST be a male urinal……Not so much.

I went to the pharmacy counter. “Maybe they keep them in the back… I bet they get stolen all the time.. like condoms and baby formula…. especially by video game addicted college boys….” (I have issues. We know this.)

“Can you please check in the back?” I asked the pharmacy assistant… stumbling through a TMI explanation of my husband’s surgery and the urgency for a MALE urinal.

“Sure, but what we have is usually out.”

She returned empty handed and my eyes filled with tears.

I went back to the medical supply aisle, just in case one had been moved from it’s nicely labeled spot.

Nothing.

I felt defeated. I felt inadequate. I felt overwhelmed and afraid. I grabbed our other “catheter removal” supplies….and paid for them as quickly as I could. I was racing the tears I felt coming on like a tsunami.

It wasn’t about the urinal.

The truth is- I felt out of control.

I like control. I like finding solutions to problems. I like making things better.

As a mother of 3 and wife of 23 years…. the truth is I usually have a lot of control. (In theory. Maybe, I just have a lot of responsibility.) When something goes wrong, I am usually the one to fix it. A kiss and band aid for boo-boos. Hunger is cured with a meal. Work stress is ironed out with active listening and care, family stuff is hashed through with time and attention, broken hearts are healed with love and listening…..

Standing in the pharmacy, crying over a urinal, I was confronted with the truth about my husband’s cancer diagnosis: I can’t fix it. I can’t make it go away.

I can’t control cancer.

I hate it.

I managed to get everything into my car before the tsunami hit.

I think I prayed…If prayers can be yelling at God in your head:

“God, This is stupid. I believe you can heal and I know that you love us. So, I don’t understand why you don’t fix this!….I feel useless and scared and frustrated.. I can’t fix it. I can’t make it better… I’m overwhelmed and ticked off- how can I manage the care of my husband while I take care of everyone else- too? There are only so many hours in a day and I can’t even find a stupid urinal. How am I supposed to do this? I know that the things I can’t control- you can… and right now I’m not liking your idea or plan for “control.” I want some control. No, I need it! I need to fix this. I need to help him through this! If I can’t fix the stupid cancer.. can’t I at least solve the problems that it’s caused? Like FIND A URINAL that doesn’t scream: “Hello, you lost your “man-hood here’s a female urinal?”  You know- You COULD help me out here… you made the earth and all in it–so a male urinal wouldn’t be all that hard, now would it? Don’t you even care? Are you even there?”

It wasn’t pretty. It was more rambling and angry than what I’ve written here- but the truth is I can hardly remember the words. It was pure emotion. That- I remember- Grief. Anger. Fear. Maybe a bit (OK a lot) of pouting over not getting my way and a side of accusation.

When I was finished with my tear filled prayer-rant, I felt the release that comes with tears. I felt less alone. Less overwhelmed. A little less needy for control. (And a little embarrassed for ugly crying in the pharmacy parking lot.)

There weren’t trumpets. God didn’t speak to me in James Earl Jones’ voice and tell me all would be fine. (Trust me- I listened really hard.. I was expecting answers….demanding them. I didn’t get any.) He didn’t show up in the form of Morgan Freeman with a urinal in his hand. (That’s an awkward thought. But seriously- a urinal delivered by Morgan Freeman would have made me feel like God was on it.) He also didn’t strike me dead for accusing him of being unfair and not caring.. (which were more implied than said outright…Hey- I’m honest with God.. but I’m also a little afraid of him… justsayin.)

Even though there weren’t answers- I felt heard.

When I settled down enough to dial the phone- I called a friend to talk through the mess.

She reminded me that God IS in control, even when it doesn’t look like it, and that I don’t HAVE to like it. She reminded me of all the ways God HAS shown up in this process- from the doctor checking the little PSA box 5 years before he typically would- to a pre-op nurse who knows my husbands cousin and let us have 15 people back in pre-op to pray before his surgery. She reminded me I’m not alone and don’t have to do it all. That I need to take care of myself and allow the emotion to be expressed.

Who needs James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman when you have God in the heart and voice of a loving friend?

For the record- after the phone call- I went to another pharmacy and found a male urinal. It’s been 4 days since the catheter removal and he hasn’t used it, once. It’s still in the box. I suppose it’s possible that not EVERYTHING I  think is a necessity – actually IS. Maybe it’s better that God is in control- after all- my assessments might be wrong on occasion. (But, don’t tell my kids I said that:P)

Update- My husband’s surgery was December 28, he’s recuperating well, resting and drinking loads of fluids. We are learning our new normal and hope that by sharing our journey authentically, others will find hope for the crisis’ they face. It wasn’t about a urinal.. it was about control.. and maybe trust.

Yeah, probably trust.

Proverbs 3-

⁵ Trust in the LORD with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
⁶ in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.^[a]

⁷ Do not be wise in your own eyes;
fear the LORD and shun evil.
⁸ This will bring health to your body
and nourishment to your bones.

“Peace” is not exactly how I’d describe the feeling of our trip to a local petting zoo for a birthday party. More like “chaos” and “cacophony..”  Overwhelmed by scents,sounds,  new experiences and smells children’s responses varied from tears and fear to delight. Parents responses varied from shots of “Keep your fingers away front the teeth.” to- “At least use hand sanitizer after you touch that.”  I think I saw one parent crouched in a corner, clutching a child’s blanket and rocking back and forth…. there was no baby involved… just a parent. Who’d lost it. Pretty much. (O. K. It may have been me. Justsayin.)

As a life-long suburbanista- this, girl scout camp and childhood visits to a friends farm house, are the extent of my barn experience. Girl scout camp involved horses and screeching pre-pubescent girls who want ponies…. (Not peaceful.) Visits tot he friends farm involved much chasing of chickens.. (rather fun if you ignore the smell.)  squeeing over pigs and brushing of horses manes while trying not to get stomped under hoof.  Again: not peaceful.

As a mother of 3 boys, owner of 2 dogs and 2 cats- I often feel like I LIVE in a barn. (And, while I remember their births as being in a nice, clean hospitals, I wonder if my children were actually BORN in one… they are genetically hard wired to leave messes and doors open…) With the exception of stolen moments in the early morning and late at night… my home is filled with video gaming college boys, 4th graders, nerf battles, lego battles and little knight stories…Not much peace. (It also does kind of smell like a barn, with overtones of Scentsy….)

Barns do not produce peace. They produce poo. And noise. And chaos. And stink…with maybe quiet moments of peace…as a lamb lies nestled with it’s mother or piggies lie in a sleeping mass of pink.

And yet- over 2,000 years ago- a barn did just that. It produced peace.

There was still braying and neighing and stink and wallow. There was squalor and chaos and a parade of on-lookers.

But, wrapped in swaddling clothes-amidst the chaos- there was born peace. A miracle on so many levels.

This year, I feel like my life is a barn. It’s drafty, it’s overwhelming, it’s noisy and to be honest? With the recent cancer diagnosis of my husband in addition to several major surgeries and health issues faced by me family and friends…… it’s been stinking. It’s been painful. Pain is not peaceful. There have been moments of peace.. (mostly on beaches:P)  But it hasn’t been peace-Full. I miss it. I miss peace.

This morning.. I again read the story of that barn. I read of how peace was born into the world.. in the middle of chaos. In the middle of a tyrant’s slaughter of innocence….and I remembered peace.

I also remembered a teenager. One who’d already attempted suicide. (Sometimes a #fail is a good thing) One who was depressed and overwhelmed. One who was desperate for something.. and had been looking for it- in all the classic wrong places…. one who knew the chaotic effects of a parent’s substance abuse. A teenager who unexpectedly  found what she was looking for. In a barn. A barn that was on a stage at a children’s Christmas pagent….where she found what she was really looking for-

Peace.

The peace  found in love, acceptance and  forgiveness.  The same peace that was born in that barn so long ago. Instead of peace wrapped in swaddling clothes- it was wrapped in her heart…tied with a ribbon of grace and  laid in the barn of her life.

She, is me.

And today, in the middle of this barn, I again found that peace. In the fact that the chaos of my worries can bring peace. Peace that I don’t have to be enough. In the fact that I don’t have to have all the answers. In the fact that God is more than able to get us through whatever comes our way. (And whether we like it or not.) In the fact that I’m not alone.

Peace born in chaos. The dichotomy of Christmas. The mystery. The miracle. The beauty.

My life feels like chaos…. But–I’m asking God to sustain that manger miracle of peace in my heart….and I’m praying he does the same for you.

Maybe chaos doesn’t mean God isn’t involved.. it means he’s again- about to birth peace….

Dear Jesus- I can’t pretend to grasp the sacrifices you’ve made in coming to earth, being born into chaos to bring us peace.. but I am desperate to embrace it. Even here. In the middle of the chaos that my life feels like. In the middle of this barn…. I pray for anyone who reads- who feels like life is chaos and that peace isn’t even a possibility- that they would find your peace- in the chaos. In the barn. In the manger, and at the foot of the cross. I love you Lord and trust you with all my what if’s- even here- in Jesus name- amen

 

The barn… 

A potty break and phone call later (probably 4 minutes tops. I invented the micro- retreat.) I went  to check on them.   They no longer looked innocent. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was wrong.  Then, I noticed something yellow dripping from the walls and ceiling.  (Yes, the ceiling.)

It was chicken and stars soup: “ DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.”  I looked up to find the ceiling and walls dotted with pasta stars and streaked with yellow broth.  I was not amused.

The boys had discovered that when carefully flung at walls by the spoonful, chicken and stars soup can create a DIY planetarium. I briefly considered shipping them both to a foreign country.  To avoid the exorbitant shipping costs (not that I have ever… researched it…) I decided to yell.   Mostly, for fiscal reasons. (Our single income probably saved them from a life of exile in outer Zambonia.)

I lost it. “Can’t I pee , without random acts of vandalism?”  I yelled, stamping off to figure out what to clean the mess with.  (Martha Stewart Living never covered this one.)  I returned, armed with every mom’s weapon against messes: paper towel and Fantastic spray.  I was not, however, met by the remorseful children, I had expected.  Instead, my five year old looked confused and slightly miffed.  “Mommy, you never told us not to do it, we didn’t KNOW!”

That is when I experienced a “mommy-matrix moment”.  Time slowed . I set down the cleaning supplies as if I were setting up for the ‘end move” in an epic battle to save (or maybe end)  the world.  Fortunately- before I moved in for the “kill” (a verbal tirade that would have made GREAT reality TV show fodder.)  my brain caught up with my emotion. He had a point. I hadn’t told them not to spatter paint the den with soup.  Nor did I think I should have to.

THEY SHOULD KNOW BETTER.  Shouldn’t they?

My mind flashed with other surreal  “they should know better” parenting scenes we’d experienced. Such as: peeing for distance in the back yard (in the snow- of course) , throwing eggs out the back door to see if they would fry on the pavement (They didn’t, we live in Michigan, it’s never that hot!) eating the occasional bug, putting a pet garter snake into their bike handle tubes (fyi: you can flush them out with the hose) and jumping off the back of the couch trying to fly.  Maybe they didn’t know better, after all. .  “Maybe they are defective, I wonder if they are still under warranty?  Or maybe ,they are just normal. “  I wasn’t sure which worried me more. I had a nagging fear that I was raising tiny vandals . I wondered if incarceration would teach them a lesson. (Or at least, give me a break!)

Before calling in the police, I decided to “phone a friend” and see what she thought.  When she finished laughing, she said it sounded like imagination gone awry.   “AWRY” is right.

Suddenly, a scene from my own childhood came to mind.  I was bored and my mom was taking a short nap.  I decided to make my own cheesy cartoon by ripping slices of American cheese into shapes and sticking them on the TV screen.  I swear, I didn’t KNOW I wasn’t supposed to do it. . It just seemed like a good idea.  My mom didn’t think so.  But she hadn’t had me incarcerated.    I told my friend about my “creativity” and we laughed. That was one our kids hadn’t tried, (yet)  I decided it was only fair to let the boys remain free, as well.

Together, we cleaned up the mess. I made a new rule and posted it to the fridge.  It read something like this:  “There is no throwing of food of any sort in the house, for any purpose. “  It may still be there under layers of school notes, coupons and coloring pages, for all I know, because years later, when we moved?  I found dried pasta stars still clinging to the ceiling.

To my knowledge, they have never used soup for evil again.

Have your kids surprised you with the things they come up with to “creatively” get in trouble?  Do you ever wonder if you are raising tiny vandals?  We’d love to hear your stories in the MOPS Forums!  It’s also a great place to “phone a friend” and find out what’s normal, and what requires a call to the juvenile detention center!

On a side note— the child who created the chicken soup planetarium? Is currently considering majoring in Astronomy… God is funny like that.

Also: My clean up job wasn’t as complete as I thought… we were picking tiny dried pasta stars off the Den- ceiling for years…. #gross #yet funny- those little buggers can fly when launched from a spoon!

At my local MOPS group that week- we had made these cool ornaments with just cinnamon and applesauce. It sounded like the solution to both my cranky-ness with my kids.. (we needed to have some fun together) and my minimal budget for Christmas gifts. I bundled everyone one up against the cold and headed out to buy bulk cinnamon and applesauce.

We arrived home, cold, tired and hungry. Everyone needed a nap. (Mommy included) This was not to be, I was on a mission. We were going to make ornaments and have fun together, or, (quite possibly) die trying.

I turned on the “Johnny Mathis Christmas album” .. put our matching aprons on and showed my 6 and 3 year old sons how to mix the applesauce and cinnamon into dough.

It had started so innocently, and smoothly. The boys helped measure and mix like pro’s.

Right about the time I started feeling like a scene from a Christmas movie…I noticed rust colored clouds of cinnamon floating through the kitchen and into the living room. They settled into the mauve (don;t judge me- this was the 80′s)  carpet to create an insoluble, but holiday scented,  mess. Shouts of “Be careful!,” and ” Don’t get cinnamon on the carpet!” soon drowned out poor Johnny.  Chunks of cinnamon scented concrete were becoming “one” with the kitchen floor.

The pressure of making ornaments “fit to give” spread through me like a virus. I was soon- re-rolling the dough to make it smoother and took all the non-Christmas cookie cutters away so that we wouldn’t be making dinosaurs for Great Grandma’s tree. My oldest totally lost interest, and went to watch PBS. The youngest, continued on.

When we were finished and still breathing, I called it a win. Ornaments were drying in the oven, (to speed things up a bit.. I tend to do things a bit last minute;) The house, while dirty and freshly stained, smelled wonderful.

That’s when, I noticed strawberry colored patches popping up all over my youngest. His face, arms and hands were puffy and raw looking. Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought: “Great. No money… no gifts… the house is a mess and now the “baby” is sick!” I got scared. I called my husband home from work.

I was pretty convinced I had killed the kid. NOT GOOD.

A quick trip to the urgent care center revealed a reaction to the cinnamon. A little bath in colloidal oatmeal and frequent slathering with hydrocortisone calmed the rash, but not my heart.

That night I cried myself to sleep, the tears and sobs were also prayers, worded and otherwise. I felt like a bad mother. I felt like an idiot and a failure. I couldn’t even just have a fun afternoon with my guys. I was sure I had ruined Christmas.

In the morning, I grabbed my coffee, and my Bible, while it was still quiet and the moonlight shown on the snow. I opened it to Luke. I read the Christmas story. I thought about Mary… so young… I wondered if she felt she was ready to be a mother. I wondered if she felt awful for not having things all ready for her child’s birth. They couldn’t even find a room to birth in. They ended up in a stable. Smelly animals surrounded them, hay poked her in the back, she didn’t even have a “proper” layette.  I wondered how she felt.

But- there she was- the mother of The Christ Child. I flipped to the Easter story- and re-read that, too…the two stories were one. A light switch flipped on for me. The baby’s birth that I was trying so hard to honor, celebrate and share, perfectly. Had led to the Savior that I needed, yet again, so desperately. Much more desperately than sidewalks and bigwheels.

I felt like everything shuffled back into place. My priorities, lined up again. By the time the boys woke up, I was ready. We continued through the rest of our holiday with joy and rest. No more worrying over the gifts, we could do what we could do. That was all. No more worrying about creating perfect “Christmas memories” with the boys… we decided to just let them happen.

Every year- (my oldest two are 18 and 15 , now) we retell the story of the ornaments, and forced fun. We laugh, every year. Sure- I still get caught up in the hustle bustle and pressure to create a Martha Stewart Christmas scene….but then- inevitably, I get a whiff of cinnamon. And I remember. The baby in a manger- who grew to be savior…. and get back to the heart of Christmas…. till the next time, I need to be reminded.

“Dear Lord- I know that Christmas isn’t about packages and bows and gifts and decorations… but, I get sidetracked so fast, I barely know it’s happening till it’s nearly too late. Please God- help me to remember, help me to follow the star and be reminded of of the sacrifices you made- leaving heaven at God’s right hand.. to be born in amnager and die on a cross, so that the world could have peace, love and forgiveness. I love you Lord- and thank you, – oh- and lord- thnx that we can laugh at that Cinnamony Christmas.. and learn from it..amen…”

Oh— wondering about the title? I always remember too late that I WANT to force bulbs for my Christmas centerpiece one year…married nearly 20 years and have never remembered in time to actually do it;)

(re-post form Laced with Grace 2007)

“It’s probably a fluke….” I totally believed it was.

Another appointment. Another blood test.

Another phone call… “It’s still high. I need to go see a urologist. Dr S said he checked the box on a whim. They don’t usually check PSA until you’re 50.”

I fought panic with my super power of denial. I tried to research our way out of it. “Maybe it’s just an enlarged prostate. PSA tests can be affected by that,too. It doesn’t just mean cancer.”

Another appointment. As we sat in a waiting room full of men old enough to be our grandparents.. (ok maybe our parents) we held hands.

“It’s probably a fluke. These tests are pretty controversial… high failure rate. ” I said, over and over… trying to convince myself, my husband and maybe God. My stomach felt like the neighborhood trampoline by the time they called his name.

The nurse asked about symptoms and history… “No.Nope. No…” He answered over and over. I was buoyed by hope… you can’t have cancer without symptoms or history.. right?

We pushed her for information…”So these tests are pretty controversial.. huh? Can a PSA this high be something other than cancer? I bet you see this all the time.” We didn’t really want information.. we wanted affirmation… that we were right. That it was a fluke. That it wasn’t cancer. It couldn’t be.

The doctor came in. My hands started to sweat. We asked the same questions we’d asked the nurse. He was not affirming. “Your results do not fall into the grey area of these tests. This is something to take a closer look at. Let’s do an exam.”

Before I could leave the room, he had my husband drop his drawers (trust me, I tried to leave. Not really something that calls for togetherness.) Before I could stand up, and grab my bag.. I heard the snap of a latex glove. Too late. I tried to look anywhere, but THERE. I memorized the cover of the Time Magazine in the magazine rack. (December 2008, of course.)

“Ok, Ok… ” He said.. then silence.

Again, the snap of the latex glove caught my attention. The exam was over. My husband pulled his pants up, and we both hoped all was fine.

” I found a lump that feels like it could be cancerous. We’ll need to do a biopsy, but I’d say it’s about a 70% chance of being cancer.” Tears filled my eyes and sobs clogged my throat as I tried to stifle them. I couldn’t.

“It’s a fluke” Was replaced by a new obsessive thought… “Will he die?”

I was afraid to ask.

“So, what do you think?” My husband asked…

“I think your primary care physician saved your life.” Said the urologist.

That was about a month ago. What’s followed is a biopsy and another call. The one we dreaded. The called that changed our lives. The call that ended the hope that it was s fluke and replaced it with the hope that he’ll survive.

The call that confirmed that my husband has prostate cancer.

We’ve cried, we’ve prayed, we’ve talked and avoided. He’s had a bone and CT scan. The cancer hasn’t spread, but its of a faster growing type. I feel,like a clock is ticking. We’re waiting for the appointment with the surgeon and radio-oncologist.

It wasn’t a fluke. It sucks. This will affect every aspect of our lives, from work, to family to sex and daily life. I don’t know what it will be like. There are no guarantees. We’re hopeful. It’s been caught early and should be curable. We believe our primary care physician didn’t just check that box on a whim. It was God’s direction.

Cancer sucks. I’ve developed a case of cancer Tourette’s. I struggle to not scream out “my husband has cancer.” as I walk though the Christmas decorated mall. I have told random strangers when they innocently asked ” how are you?” (the cashier at Target hugged me. Or maybe she was trying to restrain me so I could be taken to crazy-ville. FYI: everyone that asks, doesn’t necessarily want to know how you really are…)

Part of me wants to be a grinch and stop the world from celebrating. I want to shout: “Hello! We have cancer here! It’s not time to party!” The other part wants to make sure this is the best Christmas ever. You know. Just in case.

I hate having these thoughts. But they are real and normal. When cancer enters your life if brings grief, even if you beat it. (which we’re planning to do!) We grieved over having to tell our college boys. (Telling your kids their dad has cancer, is like telling them there is no Santa. Life changes in an instant. It was, however, a conversation they handled better than we did. My boys are amazing.) We grieved over telling our parents. (Parents never expect their KIDS to be seriously ill, it just feels wrong. It’s a loss of comfort for them.)

We grieved. And now-we’re waiting. Waiting

Thursday we meet with the surgeon and the radio- oncologist. The urologist said they would be aggressive in treatment. We’re afraid but ready for a fight.

God is already involved. He is here. With us. Even in cancer.

And even if I hate it. Actually, I’m pretty sure that Jesus hates cancer too.

Dear lord, I ask you to continue to be present even here, as we face cancer. I pray for your healing and your presence every step of the way. God I pray that you be with our whole family as we do this together. Help us get through potential fears, and side effects and come out stronger than ever- in our faith, hope, bodies and love. I love you lord, even if I hate this current season of life. Please help me focus on you, and help Christmas be a reminder of all you’ve done. In Jesus name- amen.

PSA: to my readers- if you have men in your life- schedule them an appointment. Prostate cancer is treatable if it’s caught early- but guys don’t like to be checked…show them this post. It’s better to be checked than to be dead.

Afraid it would be damaged on the  plane ride home, I shipped it from the hotel. (It was perfect, and the most expensive nativity I’ve ever owned… umm shipping was pricey ) Once home- we had to wait weeks for the package to clear customs. I anxiously waited, everyday for it to arrive. I wanted it to be there before Christmas.

It was. And it was perfect. A golden winged angel floated above the creche by hanging from a tiny nail. A green pine tree creates a pastoral feel. Mary, Joseph and the Christ Child look exactly as I’d imagined. I also chose a tiny little mother- holding the hand of her son and introducing him to her Lord (Forget about the wisemen… I wanted a momma!) It was beautiful and meaningful… I wanted it to be the hearth of our holiday home..Yup, it was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that I decided not to pack it up after the holidays.

It stays on our china cabinet in the kitchen. It’s there. Right now.

Years went by.

I had another baby.

And I got very busy. Way too busy. My to-do list items multiplied like bunnies.

I decided to bake cookies as gifts. A lot of cookies. So many cookies that it was a fulltime job for days.

A job only– I didn’t have childcare. I had: ignore the child unless he’s in danger care.

I was cranky. I groused as I baked. I rushed. I had gifts to wrap and parties to attend. Which involved “bringing a dish.” Which meant: more cooking. I couldn’t even hear the Christmas music playing because my brain was screaming: “I can’t do it all. No one will appreciate it anyway! What’s the point? Why does the mother have to make all the Christmas plans? I can only do so much!”

As I whipped pans in and out of the oven, yelling at the dog to stay back and threatening anyone who dared snatch a cookie before they were counted and divided into the awaiting “perfect” boxes. I heard Noah’s tiny voice playing super heroes. “Ha! Got you- Take that! Hi-ya!” Near the china cabinet. “At least he’s busy and out of the way.”

I moved on to truffles. As I concentrated on tempering chocolate and blending ganache… I kept hearing him mumbling…. “the dog..baby Jesus… Momma.. the dog….. baby Jesus…”  After putting the bowl of perfect ganache into the fridge.. I decided to take a break. As I walked to the other side of the kitchen, I noticed funny yellow and gold bits on the floor… It was not, as I suspected at first, Cheerios. I bent to inspect the bits.

“What’s that, Noah?” (Why do we always ask?)

“Momma! The dog ate baby Jesus!” Noah announced. “I told you!” Making it very clear that this was my fault.

On further inspection, I found that she had done, just that.The dog ate baby Jesus. She’d also noshed one angel’s wing and one tiny angel hand went completely missing. (I think she had seconds.)

Apparently, the super hero play had been between the angel and Jesus…at least it was until the dog attacked like some canine-zilla. In a moment- our perfect and precious nativity became empty.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

Noah started to cry. “Are you mad momma?  I no do it!” His hands covered his little diaper padded butt… afraid a swat was imminent.

I left the room. I went where all good moms go to cry- the bathroom.

The sobs had little to do with the nativity. It was everything. The stress of trying to buy gifts for 32 bazillion people on a single income.  The stress of trying to create a Martha Stewart Holiday with children and pets underfoot. The stress of trying to make many people happy- including myself. And in realizing that in doing all that… I’d totally missed the point.

It wasn’t just the nativity in the china cabinet that was empty.

The dog ate  baby Jesus long before that super hero- smack-down.

… the dog’s name wasn’t Sami (our Beagle) it’s name was busy-ness and the pursuit of perfection. She’d snuck into my holiday and gobbled up the point along with the figurines.

In that moment, I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t going to let the rest of the holiday slip by in a blur. No more cookies. No more perfect dinner. Everyone can bring a dish to pass, I can’t and don’t have to do it all. Clean enough is clean enough. It isn’t about perfect presents… and it isn’t about starving in January to pay for the December feasting. I made changes. (And I may have eaten a few spoons full of ganache without bothering to roll them first- to take the edge off.)

Noah and I retreated to the couch. I left the dishes until later. Instead of a swat-we cuddled in front of the tree.

That was years ago.

The empty nativity still has a place of honor on our china cabinet. Nope. it’s never been replaced. Baby Jesus is still gone. The angel looks post- apocalyptic. But- it reminds me that there is more to this season than the pursuit of a perfectiont… There is a God who became man and brought with him the perfect gifts of grace and love…. Who came in humility from a throne to a dung-pile. (Mangers are not so nice in reality- they smell and have all the detritus animal and other wise- that any barn would have.) Its about a father’s love.

This year- again.. I want to remember. I’m trying. It’s hard.

I want to make sure the dog doesn’t eat baby Jesus…..(we still have that beagle… I love her. Even if she ate my savior:P)

I have to:

1) Say “No.” No, I can’t volunteer for this- I can’t give to that… I can’t be everywhere, I can’t do it all.

2) Accept enough. Maybe one batch of cookies is enough.(For that matter- buy cookie dough and pass a spoon.. that’s how we really like it anyway!) Maybe, drawing names instead of buying for everyone we’ve ever met, is enough.

3) Do the things that matter. I’m slowing down. I’m building a fire and reading the Christmas story. I’m watching Polar Express without folding laundry at the same time. (Multi-tasking= doing too much. just sayin.) Cuddling. Listening.

What about you?

What can you say “no” to? What’s good enough? What matters? What tries to snatch the baby Jesus out of your family’s nativity?

Let’s keep those dogs at bay.. together.

“What if the doctor’s are wrong?  What if we can catch it from a fork?” I hated the thought, even as it formed. It was 1990. Until then, AIDS had been a news story, a health ed subject and a topic of gossip to me. Suddenly, it was very real. It was frightening, deadly and risky.

That day, AIDS stopped being a news story and became part of my story.

Why?  Because it was killing our friend. And it had the potential to kill our friendship.

Fork in hand, I had a choice to make. Would I allow my fear to pile hurt on an already bloodied and dying friend?  (There were some who whispered that people dying from aids “were getting what they deserve. And had brought it upon them selves” We saw how much this had hurt them more than the virus. itself.)

Or, would I trust in God and live the gospel I said I believed?

I swallowed my fear, and I dug into the pan, filling my plate, my husband’s and son’s with enchilada’s,  sauce and cheese.

Around that table, we shared a communion of enchilada’s and diet coke. We laughed. We cried. For a few moments-we lived the gospel.

I remember his bony, scaly red hand as we held hands to pray. I remember the tinge of fear again invading my heart as I reached out to clasp it. I remember the smile and warmth that met my hand in return.

A man with leprosy came to him and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.

It wasn’t because we were fearless or a good people. We aren’t.  We did it because we’d be desperate for touch if we were dying. And because the example we have is Christ . He touched the un-touchables of his day.

I wish I could say that prayer brought healing. It didn’t.

Our friend died.  Because AIDS kills. It still does. Every Single. Day.

Some ask where God is when people suffer.  I think he’s eating enchilada’s and drinking diet coke with them.  I think he holds a rough, scaly, bony hand in prayer.

When we let Him.

Today is World AIDS day.

My question to you is- Will you let him?

Wondering what you can do?  Here are some ways to touch someone:

World Vision Sponsor a child affected by AIDS

Bloodwater- Donate $ to help find a cure and to help treat those who hurt.

In honor of our friend (Alan) we’re sponsoring a child through World Vision.  His name is Daniel- he is a first grader who lives in Tanzania.

Everything hurt and all I wanted to do was sit down, put my feet up and take the strain off my neck and shoulders in hopes that the spasming would stop.

It didn’t. Instead of sinking comfortably into my place of respite, I plopped. (Plopping is not good 2 days after neck surgery.) Instead of sinking into a comfortable position, the chair pushed back against the neck brace and made the pain worse. “Maybe it will be better with my feet up.” I thought- leaning back and pushing back from the arms of the chair.

It wasn’t.

Unbelievably, it made it worse.

“Help me.” I sobbed to my husband. I was desperate to get comfortable.

He helped me from the torture chair, and up to the bed. We tried stacking pillows behind me. I could’t even lean back without straining my neck. I never even made it into the bed. “This won’t work.”

I felt panic welling up inside. “If I can’t lay down, I can’t sit down and I can’t stand up…am I going to have to go back to the hospital?” Let’s just say that was not an option. I’d had enough of the “restful” “recovery” time in the hospital. (Which included being bothered every 13 minutes to see if I was still alive…. or something like that.)

I ended up on the couch with 16.9 bazillion pillows propping various body parts into alignment. Before getting up to go -where all women who’ve given birth to 3 children have to go every 19 minutes- I activated the early avalanche warning system- I had to. The pets and children could have been lost in a pillow catastrophe.

It wasn’t comfortable. It was miserable.

The next day- we headed out to the closest furniture store to find a chair that would work.

It was like a scene from the three bears- The first chair was too hard, forcing my head into an angle the neurosurgeon would have vetoed immediately. The second chair was too soft. My butt sank into oblivion. Which normally wouldn’t have bothered me, except for the whole- “every 19 minutes” thing that would require a hoist or a forklift to get me out before my bladder imploded….Not good. I was in bad enough shape- an imploded bladder would have been more than I could take.

Finally, I settled into a chocolate brown microfiber recliner.

Every part of my body said: “Ahhhhh…”  The muscles in my neck and back relaxed. The salesman flipped up the arm of the chair and I heard a chorus of angels sing the doxology. It had: heat, massage and a power mechanism to raise and lower the feet/head…….

Finally. Comfort. Sure.. I was still in pain. But, in that chair- I could relax into the pain instead of fighting it.

It made all the difference. I’ve been living in (and out of, that chair every 19 minutes) by the miracle of electricity… I’ve never been so thankful for a piece of furniture in my life. It’s bionic and I love it.

When you are in pain, finding the most comfortable position/ place to rest is more than just about comfort.. it’s about healing. Your body needs to rest in order to heal….

While my neck is healing up just fine..

I’m now in another kind of pain. Another season of waiting, healing…..another wave threatens to overwhelm  me like an avalanche. This one is worse than pillows.

I’ve been looking for a place to relax into. It’s not as simple as finding the right chair this time.

I’ve tried a few things…. cupcakes (too messy and I could outgrow my chair at this rate… that would suck.) Shopping… (too expensive- even on black friday.) I was tempted to get my bike out and ride off some of the stress…. but that seat could put me back in the hospital if I fall….(The truth is…lately? Everything that can go wrong, IS… So, I was smart enough not to risk it….) Nope. Not one of the chairs I tried was right.

I felt that desperation again…. “If I can’t get comfortable, I’ll end up in the hospital.. only tis time it will be the psych ward, not the neuro-surgery wing.” 

I put down the cupcake. I logged out of Amazon. I closed the garage door. (Where my beautiful bike has sat since before my surgery:( )

I sat. On a hospital waiting room chair. (my mom was having her hip replaced… we were waiting… again…)

(Side note- hospital waiting room chairs are probably the least comfortable chairs on earth. I think that’s a plot to assure return business.)

The tears came.

The pain came.

The fear came.

The avalanche hit.

Instead of looking for a more comfortable spot, I just sat.

The truth is- I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by all that was hitting me at once.

I cried out. (In my brain- ok?  I told you I was trying to avoid the psych ward….I wasn’t screaming out loud… but people, in my heart I was screaming. Trust me.) “God you promised you won’t give me more than I can handle… and if you think I can handle this? YOU NEED YOUR HEAD EXAMINED. Your assessment is seriously off. I don’t WANT to do this. It sucks and I quit.”  

I waited for lightning to strike me dead…..(Some of my theology is entrenched in cartoons… justsayin)  To be honest- for just a moment the idea of being instantly in heaven sounded pretty good. I am exhausted. In that moment- I could understand Job’s wife’s admonishment to “curse God and die…” I always thought that showed she was cold hearted… but maybe…just maybe she was the Dr Kervorkian of the old testament…..maybe she thought cursing God and dying would end the suffering sooner than later….

Instead of a bolt of lightning …  two words struck me. Two words I know God spoke to me a long time ago….. (But not in a galaxy far far away….I’m not that crazy, yet.)

“Even there.” 

Maybe the words bounced back from my memory… or maybe they were spoken to my by the one I know as God…. But I heard them. And I remembered them.

Suddenly, I sank into that uncomfortable hospital waiting room chair, just like it was my chocolate brown-bionic recliner. Not because “even there” means so much… but because of the promise that surrounds those words….

Psalm 139

¹ You have searched me, LORD,
and you know me.
² You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
³ You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
⁴ Before a word is on my tongue
you, LORD, know it completely.
⁵ You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
⁶ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

⁷ Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
⁸ If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
⁹ If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
¹⁰ even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
¹¹ If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
¹² even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

“Even there.”

“Even here?” I asked.

“Even there.”  The words were more than words… they were truth. And I knew it.

Right here. I am not alone. God is with me. He “gets” me.  He guides me. He holds me- more safely and comfortably and securely than any bionic chair….Even in a hospital waiting room, even when the emotional avalanche hits…. Even here.

Maybe, it’s not about the chair after all.

Dear Lord- I don’t know who’s reading today or what kind of pain they are seeking comfort from- but, I pray that your words would ring truth to each of us….Even there: In fear, in pain, in bad diagnosis’,  in times of loss, in times of  financial crisis….Even there. We can find comfort in pain and rest even in an avalanche…..or an awful waiting room chair….I love you lord and ask you to be present… even here.. in Jesus name… amen.