That's a nice day..

It's been a while since last I put pen to paper (figuratively, of course) and put down some thoughts.
There is a simple reason for that- in the past couple of months my thoughts have resembled the arid waste land of central Kalahari desert.
Imagine tumbleweeds blowing down an empty dirt track.
Or wind whipping sand over a stretch of dunes.
Yup... That has been the vista of my thought world.

The inner world of one Mrs. Suz has been worn out, tired....
I honestly think the initial adrenaline fuelled weeks of diagnosis, moving, appointments, waiting rooms, scans, treatment plans, going back to work - all culminated in a little siesta of sorts in my mind.
I still functioned, I just had no words to say or write that resembled anything remotely coherent.

It's a bit like this:

In early January of this year, everything that could be shaken was shaken.
And not just a little jiggle to see if we were awake, but a Hurricane strength shake.

And after every life altering shake up there comes the time of recovery.
You recover and you take stock.
You rummage through the wreckage and salvage what needs to be saved.


My mind has been in recovery mode... Rummaging through the ruins and the debris, pulling out the valuables that need to stay with me.

And after the recovery effort comes the rebuild.
And now it's time for some rebuilding.


Sheldon has been in Sydney this week for his oncologist appointment. He has been carrying a weight of "I hope this treatment is working" that I have been shouldering. In fact, everyone in our world has been waiting and hoping and praying that the treatment is working..
He had his CT scan Tuesday and on Wednesday went to see Prof. Beale at the Cancer centre.

You need something to work with when you rebuild. Some tools, some materials..

The treatment is working.
The cancer is shrinking.
There's our material.
A bit of tangible hope.

Let me be honest: having hope without proof is doable, but it's bloody tough work.
It stretches faith.
It says "believe that things are going to be fine without knowing if things are going to be fine."
It's hard work.
It says "trust that there is a rhyme and a rhythm and a reason when all you hear is discordant chaos."

Yes, there is always hope.
And when hope bears fruit and becomes tangible, oh the sweet relief.
Having hope is crucial.
Holding hope when it starts to flourish and show results.... That's a nice day.
Getting the break you've been holding out for... That's a nice day.
Seeing the benefit of the hard yards... That's a nice day.
Hope realised.. That's a nice day.


So..... After almost 6 months of walking the tension of truly horrible and hopeful peace, we have to learn how to live this new life we find ourselves in.

I start full time work next term.
Sheldon has a little two bedroom cottage,( no actually, it's more a shack..) to paint.
We are taking the boys on our first family holiday next week.
Sadie the dog has to adjust to farm life. She's going to love it. (Our poor chickens!!)
We have bills and loans and repayments that need attention.
It's rebuilding.
It's learning how to live after the storm.

There is always hope.

I read something today.
It was lovely.
It was about someone who was at the edge of despair..
Someone who was at the end of their tether...
Someone who had been knocked down from the resting place of normality and then royally kicked.
This person, this broken being was on a diet of tears... Tears for breakfast, tears for supper.
And in the place of pain and seemingly bleak darkness, this person stops to ponder.
They "empty the pockets of their life"..
They take stock.
They line up the disappointments and the heartbreaks..
They name and number the moment of being disillusioned and left behind..
And in the rubble of their days they seize a moment of illumination.
A moment to scream hope at their weary soul.
And they see through the haze and catch a glimpse of a brighter day.
Hope.

So.. Here it is. Again.
The lesson I learn again..and again.
Trouble may come.
Sorrow may arrive.
Disillusioned days are maybe just around the corner.
The skies above may be dark, laden with the threat of that storm.
And yet there is that voice that screams hope at a weary soul.
It might start as a whisper.
Lost in the noise of the fight.
And yet there it is.
Hope.

See.. This is the deal.
And I keep stating the deal.
Because the deal is worth stating.
Trouble CAN NOT be allowed to take you out.
If you are on a diet of tears..
If you have emptied the pockets of your life and are left shaking your head at the disarray and the shards of broken dreams..
If you have lost sight of the highs in the depths of your lows..
If the pain of loss or the threat of sorrow is on the menu...
Well... Ok.
I hear you.
I know.
Seriously..
We have been through some tough days in the past few months.
Cancer ain't a walk in the park.
Redundancy isn't a fun-land joint you want to keep visiting.
Leaving a home we had sewn our hearts into has been, well... Painful.
I was on a diet of tears.
I emptied the pockets of my life.
I was left a bit bereft.
Trouble came my way and it threatened to take me out.
It reared up and it was ugly.
It stands there still.. Sneering at us. That troublesome trouble.
And some days, I will admit that it beats me up.
It kicks my arse all over the place.
It silences me with its enormity.
But it doesn't take me out.
I lift up my battle weary hand and say "uh uh trouble. Talk to the hand."
I whisper and sometimes I even scream at my soul, "come on!!!!Pick yourself up!!!"

So. If you are staring trouble down, give yourself a good talking to.
Say "yep trouble.. I see you, (messing up all my plans). I hear you, (making noise as you stir the quiet waters of normality). But hear me: you will not take me out. Trouble: you will come and go. So, I see you coming and I can't wait to see you going. I choose to smile at this storm. I choose to see the beautiful in the broken. I choose the magnificent tension of my every day. So... There. YOU CAN'T TAKE ME OUT."
And all of this is said to the soundtrack of survivor. "I'm a survivor..ain't gunna give up.."

You a survivor.
You ain't gunna give up.
Because there is always hope.
There is always hope.
Peace out.
Xoxoxo

Smile at the Storm

When we found out that the diagnosis was cancer, it was a truly horrendous day.
A dark day.
A deep in the pit of despair type moment.

We sat in the car, out the front of the specialist offices- and we cried.
We made some tough phone calls to let family know- and we cried.
We stumbled our way into the office of our pastors and friends- and we cried.
We held hands and we tried not to think about our sons- and we cried.

It was, on the whole, a rather dreadful day.

And the next day was ordinary.
And the day after that was slightly worse.

It was a season of bleakness and sighs.
I didn't know what to say.
I couldn't find the words to bring before God in any semblance of a prayer, so I sighed.
A deep, million-words-worth sigh.

The days stretched out.
It was like time had suddenly slowed down.

In one conversation with a well meaning stranger, they slowly shook their head and stretched out a hand in comfort.
"Well... That's the worse news ever... Just horrible."
And with a sad half smile, they left me standing in a state of somewhat semi-shock.
Really??
Seriously??
Was this life altering, time slowing, sigh inducing, tear wrenching event actually the WORST news?
I had a moment of mild panic.
I felt like a terrible, uncaring wife.
Because, in my sadness and through the sighs and amongst the tears I had never, NEVER classed this as being the WORST news.

Unexpected? Yes.
Life changing? Yes.
Difficult? Yes.
Worst news ever? No. Negative. Nope.

What would be worse- not having a chance to fight. And we are fighting.
What would be worse- never having found each other. And we found each other.
What would be worse- not knowing the joy of salvation. And we know that joy.
What would be worse- not having the anchor of hope. And we are anchored to hope.
What would be worse- oh so many things and tragedies could be worse than the battle we are fighting.

And here is my conclusion to WHY this cancer diagnosis, this unexpected redundant employment situation, this house-less (not homeless..we always have a home) state we currently are experiencing is NOT the WORST thing that can happen.

It's because we said so.
We decided.
We put our heads together and decided that everything happening in our world was not going to be defined as the WORST THING EVER.

Quite honestly, we are rarely going to totally and completely control what happens in and around our world. It's just foolish to think otherwise.
We had little control over the growing and spreading cancer cells.
We had no control over the unstable nature of the mining industry.
We held limited control over the ability to maintain a costly residence with depleting supply.
Everything in our world seemed to be crumbling and yet we remained fairly stable.
We are rarely going to control what happens in and around our world, but we do get to control our reactions.
We get to control our responses.
We get to decide where our hope is anchored.
We get to decide how trustworthy a promise made by Commander-of-the-angel-armies actually is.
We get to decide to have a good old sob, an ugly-face type cry, and then stop the tears. And find something to smile about.
We get to choose life.
We get to choose hope.
We get to choose to be emotional, but not be ruled by those emotions.

I get to choose to be heartbroken and heartmended all at the same time.
I get to choose to laugh at the future, not cower at the thought of tomorrow.
I get to choose life, with the surety of the painful weaved in with the beautiful.
I get to choose to say with an assurance that is neither logical or rational that everything is going to be absolutely fine.

About two days before we got the official cancer diagnosis I had a vivid, felt like real-life sort of dream. Sheldon was driving and a massive black cloud started to swirl in front of us. It was a scary looking storm. He turned to me and took my hand and I asked him, "Have you ever driven into such a big storm?" And he looked at me ( even in my dream I could tell we were both a bit frightened), and he said, "no babe..". And with that, we drove straight into the storm- a headlong hurtle.

I sang a song when I was little girl.
It had actions and everything.
You might know it.
"With Christ in the vessel I can smile at the storm,
Smile at the storm,
Smile at the storm,
As we go sailing home.."

Smile at the storm.
You can.
It's your choice.

And when you decide to smile at the storm, the storm is not the WORST thing EVER.. it's just the storm.

We have Eternity.

Here is the drop in the ocean..
Here it is.
We hold onto this drop in the ocean with ferocious tenacity.
This drop in the ocean, this life.

This. Is. Not. All. There. Is.

Imagine that forever was represented by a beach.
A never ending beach that stretches in golden sand magnificence.
And this life is a single grain of sand.
A speck in the multitude.

Imagine that forever was represented by a monsoon.
A relentlessly raining, pelting and thundering-without-ceasing storm.
And this life is a single drop of rain.
A drop in the multitude.

It's not unimportant, this speck.
It's not unnoticed, this drop among many.
It is, after all, the life we have been granted.
He gifted us this grain, this drop. He has measured us out, counted our days, set our paths.

And if this life is the one minuscule grain of sand, the one tiny drop of rain...
Then eternity is all the rest.

And we have eternity.
This. Is. Not. All. There. Is.
We have eternity.

Eternity-
It is imprinted into the very DNA of our makeup.
It is written in clear, broad brush strokes on the tablet of our heart.
It is beating a resolute rhythm in the symphony of time, of hours, of minutes, of seconds.

It is whispering, screaming, encouraging, reminding us of its timeless message-
This. Is. Not. All. There. Is.
We have eternity.

Life and living it well is hugely important. It is entirely purposeful.
But often when we are standing in the grain that is this life...
When we are in the middle of the single drop that is our earthly days...
It's entirely all consuming.
This grain.
This drop.
It's often all we see.

We are so focused on this life- this stretch of days and experience, this collection of memories and moments- that we forget.
We forget that we have eternity.
I mean, we know that we have Heaven, but we don't live like we have eternity.

When this life becomes the be all and the end all, what despair awaits.
When efforts and exertions are limited to the here and the now, what futility abounds.
This life was never meant to be the sole focus of our existence.

This. Is. Not. All. There. Is.
We have eternity.

And when the reality of "We have eternity" dominates the thoughts, the decisions and the reactions of this life....well suddenly this life looks a little different.
Suddenly a glaring light of perspective is cast upon this grain, this drop in the multitude.
Suddenly a clarity of vision is found in the midst of trial and hardship.
When tough times and upsets and goodbyes come around, and they always will, they are seen for what they truly are- reminders that just beyond the borders of this life is the waiting reality of eternity.

We have this hope.... As an anchor for the soul.
This hope of eternity.
This hope of the multitude beyond the miniscule.

My family has faced, no...stared down the inevitable. We have walked a dark valley that is shadowed with the outcomes of being mortal.
And while we steadfastly hold on to the faith declaration that Sheldon is healed in Jesus name, we have also come to this beautiful recognition of what eternity actually means.
It means:
This. Is. Not. All. There. Is.

Days have been measured out. Each one.
Paths have been set. Each step.
Eternity has been stamped so eloquently on each of our hearts. Have you heard it?
The purchaser of all eternity stands... He is our Jesus, who waits for us.

What's the plan Stan???

We are on a road trip.
Me and my favourite human being are trekking nearly 2000 kilometres up the east coast of a truly spectacular nation.
In an effort to begin to find shreds of normality amongst the upheaved moments of the past couple of months (yes... It's all only been a couple of months), we are taking one of the cars up north.
And while we drive, we are trying to come up with a plan.
We have no plan.
We have no idea really.

But we are at that point where people are asking us "So what's the plan??"
It's an entirely valid question.
One we ask ourselves..

But...
We have no plan.
We have no idea.

Here's what we do have:
We have happy,settled boys.
We have a family sacrificing to keep them happy and settled.
We have furniture and belongings being housed across Newcastle.
We have a shoe eating, escape artist dog being loved by my buddy Mr. Joel.
We have an oncologist in Sydney, where we also have more family making life easier.
We have these tiny little chemotherapy tablets that could pave the way towards that miracle we long to see.
We have hope.
We have faith.

But..we don't have a plan.

The human race, we are a people of plans.
We love to plan.
We plan our day.
We plan our holidays.
We plan for plenty and plan for none.

I love to plan.
The very act of planning for an event is more appealing to me then the event itself. (Hang around me in the weeks leading up to my sons birthday party)

And suddenly we find ourselves smack bang in the middle of No Plan Land.
And suddenly I need to be ok with the actual inability to plan.

Truth can be found in the most unlikely of places. Mike Tyson (why hello unlikely place) says of plans: "Everyone has a plan 'til they get punched in the mouth."
I had a plan.
2013 was all planned out.
Where I would go. ( yes, London. I'm talking about you.)
Where we would live.
What the days and weeks would look like.
It was our plan on how to keep living life like normal.
And then suddenly we got punched in the mouth.

So, there goes our plan.
Our forethought into 2013 went up in smoke.

But I'm ok with that.
I am.

We might not a have a plan.
But the God-of-the-angel-armies does.
He told me.
"Stress less sister..I got a plan!" That's the whispered message I got.

When my plans fall through.
When my plans turn to dust and ashes.
When what I wanted doesn't eventuate.
When we have no plan.
When we get punched in the mouth.

He's got a plan.
He truly, honestly does.

That magnificent tension...

I am standing between the spectacular tension of the beautiful and the tragic. That's how I would describe this season of life. Beautifully tragic. Tragically beautiful.

When the tragic threatens to overwhelm, the beautiful is present... Sweeping away all deep sadness and reminding us that the world really is worth lifting up our heads and opening up our eyes to see.

My beautiful is my sons.
My beautiful is a message from a friend.
My beautiful is my husbands laughter.
My beautiful is hearing that song.
My beautiful is a really good coffee.
My beautiful is the subtle reminders of grace.
My beautiful is the not so subtle reality of grace.
My beautiful is this deep and abiding peace that I am graced with afresh each sunrise.

When tragic moments face us it is easy and often expected that we lose all sense of anything but the noise of tragedy. And tragedy is noisy. It has a loud, booming sound that reverberates on the inside of us, unsettling us with its existence.
I know it well... That place where I hear it. I have sat and cried there...
Quietly in the noise of the tragedy of the diagnosis of my darlings cancer. I have been assaulted by that cacophony of soundless grief. The what if's and the maybe's and the wondering how's...

And in that moment..
In that tragic noise...
Something beautiful has happened.

The magnificent tension has happened.

The truly tragic has been matched with the truly beautiful and I find myself smiling.

I find myself staring at the tragic from the place of something beautiful. Someplace wonderful.


I think this is how Jesus might have faced the cross.
The monstrous tragedy of His sacrifice was tinged with the beauty of His reward.
The horrendous grief of separation from His rightful majesty was coupled with the astounding beauty of my salvation.

My salvation is found in that magnificent tension of Calvary. The beautifully tragic moment of sacrifice.

If we were left to tragedy, without the tinges of beauty to be a calming balm, how desperate we would be.
But we are never given over to pure tragedy in all fullness.

All we need to do is lift up our heads and open our eyes.
Something beautiful is waiting in the midst of booming tragedy.
Some peace is waiting in the centre of some tragic storm.

And that is where we are.... Experiencing the magnificent tension.

Definite. Earnest. Resolved

Ok,so I'm sitting in the car park at Colour. It literally just finished and I wanted to share this thought.
Tonight Chris Caine tore it up. I mean, the girl can preach. And as I was listening to her talk about resolve I was encouraged to do just that: resolve.

I resolve to hold onto the promise of Jesus: that He would never leave me or forsake me. He's here, in the middle of the tests and the treatment and the searching.
I resolve to let the goodness of my God be ever on my lips- especially at this moment when things don't look so good. Things don't have to look good for me to know that I serve a God who is good.
I resolve to look to the moment of our miracle and not fear the time it takes to get there.

Something Chris said resonated deep within me.. Resolve is NOT the wishful thinking that we so often resort to.
I don't place my expectation in wishful thinking.
I don't rely on the pretend world of wishful thinking.

I resolve.
To resolve is to come to a definite and earnest decision about something.

When the trouble comes, when the towers begin to crumble, when the diagnosis isn't great, when the money disappears... Have you come to a definite and earnest decision about what your response looks like?

A definite
An earnest
Decision
Resolve

That sort of stance can face the toughest blows and withstand.
That sort of positioning can handle the toughest news and not totally fall apart.

That sort of definite and earnest decision means that regardless of the circumstance and the situation, I can say with definite and earnest confidence...with a resolved heart....that my God is in control. He cares. He is here. He catches my tears and He hears my cry.

Definite
Earnest
Resolved

Xoxoxo thanks girls.

Life,Death and the moments in between.

Life.
Death.
The moments in between.

I'm thinking about that today... It's just some light stuff to mull over.

Life.
Birth.
Beginnings.
The first hello.
Our extended family extended further last night with the addition of a new little girl. An angel faced 7pd 4oz bundle of perfection. My niece. Bayleigh Addison. What a sweet name for a sweetheart.
She is a breath of fresh air into the tough times we have all been walking through.
She is a reminder of the beauty that is life and wonder.


And then there is the other end of the spectrum.

Death.
Endings.
The last goodbyes.
Our extended family said goodbye to Nana two years ago today. Dates and times don't mean that we miss her any more or less. It's a marker. A way to measure the moments that she has not been here. A way to take stock of the distance we have come from that final earthly goodbye.

And in the middle ground-
The moments in between.
Some of the moments are breathtaking in their beauty and some moments are gut wrenching in their pain.
Some moments pass by so fast that you are left spinning in the tailwind and some moments seem to freeze in time.

I am sitting,waiting by a hospital bed in a recovery ward.
Again.
The beep and whir of machines has become a familiar tune.
I'm in a moment.
And I am reminded that this is a moment.
This is nothing more than a moment.
A moment in between.

Between diagnosis and treatment.
Between leaving the boys and returning to the boys.
Between packing our belongings and unpacking our belongings.
Between not knowing where we will end up and arriving at where we will end up.
Between believing for a miracle and seeing a miracle.

The moments in between.

Something profound can happen in these moments.
Greatness in this world has been achieved by people who found purpose in the moments in between.
Moses was in a moment in between.
He was in between being an on the run fugitive and a leader who changed the face of a nation. He was in a moment in between.
He was in a desert.
In between being a prince and being a patriarch.
In between being incapable and being able.
And in his moment in between he came face to face with God.
Face to face.
And it wasn't when he was a prince. It wasn't when he was a leader of a million.
It was when he was in that moment.

That moment in between.

Oceans: Soundtrack of the rescued

As I type this I am listening to a song that has weaved it's way as the soundtrack for these moments we are walking through. It's called Oceans... Where feet may fail.

I have some idea of what that place can look like... That ocean, where feet may fail.

Walking through a cancer ward. Seeing my beloved in a cancer ward. He faces this with steadfast hope and overwhelming dignity. He is strength.
Here is that ocean, where feet may fail.
Watching the stories of other families unfolding around me.
A mother holds her sons hand and stares out the hospital window...faces set with grief as they prepare for surgery in the morning. A mass on the brain. A dark spot on a slide that is held up to a window. The fear and the longing is palpable. It's an ocean, deep and dark.
Daughters leaning in to place a gentle kiss on the head of a dad who is struggling to recover from the last chemotherapy round. Their world is being rocked by rolling waves of crisis.
The gaunt and frail body of a patient who painfully and slowly rolls towards the wall. He just wants to sleep. He is tired. He has had enough of the questions about how the pain is right now.


In deepest water.
In wildest waves.
In chaos and in trial.
In the midst of the storm.

I don't know if you have ever listened to a song or heard music that grabs you. It holds you in it's grip and it carries you. Where you hear in melody the echo of what your very own heart beats.

Someone, somewhere wrote this song.
Not knowing that today this woman would walk through a moment that deserved such a soundtrack.
A family would experience a trial that demanded such an expression.
Where feet may fail.
Deepest ocean.
Darkest water.
Wildest wind.
Failing feet.

Because in oceans deep, He stands.
Because in wildest wind, my eyes are focused above the roaring waves.

I have thrown my trust and my words of belief and declarations of faith at the foot of the cross for years. I have staked all that I am and all that I ever want on the One I call saviour, my commander of the angel armies.
And He has never NEVER never failed... He won't start now.

He holds the broken and the sinking above the deep.
He lifts the tired and the weary from the depth.
He pulls the drowning from the darkest deepest water.

I know this.
I am this.
I am being held, I won't sink.
In my desperate weariness I am being lifted. Up...My eyes are drawn.
In that second I thought I would drown in the grief of diagnosis, I was rescued.
I was rescued.
From the deep.
From that ocean, where feet may fail.


So, thank you songwriter who heard the ocean roar and wrote what this heart needed to sing.

Cyclone Stupid Cancer

A cyclone is brewing off the coast.
It started as wispy white trails of cloud and slowly it builds. It may become a raging giant or it might just wander out into the ocean, a big blob of white on a map.
Locals don't really ever know if the storm clouds that roll in off the sea will become the cyclone that shuts down the city.
They hope for the former.
They build for the latter.
If you have a house in this part of the tropics, you make sure it's cyclone proof long before its cyclone season.
If you are building a dream home, you ensure the roof is going to withstand cyclonic conditions.

I read a quote the other day and it stuck with me. It was on a mug in a gift shop.
"You can't fatten the pig on market day".

You can't cyclone proof your dream home after the winds begin to howl.
You can't fatten a pig on market day.

It's all in the steps before the moment.
The building.
The preparing.
The feeding of that pig on all the days leading up to market day.

I have had the privilege of being built up and fattened on hope and incredible, life sustaining faith on many moments and days leading up to these ones we find ourselves walking through.

My house of hope, standing internally, is built to withstand the cyclonic winds that Cyclone Stupid Cancer whips up.
I have gorged myself at the table of faith, feasting on the assurance that the One I serve is holding us close.

In the blue skied moments of life, it is imperative to build the structures of hope and faith to cyclonic wind standards.
When the winds whip up and the storm clouds develop into category 5 monsters, shelter in security and safety. Know that although the wild wind roars, nothing of true value will be blown away.
The master builder has prepared us for this storm season.
He has not left us to be thrashed and flattened.
I have been fed on the good stuff... The countless words of encouragement and truth have fattened us up for this season.

We are ready.
We are market ready.

So... Though the wind blows powerfully and the storm rages indefinitely - we rest easy.
It's not always easy to rest easy.
Anyone who has sat through a cyclone knows that it's not easy. If you have built to specific recommendations,you know the roof will withstand but you still might cast furtive glances upwards, putting your trust in the capable hands that completed that work.
That's what resting easy really is. It's being confident in the stability of the structure in the most uneasy of moments.

We fly south tomorrow. Away from one storm that sits sulking off the coast and straight into the force of one called Treatment.

We are ready.
We are storm ready.

The echo of empty

An empty house echoes. We heard it when we unlocked the door tonight.
The echo of empty.

It has taken only a few days and a multitude of friends to empty this house.
While we emptied, we danced.
 We put on my crazy, eclectic playlist and we danced our way through the process of packing.
 I love the shuffle button. Not knowing what comes next is half the fun. (she says smiling wryly).
I was able to educate the young ones, born in the early 90s, when "Just walk away Renee" came on. (The Rick Price version, obviously)
We sang our hearts out to "Sweet Caroline" (dah dah dah)... Throw in some Whitney, Lionel, Taylor, Ella, Guy, Bono and friends...add in Coldplay, Crowded House, The Beatles. No-one gets left out in my eclectic shuffle.
 Doing everything and doing nothing is made remarkably better with a truly surprising playlist.

And when the last box was packed and the last chair was put in the truck, the playlist had done it's task. Music had been the balm that I needed while I packed away our possessions.

And everything is packed.
And the house is empty.
And empty houses echo.

Tonight, because it's late and I'm ridiculously tired, this house echoes the moment my sons got Sadie the dog. The joy of that moment- the long awaited furry friend addition.
It echoes the sun drenched week I spent watching my twins suddenly realise that they can actually swim.
It echoes the friends sitting around our table, sharing the high and low points of 2012 as we welcomed in the new year. If I had known then what I know now, would I have raised my glass and smiled as the clock chimed midnight?
It echoes the moments that stretched out between doctors appointments as something sinister snuck up on us.
It echoes the moment I cried harder than I think I've ever cried before. Laying on the study floor. Realisation washing over me in waves.
Cancer and chemotherapy and sons going to stay with grandparents type waves.

An echo is a remnant left from something that has been.
A laugh that lasts when time has already moved forward.
A cry that lingers when the sadness has eased.

My days are littered with echoes- The loudest echo that I pay heed to is the reminder of grace when I need it most.
The lingering majesty of the moment of the cross- that's an echo that is worth inclining your ear towards.
The sometimes whispered and often bellowed reminder that we are not forgotten, He knows our name. He has called us by name. That is an echo I will lean into time and time again.

                                                    My darling husband as a boy.
                                          Echoes of that cheeky lad are present even now.
                                              Cute huh????

For better or worse.

Here's something you might not know on your wedding day: somtimes the 'worse' can get really bad.

Sheldon found out his company made him redundant today. Via a phone call.They will give us a two month pay out. 

Okay.

We are moving out of this house. An effort to slow down the money running out of our door.

Cancer...
Unemployment...
Moving out....

Hello.
Stop now.
Thanks.

Seeing my boy devastated this afternoon was ridiculously bad.
He is the provider.
He is a great provider.

...and then suddenly....
Okay-
We don't need this house.
We don't need the career.

We need each other.
We need a complete healing.
We need our boys.... who I miss beyond words right now.

Okay. 

Still breathing here. Still walking through. Just hit a hurdle.

For better or worse. Regardless of what worse looks like.
Regardless.

Room for light..

The presence of a friend in a dark moment makes a difference. It's like being locked in a dark room and a candle is lit.
 It is a warm flicker... a reassuring glow.
It pushes back at the overwhelming shadow.
It gives space to illumination.

You need illumination on dark days.

Our dark moment has not seen us consumed by shadows.
Truly dreadful news has the potential to do that- consume you.
Cancer. The very sound of that word, threatens to do that- consume you.
Chemotherapy. The very idea of how far a body can be pushed, threatens to do that- consume you.

I have been through the darkest days I have ever known in the past few weeks. I was not consumed by the shadows.
"..I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."
We walked through.
We are still walking through.
How easy it is to stop in that valley. To be consumed by the shadows of fear and to stop. To make camp by the town of "It's just not fair" and just stop.

Stopping wasn't really an option for me. All those phone calls and messages and hugs. I know people in our life have felt powerless during this time.
Each prayer you prayed on our behalf- mattered.
Each tear you cried on our behalf- mattered.
You helped us push back the shadows.

The very worst moments happen at the lowest point of the shadowed valley. Imagination runs rampart in the depths of this valley. My imagination has wandered down many paths- the darkest path called "It's terminal". That is a dark shadow to wade through...to push back.
How blessed am I to have people in my world who know what it means to exist and trade in LIGHT.
You helped me push back the shadows.

Walking through any valley you face comes down to this: the decision to walk... one step at a time.
A choice
A step
One step, one day, one at a time.

I'm holding on to a few things while we wait...
wait for oncology appointments
wait for treatment
wait for cancer to be out of his body
wait for healing
wait...

I'm holding onto fragments of light....
They occupy the places that used to be filled with a now vacating shadow.

No matter how dark the shadow or how deep the valley, there is always room for light.
You see.. the beauty of light is that the space it takes up is created from the matter of darkness.
No matter how dark the moment...
There is always room for light.

Turn on the light.

I am not into slasher movies. I just don't like being scared.
I am a self preservation sort. If it has the potential to scare or scar me, it's avoided. I mean, I freak out watching Man vs Wild. I'm like... "no Bear Grylls, I will not ever squeeze elephant dung into my face if I'm stuck in the African plains and I'm thirsty."
It's entirely easy to make such a declaration from the comfort of my soft leather lounge chair, double shot latte in hand.

Self preservation.
Preservation of me.
Keeping myself preserved.

And so I avoid scary movies.
And I don't jump off cliffs.
And I'm safe...safe,safe, safe.

...and then suddenly.

Two words have me off kilter and peering out through my fingers, not wanting to see what is unfolding before me.
Fear is funny like that. 
It always plays on the maybe realm and rarely on the plains of realistic fact.
The thriller movie is scary when the darkened doorway could possibly lead to certain peril (and the axe wielding mad man).The bungy jump or free fall plane jump frightens me because of the potential for something going horribly wrong.

The bread and butter of fear is the possibility of failure.

Two words have me off kilter and gravitating towards the city of 'what if'.

Diagnosis
&
Prognosis

My tendency to preserve in safety and sameness the course of my family has been sent into a tailspin by these two words.

Diagnosis is the axe wielding mad man. He's lurking in some darkened doorway. I haven't seen him and I don't actually know how dangerous he is,  but the music is building.... alerting us to the fact that we are walking into a frightful moment.
I always got cranky at those moments in the thriller... yelling at the screen "turn on the light!!!!Don't walk around in the dark!!!"

Turn on the light.
Don't walk around in the dark.

Prognosis is the 500 million foot bungy jump. The urgent hope is survival, the great desire is to retain some dignity in the fall and the wanted outcome is to bounce back up.
Odds are, you'll be fine. You leap, you hurtle,  you bounce back.
Odds are you'll be fine.

Dealing in fear is dealing in the futile. It's dealing in the shadows and the maybe of a darkened doorway.

Diagnosis & Prognosis. Two words that have tentacles of fears and worries and wonderings. They stretch out from these two words, these fears and worries and wonderings- and left unchecked they wrap around you so tightly until you lie paralyzed in their grip.

And so I pry my fingers from my eyes.
I turn on the light.
Don't walk around in the dark.
Disable the potential of the tentacles of fears and worries and wondering.

The Spirit I have been given is not one of fear. But rather of love, of power and a sound mind.

Sound minded moments must trump the frenzy of fear.

Turn on the light.

You can't fight what you don't know.

Sitting in the surgeon's office was one of those moments...One of those moments when everything shifted...the very fabric of our reality warped .

The thing is this though: cancer had been present for a long while before that Wednesday morning appointment. It was lurking in the background while we had Christmas and while we moved house. It had taken up residence while we fought over what now seems insignificant squabbles of married life.

A silent arrival.
A stealth addition.
Unwanted and uninvited.

You can't fight what you don't know. Knowing what was happening in his body seemed to slam the brakes on the pace of our days . What was vital suddenly became trivial. What I had come to take for granted suddenly screamed at me. The silent and the hidden was detected and named. It took me days to say the word.... I couldn't. It felt like a betrayal of my faith and optimistic confidence to actually say "Sheldon has cancer. ." Crazy huh??
But I have realized that knowing and naming is powerful.  Solutions come with knowing. Plans can be made and treatment started.
So...that Wednesday appointment was a moment. A heartbreakingly great moment. You get why it was heartbreaking, but can you see how it was great??? We had found the silent and hidden scum that is cancer. We had it in our sights. You can't fight what you don't know. We know. And so now we fight.
As I write this, I'm sitting in the waiting room of the PET scan place at the Mater. This is fighting: It's waiting rooms and appointments and prayers and me telling my husband that he is going to win. It's holding onto something deep and unwavering.

If you know me you know how much I love to wait and yet this is my battle ground for this moment. I'm the waiting room warrior.

and then suddenly... change

Have you read that one story,  about the heroine who is stranded and about to perish at the hands of the villan.. and then suddenly the hero arrives.
That movie, you know the one about the asteroid that is set to wipe out the world and then suddenly the geniuses fix the spaceship.
That song about how lonely life was and then suddenly love walks in.

....and then suddenly.....

Words that change a story.

Our story has undergone somewhat of an overhaul in the past few weeks. And the three words that seem to make an appearance in many of the stories I have read have made an appearance here.
..and then suddenly. ..

It goes something like this. We were busy with work and life and church. We were parents and had friends and made school lunches and cooked barbecues. We were busy....busy...busy.
...and then suddenly he was tired.
....and then suddenly he felt sick.
....and then suddenly he had cancer.

Some stories are like that. They take a turn that you might not have seen coming.
I didn't see this coming.. it wasn't a part of the plan.
But seriously. There are very few moments when the "and then suddenly" scenario is actually planned. The unplanned-ness of the suddenly is what makes it a suddenly and not a "we saw this from miles away and were totally prepared for it."
So what do we do with this "and then suddenly" event that is now our today?
We deal.
We cry petulant tears.
We are grateful for the good news.
We send our babies to grandparents while we sort this "and then suddenly" moments out.
The truth is that this "and then suddenly" moment might have kind of snuck up on us but we serve a Creator, commander of the angel armies who doesn't have the same response to my "and then suddenly" scenario as I tend to have.
He is in my tomorrow. and the rest of the tomorrow's before us. He stands outside of the fabric that is time and he is.
He is the voice that speaks peace to the waves in the midst of this storm.
He is the sure assurance that regardless of diagnosis or prognosis He is still on the throne. Still in control. Always sovereign.
...and then suddenly...in the midst of internal chaos and external upheaval I hear it yet again. A timely reminder that my suddenly moments might be unexpected but they are not out of control.