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.