I have a testimony 'bout Jesus

"I have a testimony 'bout Jesus. He carries me through the worst storms! I only call on Jesus. I'm leanin' on His everlasting arms..." 
-Jon Thurlow (worship set that you should seriously take a minute to watch before reading on!)

Someone recently taught me the difference between a testimony and biography. A biography is the story about my life. A testimony is the story of Jesus' life intersecting with mine. Both stories can inspire, challenge, and change us but the biography ultimately points people to our glory. A testimony allures worshiping hearts to the only one truly worthy of our worship. I want to be that one.

And THEN, I read in Revelation (12:11) about how God is basically planning to fix this whole broken mess-of-a-world with the "blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony." Sign me up for that, too, please.


David Guzik explains:  "They overcame him . . . by the word of their testimony: The word of their testimony overcomes Satan’s deception. Knowing and remembering the work of God in their life protects them against Satan’s deceptions. As faithful witnesses, they have a testimony to bear - and because they know what they have seen and heard and experienced from God, they cannot be deceived by Satan’s lies telling them it isn’t true (as the testimony of the man born blind in John 9:25)."

Since the blood of the Lamb has given me a testimony, I thought I should keep writing about it. Which means I have to remember to remember it! So if you will bear with me, I'd like to dedicate this post (three weeks after my final treatment #12!) to remembering a little testimony about a great big God.

I have a testimony about Jesus...

I remember March 2011, shaky knees on top of a mountain in Colorado, trying my best to ski but utterly confused as to why I was so terribly exhausted.
I remember feeling ashamed as I struggled to hike up a moderate hill in May when my Mom (granted, she's a rock-star) had no trouble at all.
I remember feeling annoyed in June, waking up drenched in sweat and plagued by a persistent little cough.
I remember family and friends getting concerned when my finger nails became flaky and weird.
I remember sleeping ten hours or more a night, a non-negotiable nap around noon.
I remember feeling disappointed when, in September, Jonathan and I were no closer to calling ourselves "parents" than we were eleven months earlier.
I remember feeling hopeful when that led us to make a doctor's appointment, which led us to do blood work, which led to an answer: anemia, which might just lead to a speedy solution!
I remember having fun finding and eating as much iron as I could, joking about needing an iron skillet, and (to my delight!) getting one for Christmas.
I remember the iron pills and skillets not working. As my red blood cell count decreased, so did my hope.
I remember taking several breaks to climb the stairs to my apartment, needing the elevator to get me to the second floor at work, and pausing quite often to slow my racing heart.
I remember feeling nauseous and achy most days, three bites of oatmeal seeming like a feast.
I remember powerful prayers of others fighting for me when I had no strength to fight for myself.
I remember my doctor telling me I would need a blood transfusion (twice), which made me quite squidgidy, and feeling grateful to those who endured the pain of a donation needle so that I could have the blood to live.
I remember the strange experience of feeling crushed and crumpled on the inside when Dr. Visconti broke the news that the IV of Infed was just as ineffective as everything else in raising my blood count.

I remember what it felt like to have cancer winning it's war against my body.

...He carried me through the worst storm...

I fondly remember a week at the Mayo clinic, believe it or not, because it meant a vacation with Jonathan who cheerfully insisted on pushing me around the entire complex in a wheelchair.
I remember feeling joy and peace on Monday, as I listened to hymns being played by in the hospital lobby.
I remember feeling guilty for being so weak and needy on Tuesday.
I remember feeling terrified and small on Wednesday, when my very qualified Mayo doctor said the bone marrow biopsy was fine, which really meant he didn't know what was wrong with me.
I remember feeling comforted when he said this was now his problem, and I wouldn't leave that place without answers.
I remember the Holy Spirit clearly telling me to wait, when all logic told us to go, leading to an expedited diagnosis.
And I certainly remember getting that diagnosis on Thursday, time standing still, my mind unable to comprehend the pairing of a doctor's optimistic smile forming the words "good news" followed shortly with "just lymphoma, only six months of chemo."

...I only call on Jesus...

I remember the reality slowly sinking in as we walked down a hallway full of people, squeezing Jonathan's hand in an effort to hold back the tears.
I remember them starting to fall anyway.
I remember sitting on a bed in our hotel room, trying to decide what to say to my mom and dad and brother.
I remember listening to Jonathan tell his mom and dad and brothers.
I remember putting a positive spin on it all, focusing on the good statistics, all the while desperately trying to keep an avalanche of panic from starting to crash in around me.
I remember Friday, after the chest biopsy, when reality could not be denied.
I remember lying exhausted but peaceful in another hotel room, after finally pouring out my heart to Jesus while Jonathan sat quietly on a couch in the corner, feet up, one arm laying across his head, covering his eyes.
I remember thinking that he seemed to be in worse shape than me. Maybe he just didn't how to let it out.
 I'll never forget the song he began to sing, which, if it wasn't so sad, would have been sort of funny:
"Noooooobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow, NOOObody knows the trouble we've seen.....on and on and on and on and on and on until....
"Jeeeesus knows the trouble I've seen, and Jesus loves my Ashley. Jesus knows the trouble we've seen, and Jesus loves us, so...."

I remember six months of healing, where my symptoms melted away with the cancer.
I remember celebrating.
I remember intimacy with family, friends, and God.
I remember the victory of Jesus; a victory over more than just cancer, a victory over fear.

...I'm leaning on His everlasting arms. 

Celebrating my second clean scan with Dr. Visconti! 

Celebrating the end of chemo in South Carolina! 

I am having an end-of-chemo party this Saturday and will share the pics once the party is over. Expectations: a cut-throat guitar hero tournament, highly competitive donut-eating contest, ruggedly dangerous three-legged race, and a devastated pig piñata. Warning: this party is not for the faint of heart!

A chemo kind of prayer

I've survived #10 and #11 (we're not really worried about me not surviving one, but I always like a reason to celebrate). Number ten was a doozy, causing some new side effects that my doctor decided weren't worth the risk so he eliminated what he believes to be the culprit: Bleomycin, the "B" of my ABDV chemo cocktail. I was thrilled to get one less drug and we pray that "B" didn't cause any long-term problems in my lungs. Doctor V. continues to smile because I have hair and that makes me smile too!

 Even as I'm enjoying a weekend of Romanian hospitality from Ramona and her family in Chicago, recovering under comfy covers while Jonathan and our friends study to become great dentists, my mind flashes with faces of others I know who are also at home, their bodies hard at work fighting cancer and trying to compensate for the effects of chemo. 

This is my prayer for them; friends like Mary Lynn, no stranger to fighting cancer as she's been undergoing treatment for something like ten years. She is skilled at laughter and somehow manages to deflect all attention off her own pain to inquiries of mine, with kind eyes and a reassuring smile that makes me feel so much less alone. This is a prayer for a new friend, recently diagnosed with breast cancer, full of courage and spunk as her body faces its biggest challenge yet. And mostly, this is a prayer for children survivors. I see chubby-cheecked baby faces that I wish my hands had power to hold and make all the bad parts of chemo go away. Maybe I can't do that, but as I lay here I'm going to let my mind wander and imagine the hands that can. 

******************************

I pray His body becomes flesh today, that you open your eyes after a good, long nap to see His loving ones gazing into yours. 

I pray you curl up in His lap and know the comfort of a hug. 

I want to crown your beautiful head with a perfect hat, made from only the finest fibers, of course. It fits you like a glove and when it's on, your scalp stops stinging. Hair follicles can take a deep breath. Relax, they are no longer under attack. 

I want to give you a drink of living water, the kind that's crisp as it runs down your throat, healing the blistered tissue on your gums and tongue, cooling your burning heart and lungs. You can feel it flow through your veins, hydrating your thirsty skin from the inside out. Drink it up until you are soggy with life again! 

I pray His skilled hands move up and down your arms and legs, massaging away the fire and exhaustion until you are completely and utterly restored. 

I want Him to breathe energy into your airways. Passion and excitement accompany each puff. 

I pray His lips kiss your finger tips, bringing back to life nerve endings that are inconveniently M.I.A., reviving the delightful experience of touch. 

I want your taste buds to reawaken the pleasure of sweet and salty. Savor each flavor-burst of fruit freshly-plucked from the tree of life. 

I would wrap you up in a magic temperature-changing blanket that effortlessly compensates for even the hottest flashes and chilliest chills. It's a custom-made climate just for you! 

I pray His palms settle over your tummy, hovering until the chaos quiets and everything inside becomes a well-oiled machine. 

I pray the butterflies and worry warts flutter or sputter away as His Perfect Love casts out fear . 

I want to give you a brand-new walk-in closet of clothes that fit your changing body, expandable waist band for those days, making you feel beautiful, because you are.

I want to erase the "remembering" part of your stomach that recalls with shocking accuracy chemo-flu nausea as you glimpse any item of clothing, pass any restaurant, or smell any scent remotely tethered to treatment day. 

I pray He digs down deep to the source of that nausea, pulling it up and out of your body until you can feel hunger and fullness, hold the side of queasy, please. 

I want His fingers to tickle your toes, making you giggly or silly or carefree, and bringing more healing with each jolt of laughter. 

I pray He sits by your side and that you know you are not alone. 

I pray you feel touched, comforted, loved beyond belief. 

I pray you are healed, that cancer goes away and never ever comes back to play. 

I want His kingdom to come, His will to be done, in your life for now and forever more. 

Laughing Jesus

Number Nine!  Only 3 left! I know, I know, I just spent my last entry talking about how the "only _____  more left!" phrase failed to bring me any comfort, but this week is different. My doctor says I can blame my vacillating moods on something like a temporary, medically-induced menopause, so I think I will.

Mom and me after #9

Since this weekend Jonathan and I celebrate our five year wedding anniversary, I've spent some time reflecting on events since last June. So much has changed, but the consensus is that we are in a better place now than we were then. A theme stood out during my stroll down memory lane; repeated re-surrender...the kind that walks a thin line between excruciating pain and exhilarating pleasure. Maybe a story can explain better.

This Sunday I had a chance to bring my mind, attitude, heart, soul...whatever you want to call it, back to Jesus. Sometimes I wonder where it goes, and why it seems to keep running away from Him, but inevitably, I can tell it's happened because "whatever you want to call it" feels cold and dead, like a smelly fish on the bottom of someone's boat. It's not that I've made a conscious declaration of independence from Him, or that I think He's turned away from me, or even that I'm unsure of my salvation, it just seems like my tendency towards self-reliance whisks me away into building and running my own kingdom, instead of willingly joining His. My soul simply cannot tolerate this constant rebellion like it used to.

So, collectively at our Sunday morning service my church family came together for communion. It is often during communion that I first realize I've become a smelly-dead-fish and need to be revived. During this process of communing with the most beautiful presence I have ever known, I find myself declaring a familiar phrase, stolen from a Chris Tomlin song, one I've uttered multiple times this year:

"I lift my hands to believe again! You are my refuge, You are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember: You are faithful God,  forever."


The first time I declared this was last November on a date-night to a Chris Tomlin concert. At this point, I was operating on what my brother-in-law dubbed, "half-blood" so even walking short distances was unpleasant, not that this kept me from wearing heals. I mean, it's date-night, after all . We couldn't find the entrance to Chaifetz Arena, so I logged some extra miles around the building before finding the seats, which were great seats if you were in any mood to be surrounded by very energetic, worshipping Christians. Unfortunately, I was not. I felt so bad, physically, but felt even more "bad" about feeling bad. I wanted to stand and sing and worship with everyone else. Instead, I was ready to punch the next arm that waved across my face and poor Jonathan was in serious danger of being that arm.  Picking up on the quickly-deteriorating status of our date, and having some kind of supernatural ability to extend grace to me in my ugliest moments, Jonathan convinced me to be a "rebel" and climb to the top of the arena, where there were still plenty of free seats. I grumbled over each painful step to the top of that mountain in my gold heals, but we did arrive, victorious and completely alone. Here, I was able to rest, letting the worship of everyone below us rise to wash over me. Here, I learned that even in the midst of physical pain, it is possible to be so enamored by His presence that, while the pain in not gone, there's no place you'd rather be. It's the strangest experience of contentment I've ever known.

Then, when Chris sang his song, "I Lift My Hands," I decided to rise. I wish you could see this memory as I do. With the stage lights as they were, the audience was only slightly illuminated by a glowing kind of darkness, mostly people on their feet with thousands upon thousands of tiny little fingers reaching into the air, like they wanted nothing more than to be closer to whatever that presence was that just kept beckoning them to a place, higher and higher. And then the voices! All kinds of them, rising up in passion as they proclaimed love for an unseen God. Even as I started to feel a sacred sort of union with everybody below me, I also experienced a sense of being very much alone. The darkness became thick, the voices seemed to fade as I chose to let mine rise and I'm convinced the one spotlight on the stage turned completely around to illuminate me, posturing myself at the top of the auditorium, leaning against the guard rail like I was Rose DeWitt Bukater on the Titanic. It felt as if all eyes were on me and I knew this moment meant everything. I knew that choosing to stand there, feeling so exposed and vulnerable and "on-stage", was really my stage before my most important audience. I was on stage for Holiness himself. This was my moment to tell Him what I was going to do with my pain, my fear, my doubts. So I lifted my hands to the sky and sang:

"I lift my hands to believe again! You are my refuge, You are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember: You are faithful God,  forever."

Phew. As you can imagine, this song has been meaningful ever since. The cherry on top is that I really think Jesus loves that memory, that moment, as much as I do and I'll tell you why. On Sunday after communion and that moment of re-surrender, I told Jonathan on our drive home about how much I loved that song. I had no sooner finished suggesting that we plug in his phone and play it, when I heard those all-too-familiar notes on the radio...yep, I do believe God directly intervened with either me or that radio station to play our love song. Jonathan smiled and said "this is what Jesus is doing right now," then flipped around his phone to show me his background picture:

I'd have to agree.

Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes; the rest sit round it and pluck blackberries. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Jehovah Shammah

Chemo number eight is over and four more remain. Many people don't have a finish line laid so clearly before them.
I should be excited about that, I know.

Today I was able to blow dry and style my hair. Most people don't have any hair to brush at this point in treatment.
I should be grateful for that, I know.

So why do I find myself feeling numb instead of happy when the voices of loved ones celebrate that "there's only four more!"When did my heart change from a song of praise for each day I still have hair, to a frenzied assessment of whether I lost more today than yesterday? (I may or may not have a trash receptacle dedicated to measuring each week's lost and found strands). Where did fears of relapse and possible long-term chemo side-effects find an audience in my mind? How did that sly devil of doubt slither into the bed of my faith, messing up my freshly-laundered, tightly-tucked covers?

I should read my own blog and rest assured of His love, His presence, His healing, His provision.
I should be able to work longer, get up earlier, exercise harder (or at all), feel better sooner.
I should be praising louder, praying stronger, loving better.

But, it's time I stop "shoulding" all over myself.

The truth is that, even though I think I know who I should be, I am not that person. I often don't know who I am. Sometimes I even forget who He is. As I trudge along in this marathon, I am just as desperate for His presence and His reassurance as when I began. I found myself in a mini faith-crisis just this week as I questioned the role of the Holy Spirit in my life. I spent hours researching our faith history, curious to find out who or what is influencing my current thoughts and beliefs about God. Am I a cessationalist  or sensationalist? Am I charismatic, neo-charismatic, radical, reformed, or just wrong and weird? By the end I knew only that I didn't know. And I knew that I needed to hear from Jesus (cross-out cessationalist, then), because every theological quest I've ever begun has at its core a question of deep, personal significance. This week my question was simple, "God, do you still see me? Do you really speak to me? Do you love me?"

I finally turned to the old, weatherworn pages of my Bible (weatherworn because I left it in the rain, not as a result of some extreme scriptural devotion). I read about "Jehovah Shammah," the Lord who is there.

"Be strong and bold, have no fear or dread of them because it is the Lord, your God who is with you. He will not fail or forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:6


"...and remember, I am always with you, to the end of the age." Matthew 28:20


"...this is the Spirit of Truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him or knows him. You know him, because he abides with you and he will be in you." John 14:17


"...be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you.'" Hebrews 13:5

Theology meets Theophany. The Word became Life and my belief became sight: He will never leave me nor forsake me! As those precious words have soaked in my heart this week, I've learned a little about who I am and who I am not. I am not loved for who I should be, but as I am. I am not loved because of who I am, but because of who He is. But most importantly, I am loved. Even though I wish this moment of clarity and  faith would carry me through until eternity, or at least the end of chemo, I have a feeling that when I wake up tomorrow morning I will need to hear it, believe it and see it once again. Jehovah Shammah will be there...which should help me stop "shoulding" so much.

Kendra and John chemo-sat for #8

The perfect place for a recovery weekend

Keeping Vigil

vig·il

   [vij-uhl] 

noun

1.

wakefulness maintained for any reason during the normal hours for sleeping.

2.

a watch or a period of watchful attention maintained at night or at other times: The nurse kept her vigil at the bedside ofthe dying man.

3.

a period of wakefulness from inability to sleep.

It seems it has been awhile since my last update, since the celebration of the first of what I hope to be many more "clean scans." Thanks for your ideas about how I might now approach my remaining chemo treatments (5 more!) Vacations, celebrations, songs and poetry are dreams now swimming in my head. Today, I thought I could share how one of those suggestions has transformed my dreaded Thursdays into times of beauty. 

Two different friends in two different spaces and places suggested to me the idea of "praying the hours". I was unfamiliar with this ancient concept and after studying it some the past few weeks, I have found myself appreciative and enriched by the heritage of saints, brothers and sisters that have shared in it. 

To explain, briefly and imperfectly, praying the hours is a way to recognize the sacredness in the hours of the day. It's a way to maintain a posture of worship. Sounds good, right?!? If aware, we can appreciate and mimic the progression of a sleepy-sunrise stumbling towards the midday sun. We can take a moment to pause in the middle of our work day and reconnect with our Creator. A deep sigh and sunset on our drive home slows us into evening, as we fall gracefully into an embrace of darkness, sleep, and silence....anticipating the sunrise of the next day. God's way of building worship into the simple experience of our day has been overwhelming me. 

The hour I've found myself most relating to is actually the hour dedicated for those who awake in the middle of the night. It's the hour of those who can't sleep. It's the hour for those who suffer. This is the hour of vigil, traditionally prayed in the middle of the night or early in the morning, meant to embrace the darkness, to stand firm in the silence with those who have lost the strength to stand.

Macrina Wiederkehr in Seven Sacred Pauses: Living mindfully through the hours of the day speaks this way of night vigils: 

"Rising from sleep in the heart of the night, I keep vigil with eternal questions....Holding vigil with the Guardian of Life, whose eye shines down upon all who live in terror of the night, I become quiet. In the middle of the night I hold hands with trust and surrender to the One who sees without a light....Like Jesus, keeping watch the night before he died, I keep watch with those who wait alone...I keep vigil with those whose tired hearts have lost hope. In the middle of the night I pray for those who sleep and those who cannot sleep. I pray for those with fearful hearts, for those whose courage is waning. I pray for those who lost vision of what could be. When I rise in the middle of the night, my prayer is simply one of waiting in silence, waiting in darkness, listening with love." (pg 29-31)

I may be drawn to this hour of meditation because those pesky hives and hot flashes keep waking me up every two hours. Being someone who typically enjoys uninterrupted sleep, these past few months have been...unusual. Anxiety-driven prayers for more sleep, wide-eyed staring at the ceiling for hours, and flip-flopping around the bed have proven unhelpful, so I changed my perception of these night awakenings. They are no longer annoyances but invitations. I'm no longer being inconvenienced, rather, invited to worship. Helplessness morphs into purpose as I take up arms with Jesus in the darkness, keeping vigil with Him, for those who also sit in darkness but feel like they are there all alone. No one should feel alone. 

Even though this started as a night-time prayer ritual, the flavor of these prayers has followed me into the day, especially on those chemo Thursdays where I find myself surrounded by people embracing suffering. I see some purpose in my chemo treatments because I now know I am fighting for them. 

Oh, but don't feel sorry for them. These friends of mine are warriors, too. Most are much more brave than myself. I want to tell them this. I want to shake their arms and look into their eyes and tell them how very brave they are, for driving to that chemo office again and again. I want them to see how humbled I am by their cancer scars, their years of uncertainty and fighting to survive for.....well, for kids or pets or just because they know nothing else but to fight. I want them to know they are seen, that their battles matter, that they are never alone. Their stories give me courage to walk into another treatment with my bag full of prayer shawls, crackers, cucumber-mint water, and earbuds. Their faces remind me of an unsettling reality: there is a battle with a long, dark night ahead, and I'm going to take the night watch. Well, not just me. The sweetest part of these vigils is the face of Jesus, who never stops standing vigil for us all. I'm just privileged to join him for whatever short time my weak flesh can stand to keep watch.

I thought maybe this idea would relate to more than just cancer survivors. I thought others who find themselves awake in the middle of the night with a crying baby, or working the night shift, or unable to quiet their mind from the worries of the day might find comfort in joining the vigil. There is purpose in the night. The darkness doesn't need to be scary, just find those of us keeping our light on in it. Most importantly, find the One whose heart is a constant vigil for you.

#6 Not punching him,
just excited to fight cancer.

#7 was a birthday celebration
with Hannah and Laura! 

Yum Yum knows how I feel after these Thursdays. 

High Five Friday!

There's this thing happening, which I love, from some of the blogs I read, called "High Five for Friday!" What a great way to celebrate everything that's good from the week, 
so I linked up with Laura, From My Grey Desk

Here's my Top Five: 

1. 66 Love Letters by Larry Crabb

This book is changing the way I read the Bible....who knew Leviticus could be moving! 

2. AACC webinar by Dr. Moon and Dr. Tan about spiritual direction and the role of the Holy Spirit in counseling. I love what I get to do. 

3. Sick days. 

I felt icky and more tired that usual, due to a cold-allergies-chemo-who knows? The good news is that I enjoyed serious rest, caught up on reading, and found some new blogs to follow. 

4. SIUE Dental School Intramural Team are league champions! 

...and the championship game was at 11:00 last night-crazy college kids :) 

5. Catching up with friends through extended phone dates this week. Good for the soul. 

Happy Friday!  

Soli Deo Gloria

I'm happy to be writing this post. :)

While I know we are all, ultimately, on a journey to our real home, I'm very happy to report that it doesn't appear God wanted my exit plan to include Hodgkins Lymphona, at least not anytime soon!

Last Friday I had my first PET scan, and I anticipated getting the results this week during my doctor's appointment.  Usually, it's my secret goal at doctor visits to get my wonderfully-caring but oh-so-serious doctor to crack a smile. This week, I didn't even have to try. Dr. Visconti met me at the door with a giant grin and the good news: my first scan is clean! The fist-size mass taking over my chest cavity and invading the personal space of my heart is completely gone. My heart is grateful for the breathing room and I'm so glad for this good news.

What's extra-encouraging is research that shows people whose cancer is gone for the first scan have an even higher "cure" rate, which means it's less likely the cancer will reappear later.

Many of you celebrated with me this week. Thanks for joining our little Facebook party! While I'm full of gratitude, the news triggered a complicated grab-bag of emotions. I'll try my best to share with you through what I'm sure will be inadequate words.

It might help to know some context. Rewinding to Wednesday night, I started to feel afraid about the scan results. Most of the days since my diagnosis have been marked by surprising peace and a confidence that I was healed. But it's risky to hope for that, I felt vulnerable. What if I was wrong? I became terrified that the scan would show an unchanged mass of cancer. As fear hijacked my imagination, I was consumed with a picture of my body, "lit up" on the scan with cancer spreading everywhere. Yep, I'd successfully managed to terrify myself.

So on the Wednesday before another Thursday, Jonathan and I began to pray. Well, honestly it was more like me huddled in the fetal position, Jonathan standing over me, alternating between prayer and worship. I'd open an eye long enough to look up and see him with his hands in the air, praising our God. Jonathan's jubilant nature is hard to ignore and I eventually softened to God's influence too.

Fear became less powerful as the Holy Spirit turned my desire for peace into a reality. He made it possible for me to believe that nothing (of true importance) would change, regardless of my scan results.

When I did get the news about the clean scan I felt so happy, but nothing changed in the deepest core of my being. Rather than feeling a great sense of relief or being absolved of anxiety, I felt a happiness that comes from opening the perfect gift from someone you know real, really loves you.  I suppose this is a good thing. Maybe I'm slowly starting to believe in my heart what comes out of my mouth: death isn't the enemy, self-preservation isn't my goal. Soli Deo Gloria.

Even as I write this, I'm afraid I sound too flippant about the greatness of my news. For others, whose story never included a clean scan, I fear they would say I'm taking for granted my good report. I sure don't want to. I hope I can fully experience and celebrate God's gifts without making those gifts my God. I hope I'm learning to embrace my sufferings without abandoning His promises.

Floodgates of joy opened for me Friday night, as the news continued to sink in and I listened to the words of this song:

"And the arms that hold the universe, are holding you tonight. You can rest inside. It's gonna be alright. And the voice that calmed the raging sea is calling you his child. So be still and know He's in control. He will never let you go."  -Arms that hold the universe, Fee

"I'm going to be ok. It's going to be ok..." and that's not just because I have a clean scan :)

In addition to feeling joy, I think I'm also struggling to know how to get through the remaining seven chemo sessions. I need a new visualization, now that the mass is gone. I need something to be fighting for as I sit through those chemical drips the next four months. Any suggestions???

In the meantime, I fully intend to celebrate this gift with a "YAY!" balloon from Maura and a lunch date at Josephine's....and by wearing my cowgirl boots a lot.

Steph, Ramona, Liz and Hannah treating me to a celebratory lunch! 

Wednesday before another Thursday

"Well, it's a Wednesday before another Thursday..."

Jonathan's intro to our prayer before this week's chemo treatment. The words feel heavy with meaning for me, on the eve of another Thursday. I just completed my fourth treatment, which is the second round (of six), and makes me about 1/3 of the way done. I'm learning a lot about my body and how it responds to the drugs during each bi-weekly cycle. I can tell you that I feel it "hit" me about two hours into the three hour procedure. I know it's safe to eat Panera chicken-noodle soup on our way home, that I won't want to fall asleep that night, and that I'll spend the weekend distracting myself from the chemo-flu with friends, family, or some weird tv show about noodling.

I also know that I will feel 110% in exactly eleven days, which is three days before the Wednesday before another Thursday.

I love those three days. I feel like my old self: full of energy, strong, healthy. I celebrate by trying to wear extra-cute clothes and learning new styles for my hair. It's hard to say goodbye to all that on the Wednesday before another Thursday, hence the need for prayer night.

These times of prayer are the only way I know how to fight back against cancer. Being sick forces me to admit what I've always known, deep down inside: I'm not as strong, brave, or capable as I pretend to be. I'm certainly not in control of my world the way I'd like to be. But, prayer takes me into the presence of the One who is. The surprising thing is that I end up joining Him in the fight against cancer anyway, His way. He gives me the weapon of prayer, and has revealed an army of prayer warriors around me.

Like the men on Charleston Southern's division one football team, for example. Jonathan and I were enjoying our spring break trip to South Carolina, where Matthew is on the coaching staff for the Buccanners, when we met an army of unexpected warriors. The coaching staff asked if we could join them after a practice for prayer. We ended up surrounded by sixty football players, allowing them to "fight" on our behalf for this cancer to go away and for my heart to continue trusting in God. A very cool moment, (a very smelly prayer!) and a memory our family will always cherish.

Jonathan David Hesler talks about a "God of the Angel Armies" in this song:

Seems like all I can see, is the enemy surrounding me. Seems like all I can feel, is lies that you're not real. I lift my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the one who made the earth and the Heaven....
I believe that you're more real, than what I can see. I believe these hills are full, of a mighty Angel Army. 
God of the Angel Armies, you're mighty to save. 
God of the Angel Armies, you are worthy of our praise. 
God of the Angel Armies, you fight for us. 
God of the Angel Armies, you come down, and praises go up. 

I wonder, what does God's army of angels look like, exactly? Are they at all interested in fighting this fight with me? I hope so! Until proven otherwise, I'm just going to imagine they look something like those 60 Buccanneers.

Currently, my army is engaged in a battle for more white blood cells. I need them and I'd like them in great quantity, fast! Against all odds, my hair maintains it's position on my head with, regrettably, a few more casualties than usual each time I shampoo and blow dry. The cost of war.

I'm also eager for my first PET scan since my diagnosis, which will take place this Friday. The hope and expectation is for a clean scan, "cancer free!" I will still continue treatments through August-my doctor couldn't be talked out of that one, even though I tried. Thanks again for all of your prayers, cards, meals, and encouragement. I hope I can continue to pass along the same to others.

#3 with dad

Celebrating "good days"

Kicking cancer hiney with Jon at #4

Let us be thankful boys and girls...

"Let us be thankful boys and girls, for eyes and ears and toes, and puppies with wet noses. Let us be thankful boys and girls, for lessons we have learned, love we have not earned. Follow the beat of amazing grace, Oh let us be thankful boys and girls." -Billy Crockett, "Thankful Boys and Girls"

Billy is on to something. Gratitude has proven itself a helpful medicine for the heart. I think its benefits are even undisputed in the world of psychology, where nearly nothing is undisputed.  I know it's been true of my journey so far. On one particularly dreary evening, soon after my diagnosis, Jonathan found me buried sour-faced under the covers. I'd been there for a while; despondent, melancholy, grumpy and otherwise pitiful. What a mess.

So he got under the covers too, which was his first wise step. Then he chose to say nothing, his second. He just hit "play" and let iTunes do the talking for us, praying God would choose a song that would minister to my heart. He didn't know what song would play or that it would start smack-dab in the middle of one of our favorites. This is what we heard:

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for loving. Thank you for coming. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for loving. Thank you for coming." The voice moved up and down the scale in a maddeningly carefree chorus of gratitude, which could not have been more opposite of the chorus in my heart. The contrast between she and I was so dramatic that it prompted one of those "time stands still" moments. I felt like the world stopped, flipped inside out, and came undone.

Of course, thank you. Thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for loving. Thank you for solving my biggest problem: that I was once condemned in your presence and sentenced to an eternity apart from you. Now I am not. Thank you for coming, thank you for loving.

Thank you that I can call you Abba. Thank you for assurance of an eternity where I will be what you originally created me to be, where I will sing and dance the praises I'm meant to offer you and no longer spend my time hoarding praise for myself. Thank you that I will be free.

Thank you that I know there is purpose in all suffering, and while weeping lasts for the night, joy will come in the morning.

Thank you for your sweet voice, spoken to deep places of my soul since I was a little girl. 

Thank you that my cancer symptoms ALL disappeared one week before I started chemo. Night sweats, exhaustion, chest pains, a racing heart, an absent appetite, nausea, are all gone! I had a hunch those symptoms were unnecessary.

Thank you for blood banks and blood donors, but thank you that I need no more transfusions. Thank you that my red blood cell count stopped decreasing for the first time in six months and actually increased by a whole point before chemo started! Thank you that I no longer look like I should be cast in a "Twilight" movie and that my cheeks and lips are starting to get rosy again.

Thank you that I feel better with chemotherapy than before it started, minus a day or two of the week. Thank you that I have energy to do laundry, walk up the stairs, and dust my ceiling fan now.

Thank you that I still have all of my hair. Even though the doctors and nurses said it would fall out by now, thank you for each day it hasn't.  And if it does- although this also seems to me to be quite unnecessary- thank you for my wig, scarfs, and cute hats with big earrings that I'm ready to wear.

Thank you that I can imagine myself curled up under your protective wing, so safe, and that I can imagine little super-power white blood cells armed with sparkly, lethal light-rays breaking apart the mean, ugly cancer cells like a battle scene from Star Wars.

Thank you that I can continue to pray for every cell in my body, for every chemical being put into my veins to come under the ultimate power and authority of Jesus Christ- the power that brought dead cells back to life, put a beat back in a heart, and commanded open wounds be healed. I will pray that prayer for myself and all of my friends whose bodies are at war with cancer today.

Thank you for loving. Thank you for coming.

All I Ask of You

Good news! My port has a name.

It's Manilow, as in Barry. Shortly after Nurse Amazing (aka Diane) successfully accessed my port for the first time, an ad for the Barry Manilow special edition, best-of-the-best, solid-gold hits collection flashed across the screen of our community tv. Barry posed with his arms outstretched to either side, chin tilted to the sky, singing his heart out in a tight, white-leather, bling-bling jump suit.
"That's just the personality my port needs!"
 Charming. Engaging.
You're afraid of getting too close, but definitely glad he's around. I told Nurse Amazing and she humored me by referring to it by name the rest of our first chemo session.

In other good news, I've made it through two chemo treatments now, ten more to go. It wasn't what I expected, if one can have expectations for something so unexpected. The dreaded "c" words have lost some of the power their mystery previously afforded them. It seems that CANCER is  more like cancer. CHEMO is chemo, and I'm still....well, I'm still me. I spent the first Friday after chemo waiting for something to be different, expecting some outward, physical sign of the internal war begin waged within my body, but there were none. Some minimal side effects made the weekend a bit uncomfortable, but overall I was surprised that life kept going on, as did the dishes and laundry. Ahh, normalcy....well, except for one thing: Jonathan and I are being ridiculously and outrageously loved.

It's crazy, really, and I feel spoiled. We have been surrounded by supportive servers, which is a bit new for me. I've always been a pretty self-sufficient person. You can call it independence or maybe pride, I'm not quite sure, but this experience is new for me. I'm humbled and a bit convicted by the way people (even strangers!) have prayed, encouraged, and sacrificed time and money for us. Thank you. You have given us a new glimpse of the character of the Father.

Actually, being loved isn't the easiest thing for me.  I know that sounds crazy, but I'm typically more comfortable as giver rather than receiver. I suppose this allows me more control, less vulnerability, a self-protective strategy to meet my own needs and protect myself from pain, yada, yada, yada. Even though I prefer to appear like I have it all together, I so clearly do not. Being needy is kind of scary for me, yet I've heard Jesus challenging me to do one, and only one thing these past few months: Be Loved, beloved.

A good friend let me know that God had reminded her to pray for me through the night. I felt known and seen by her and God, but my conversation with God the next day went something like this:

"God, that was really sweet of you to get Barb involved, but you didn't need to wake her up just for me. I'm ok, really. I've got this. No need to keep her up all night on my account."

Instantly, I felt His presence settle and speak. "Let me love you. Let me love you through others."

Who am I to tell I AM who to love? Who am I to tell Him how to love? I wonder how many of His love notes I've missed, too busy striving for the love of others instead of resting in His love for me.

I want to share a song that, although not written by Jesus, sure sounds like Him to me.

 "All I Ask of You."

Will I let myself be unsettled by love? Will I say "yes" to the outpouring of support around me? Will I recognize it as the extravagant pursuit of my God? I hope I can! To those that have sacrificed, thank you for loving us, and thank you for letting God love us through you. I pray we each have eyes to see His pursuit in our lives. I pray we take time to be loved.

The Weeping Princess

Who decided that big girls don't cry? 

The day after my diagnosis I had an appointment to get a biopsy. It's hard to describe all of the emotion I was experiencing, but overwhelmed comes close. As I followed my nurse to the locker and took a hospital gown from her hands, I felt a swell of emotion. Uh oh. My "cup runneth over," just not exactly with joy. Tears began to fall- not loud, uncontrollable sobbing, but a silent, steady waterfall down my cheeks. I call it "leaking,"and it is tough to stop!

Apparently, this caused quite a bit of distress for everyone that still had to interact with me. I kept assuring them that this was normal, I was fine, but to no avail. They had a goal and were pursing it with a single-minded tenacity: "stop that leak!"...perhaps for their own comfort more than mine. The intake nurse insisted on getting Jonathan. That didn't help. Jonathan and I just laughed through my tears, knowing they weren't going to stop anytime soon. Tears flowed a little harder when I discovered I would be awake for the biopsy, which I imagined to be a huge needle plunging deep into my chest (and it was). Next came my favorite part. A bouncy IV nurse- I think she literally bounded throughout the hospital- landed two inches from my face and in her sweet, Asian accent exclaimed, "OH! You are the Weeping Princess!" It made me smile. "I suppose I am," was my reply. The title, which I proudly accepted, made her unique approach to starting an IV somewhat tolerable. I'm pretty sure I saw her hop as she inserted the needle. I continued to "leak" as they wheeled me to my doctor, crying harder when I saw that he looked like an eighteen year old. The supervising doctor only needed a moment to meet me, assess the situation, and decide to order "happy drugs" for relaxation. Thank you, Jesus. Soon after the drug was administered I was cracking jokes and watching the biopsy with intrigue. I guess they found a way to plug that leak, after all. 

But it got me thinking, what's the big deal with tears, anyway? Those little drops caused a room full of well-trained professionals to scurry away in fear. Didn't Jesus weep when he found out his friend Lazarus had died? The crazy part is that Jesus already knew he could and would raise Lazarus from the dead! Why waste time on tears when he knew how the story would end? It sure sends a message for those who are hurting, even those of us that know God will someday dry all of our tears and make everything right. 

I think Jesus is trying to validate our emotions, saying that it's good to grieve: let it out! Yeah, we have hope. We know "God is good all the time, all the time God is good", but it's ok to cry right now because it hurts right now, and that matters to Him. There is something about expressed sorrow that even Jesus didn't choose to avoid. No clever rationalizations, exhausting distractions, or confusing denial. He embraced and expressed his experience of human emotion, so I guess I can too. 

I like what Dr. James Gills says in his book, God's Prescription for Healing. He compares crying to sneezing. Crying is another one of God's brilliant, built-in cathartic responses for healing. Sneezing expells unwanted invaders from our bodies so that makes crying the "big sneeze" for our emotions. It's like a reset button.  "Better out than in, I always say," to quote Shrek. I think that's why being tagged the Weeping Princess felt like an honor. I often tell my clients that it can take more courage to express our feelings than distract ourselves from them. Keeping a stiff upper lip is necessary in some situations, but it's not really my M.O. and I like it that way. I've been able to cry when I needed to cry, which has allowed me to experience joy, and laughter, and peace most of the time. I don't need to waste energy ignoring painful feelings because I have a Savior that says I am strong enough to handle them. Want to know the best part? When I'm not strong enough, he promises to meet me there. So far, Jesus has made good on that promise. 

I've recently been presented with many opportunities to admit my weakness. The challenge of last week was my port placement. I actually did ok through the procedure, far less "leaking" than the biopsy a few weeks prior. It is a bit disconcerting, however, to see this alien bubble under my skin, and it will take some getting used to. So I guess you can pray that I will make friends with this port. Some have recommended that I name it, which seems like a good next step. I'm taking suggestions! 

Chemo starts Thursday. I am looking forward to visits from friends on "chemo Thursdays" and will let you know how the first one goes. I predict some more appearances from the Weeping Princess- hold the kleenex, please- but also look forward to greater intimacy with Jesus and the people I love. 

In case you need a big emotional sneeze today, I'm sharing a link to this song by Jon Thurlow: 

My Little One

Jumping like Jenna

Hi friends,

Facts first:

We found out today that I have stage 2B of this cancer. "2" means it's not stage one, but also not stage four. "B" means I have symptoms, which I am convinced are unnecessary now since we have a diagnosis and am, therefore, fervently praying will go away. Want to join me in the fight? Pick your battle against night sweats, coughing, weight loss, anemia, fatigue, and general icky-ness.

The great news is that I can expect to see the mass (located in my chest, next to my heart) melt away after as few as two rounds of chemo! A round will consist of two doses, given once a week, every other week. This will continue for 6 months, at which point we expect a complete recovery.

Side effects will probably include hair loss, so I'll finally get an answer to a life-long question: do I have an even head? And I can try out a variety of new hair styles as my locks return. Other side effects should be minimal.

On to the deeper things of my soul:

A few days ago, one of my nieces was told by her dad, "Aunt Ashley is sick. Do you know who heals sick people?" This beautiful little blonde is a problem solver by nature, and it didn't take long for her to develop a solution to this very grown-up problem.
"In the Bible, Jesus heals sick people."
"Yeah, Jenna, he sure does."
"Ok. Let's pray. Jesus, please heal Aunt Ashley... Amen."

The end. It's done. Brush the dust off our hands, get up and go. A long, hard day's work is complete and Jenna is satisfied. Child-like faith, how refreshing.

I'm more of a "prepare for the worst, hope for the best" kind of gal. It works for me, usually. By imagining my worst fear, and watching myself live through it, I conquer it. It's sort-of a manufactured Abraham-and-Isaac moment in my mind. I'm challenged to give the thing I'm loving most to the One who loves me most.

I've cried with a friend during her own Abraham prayers. "Jesus, only you know how much I love my son, but if you want to take him through this illness, I will let him go." Not an easy prayer to pray. Heartbreaking, actually. But this prayer, this preparation for the worst, can lead to a surrender of ourselves. It can make things right in one's soul. It can show us the face of God.

Having said all this, God has been asking Jonathan and I to do something different lately. He's asked us to fight. He's asked us to jump into the deep end of an unfamiliar pool with abandon, to believe that He wants to heal me and that He intends to heal me. No room for doubt. No more preparing for the what-ifs, like I'm trying to fit God for a life vest that will save Him when we start to drown. We might actually rejoice in the journey. We might even have some fun.

So what happens if He doesn't come through? What if the valley I'm asked to walk through is darker than I imagine? I sit with people in my counseling practice that have experienced incredible suffering. Some have jumped but seem to have landed very hard. They feel "uncaught," bruised, and crushed. How do we heal from that? How do we climb out of that pool and (crazy!) jump again? Only by being in the presence of Jesus, because believe it or not, many have met a bruised and crushed Jesus at the bottom too. Many have found everything they ever longed for as they see Him restored to life.

Jenna jumped, but of course, she hasn't seen many falls. God is asking me to jump and I've seen a few more. It feels like He's taking away all of my efforts at self-protection, leaving me completely vulnerable in His presence. It's a good place to be.

It's not our responsibility to bail God out of a pit of our own expectations. We aren't really supposed to make sense of suffering, because we can't, although I'm sure we will continue to try. We are invited to be with Him, no matter what, to just keep being with Him...and if you've ever been with Him, you know that makes jumping so very worth it!

I'll leave you with a song, shared with me by a friend and on repeat in my iTunes library. Whether you are in an Abraham moment, or being asked to jump, I hope it encourages you.
If You Ask Me To, by Ginny Owens

"The one who formed you says, 'Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name. You are mine. When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you. For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior'" 
-Isaiah 43:2-3