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

"I know the end of the story. I come up from the wilderness, leaning on my Beloved:" my favorite lyric from a Jon Thurlow song called "Strong Love." I highly recommend the entire album, and I recommend watching my husband dance and sing to this song in particular, if you ever have the opportunity. It will absolutely bring a smile to your face.

But that lyric is what I've been thinking about since getting a diagnosis of cancer last week. CANCER. It's a scary word. Many have heard it before from a doctor or  someone they love. Many have walked with someone through the treatments, the uncertainty, the joy or grief...maybe both.

I was reminded that while cancer is a big scary word, I serve a very big God. At first, those reminders didn't feel helpful. I've spent the past few days arguing with Him about this plan.
"I don't like it very much, to be honest."
 He said, "I don't like it either."
"I can't do this. Jonathan needs to focus on school and I need to work. I'm scared of needles and chemo and what it will do to my body."
 He said, "I know."
"Please don't let go of me. I'm so mad. I don't want to be close to you. I feel like pushing you away, but please don't let me go."
He said, (with a smile) "Never, my love."

So Jonathan and I cried, and prayed, and sang, and laughed sometimes because with Jesus it's still ok to laugh when the world is crashing in around you.

As for the particulars, I don't know much yet. I have a type of cancer called Hodgkins Lymphona, which happens to be one of the most treatable, even curable, types of cancer. So I am grateful.  I feel sad for the people sitting in the oncology waiting room all alone, fighting their own cancers. I know many of them don't have such good odds. Many don't know the comfort of Jesus. I wonder who I will meet on this journey, and what they will teach me. Who will I pray for as I sit in a room full of sick people getting IV's of chemo? Who will be praying for me?

Jonathan and I are beyond-words-grateful for the prayers and support we have received. Thanks to those who have offered to share their own experiences with us, and reminded us that God loves to write beautiful stories.

We will choose to let Him write ours, even if we aren't crazy about the newest plot twist. I will choose to trust Him most, because.....well, because he loves me, and because I know the end of the story.