My story. Part 4: The slippery slope.

You don't always get what you want.

In my case, the very thing that I dreaded for six years happened. From the time the second tumor was found and the time my dad passed away was very short. Only a matter of a few months. The tumor metastasized into something that was beyond treatment. It spread through his brain and spine like peanut butter. That's what the doctors referred it to...peanut butter.

What an awful reference.

During the few months he had left I found myself so bitter and angry at God.  In my head, I couldn't justify why this had to happen to such a good man.  I would pray (not sure that you could really call it a prayer) that God would chose someone else for this horrible ending.  I could never move past the fact that there are murderers, child abusers, rapists, drug dealers out in this world living without consequence.   But this good, Godly man was going to die such a cruel death?  It just didn't make any sense.  And if I am being honest, it still doesn't. 

I would give God ultimatums. 

"If you let this happen, then I will..."
"If you love me, then you will..."
"I will never love you, if you..."

Those thick walls around my heart now became steel reinforced.  With heavy chains and padlocks.  My heart was in LOCKDOWN.  No one was allowed in.  Not the youth life leader, not the friends, not the pastor, not my mom.  No one.  I became bitter and angry and vengeful towards the truth.

I made the choice to walk away from my faith.  Everything I believed in failed me.

Just three months after my dad died, I moved to Texas so I could be at the same college as Skip.  At this point, we knew we were heading towards marriage and I wanted to be as far away from B-town and all the suffocating sadness as possible.  The summer of '93, I moved on campus at Texas Christian University.  Which is ironic.  I turned my back on Christianity and here I was smack dab in the middle of a christian college.

I was finally free.  Free from the sadness and darkness of a hateful disease.  Free from the small town that held nothing but pain.  Free from the looks of pity from the church people.  Free from the memories.  Free from a cruel God and a religion that confused and abandoned me.

FREEDOM!!

Except for Skip, no one knew my past at TCU.  I didn't look at people and see disappointment or shame or sorrow.  I saw a way that I could recreate myself.  And that I did.  I spent the next year and a half as a wild, party girl.  That girl was never sad.  That girl was never hurt, or down, or lonely.  That girl was fun and happy.

In reality, that girl was drunk most of the time.  That girl was on academic probation.  That girl nearly lost the boy of her dreams.   That girl laughed in the face of anyone that believed in God. That girl was hungover during many of her religion classes. 

That girl was on the verge of losing everything.

One night, after a wild party, I got really sick.  My roommate had a friend in town from North Dakota and I really did not like this girl.  NOT AT ALL.  She drove a wedge between my roommate and I.  Maybe I was out to get her, or maybe I was just drunk out of my mind and didn't know the difference. I vomited all over the side of her cutesy red sports car.  She hated me for that.  My roommate hated me for that.  But most of all, I hated myself for what I had become.

I hated the drinking.

I hated the lying.

I hated the look on Skip's face when he talked to me.

I hated lifestyle that I was living.

I hated feeling ashamed.

I knew enough about God to know that He was my only hope.   I knew in my heart that He was the only one that could save me from myself.  I had hit rock bottom, but was I willing to forgive Him for taking my dad?

Later that night, tears just poured out.  Tears that had dried up after my dad died.  Tears that I tried to suppress with all the drinking and "fun living".  Sobbing came from a place so deep inside me.  A place so deep that my whole body shook violently.

Gasping for breath in between the choking sobs, I prayed.

"I'm sorry."



Links:
Why am I writing this?
Part 1: The phone call
Part 2: The horror
Part 3: In the meantime

My story. Part 3: In the meantime.

Remission is a loaded word. On one hand, it's great news. It means that whatever treatment the doctors used is working.  The cancer is either gone or drastically reduced.  On the other hand, the possibility lingers in the back of your mind that the cancer CAN comeback.  It's not a total bill of health.  It's a breather.  You've won the fight and now you get to take a break. 

Maybe the war is over.  Maybe it's not.

Anyone who has ever lived through this nightmare will tell you that every doctor appointment, every test, every CT scan, every phone call is a reminder that your life will be forever scarred by cancer.  You can't escape it.  You can't get back to where you were.  Ever.

For my family, it meant that we cautiously inched forward with our lives.  Every day, week, month, year that went by meant my dad beat the odds.  What was a death sentence now turned into renewed life.

The winter of cancer moved to the back of our minds and the spring of new hope became our heartbeat.  My dad gained his strength and began his running and bike riding again.  He was so healthy in his remission that he entered in the Missouri bike race and rode the entire width of the state.  He was a picture of health.  He had even more of a reason to live now than he ever did before.

My mom was a picture of strength and beauty.  Never have I seen a woman that strong.  I didn't appreciate it then, not even close. She and I had major issues.  We fought a lot.  Looking back, I know it was a combination of my teenage rebelliousness mixed with the weight of cancer and finances on her shoulders.  Still, I wish it would have been different for us.  Cancer stole so much.

Together my parents grew in their relationship with the Lord.  They were getting stronger every day.  I still didn't get it.  I still didn't understand how God could allow this to happen.  Walls started to build up around my heart.  Walls that would take years to come down.

Daily life moved on for me, too.  I met a boy that I soon fell in love with.  Skip was the best thing that had ever happened to me.  He pushed me to get my grades back up and care more about school.  He was everything to me...probably too much so.  I gave up friends and activities just to be with him.  I never had anything that was just for me.  I regret that so much.  I wish I would have known that a healthy relationship needs a balance.  He had his interests and I made them mine.  I was pretty needy.   I firmly believe that God gave Skip to me at such a young age because He knew I needed an anchor for my past and my future.  High school sweethearts that end up getting married are the exception and not the rule.  I am definitely thankful that we made it.  I know it doesn't always work that way. 

The years of remission blended into each other and we became more confident that dad was truly healed.  I no longer jumped when the phone rang.  I no longer worried about every doctor appointment.  I also no longer prayed for him.  I was busy in college studying to be a nurse and we had made it FIVE years without a cancer scare. 

Life was moving forward.

One day between classes, I was in my apartment alone.  I knew it was a check-up day but I hadn't given it much thought.  In hindsight, I should have made the time to go to the hospital with my parents.  But honestly, I was done with the cancer. 

So very very done.

I was studying for a chemistry test when the phone rang.  I will never forget that day.  It was cold and snowy.  My mom said the doctor confirmed our worst nightmare.  The CT scan showed another tumor.  Surgery was scheduled for the next day.  It looked bad, maybe even worse than the first time.

I don't think I even hung up the phone before I ran out the door.  I just started running.  Running away from that news.  Running away from the CANCER.  Running away from the pain of going through this again.  Running away from hell.  I don't know what made me stop running, but I when I finally did I realized I was miles away from home. 

I was miles away from the remission that I had grown comfortable in. 

I was miles away from the horrible phone.

I was miles away from anyone that could save me.

I was miles away from sanity.

I remember screaming at God.  Angry, hateful words. 


"IF YOU DO THIS AGAIN, I WILL HATE YOU FOREVER!!"



Links:
Why I am doing this?
Part 1: The phone call
Part 2: The horror

My story. Part 2. The horror.

I accepted Jesus in my heart when I was ten. At least I think I did.

I was visiting my Granny in Nebraska (Hi Granny!)for a couple of weeks that summer. She must have picked up some youth Christian fiction for me. One night I was reading the story of a teenage girl who made some really bad choices and after she accepted Christ everything became wonderful. At the end of the book there was an invitation. The author pretty much walked you through what to pray. So I did it. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't have anyone pray with me. Most of all, I didn't feel changed. Not really. The girl in the book felt an immediate presence. I thought maybe I did it wrong, so I did it again. That time may have felt a little more convincing so I just went with it and told myself I became a Christian.

My fledgling faith consisted of the "Are You There God.  It's Me, Margaret" type prayers.  (Hello, Judy Blume fans) I think I knew He was in Heaven somewhere but did He really care about me?  The church I grew up in was very formal.  We stood when they told us in the bulletin to stand.  We recited what they told us to recite, when they told us to.  We sang songs from a funny old book with numbers in it.  None of it meant anything to me.  It really wasn't even a comfort to me growing up.  I was always off the words during the reciting time.  I never understood what any of the fancy words were in the slllooooowwwww songs.  And, honestly, I was bored.  Really really bored.  I never got the feeling that God really cared for ME except when I made mistakes.  Surely, He must be noticing all my mistakes and taking note of them.  I knew I believed in Him, but what did it all mean? 

Those answers wouldn't come for many years.

During the days after my dad was diagnosed and had surgery, I didn't think about God much.  We were operating in survival mode.  It was all very fuzzy and bleak.  The preacher would come and pray with us but they just seemed like grown up words.  It didn't mean anything to me.  It didn't bring any comfort to the hell that I was experiencing.  No one could help with that.

Living in a house with CANCER, is like living in the darkest most desolute place.  Cancer is a thief that comes to KILL STEAL AND DESTROY (sound like someone??) any hope or happiness that you once knew.  These were the darkest days.  Our family was now centered around chemotherapy, radiation, steriods, extreme sickness, hair loss, and embarrassment (shamefully mine). 

The same church people that brought us meals and held our hands were the same ones that would stare and whisper about us on Sunday morning.  Is this what being a Christian is all about?  I dreaded going to church after the CANCER hit.  It just reminded me that my daddy was sick.  Really sick.  Seeing the pity on people's faces as they glanced our way, made me hurt.  I wanted to protect my sweet dad from those looks.  I wanted to protect my weary mom from those words.  But most of all, I wanted to stand up on the pew and give those church people a piece of my fourteen year old mind. 

HE'S NOT DYING!!  HE'S NOT!!  BECAUSE NONE OF THIS IS REAL!!  STOP LOOKING AT US.  STOP WHISPERING ABOUT US.  JUST STOP!!!  STOP RIGHT NOW!!!!!!

Those were the darkest, loneliest days.  I didn't know how any of us would survive this horror.

I can officially say...

I HATE CANCER.

links:
Why am I writing this?
Part 1

My story. Part 1: The phone call.

They say life can change in an instant. I believe that.

One cold, gray February day I was home sick from school. I was fourteen and in the eighth grade. I can't remember what I was sick from, that seems so insignificant now. My parents had gone to the emergency room in the Big City to check out some things. That's what they told us..."some things".

Later it came out that my dad was having trouble coming up with words when he spoke. When he wrote, he had to scribble out many mistakes and it became a struggle to write coherently. Both of those were rapid onset symptoms.  I had noticed all of that, but it didn't seem worthy of a trip to the emergency room. 

I was fourteen and hardly an expert.

So they headed to the Big City and I stayed home in bed. The day seemed to drag on and on and on and on. Morning turned into afternoon, then slowly it turned to dusk. The longer the day was without my parents coming home, the more I became nervous.  A sick feeling in my stomach started to grow.

I remember checking the garage and the street in front of our house many HUNDRED times that day. Surely, nothing was wrong. I tried to convince myself of that. Maybe they are just eating, or shopping, or driving home.  Right?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The clock creeped forward every slow second at a time.

I think it was about six when the phone finally rang.  It was my mom.  She muttered phrases like...

BRAIN TUMOR

SIZE OF A PEACH

MAJOR SURGERY

THEY ARE KEEPING HIM

TOMORROW

My world started to spin. 

This can't be happening!!! 

Maybe they are wrong.  Maybe?

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let them be wrong I screamed in the quiet night.  Through my choking sobs I tried to make some sense out of this.  There wasn't any sense to be made.  It was inconceivable. 

Life as I knew it changed forever.

With one phone call.

Pure Joy and Cardboard Testimonies

Last night I was honored to attend a women's event called "Pure Joy". This event is the brainchild of two sisters. Two sisters willing to put themselves and their passion on the line for women. This was the 2nd annual Pure Joy conference in B-Town and I missed the first one. I wasn't really sure what I expected, but let me just say...it blew my mind.

Six hundred and fifty-ish women from all different churches and denominations came together in corporate worship and amazement. Brave women shared their powerful testimonies on loss and abuse and bad choices. Women cried and laughed and held each other as they shared their own pain. There were parts of the evening that were so thick and hard to navigate, but God was there speaking to all of our hearts about trusting Him and giving all to Him and being AMAZED by Him.

God showed up!

I came into the event pretty comfortable in my own little life. I have my struggles, but so does everyone. Somehow you manage to just "suck it up" and move forward. I have become too comfortable with my junk. Anyway, I sat next to a friend and we laughed and chatted away. Then the worship started and so did the tears, seemingly out of nowhere. As the music poured over me I realized that I have become DRY CRACKED SOIL. The music was like LIVING WATER pouring down into my dry spaces.

I didn't know.

I didn't know I had become so dry and desperate for God. I thought things were going fine lately. I didn't know what I had allowed myself to become by not spending daily time with Him. My prayer is that God will keep this on my heart and remind me daily the feeling of being DRY AND SCORCHED. I want to chose the Living Water.

I was asked to help with a portion of the night called Cardboard Testimonies. It is a quick way to tell your story. On one side you sum up something significant in your life. Then on the other side you write how God carried you through that. The struggle and the victory. I have heard about the power of this moment but to witness it firsthand...I have no words. The night before we met and wrote our testimonies. There were several women participating in this event. I saw what many women wrote and I immediately became insecure about my story, my pain. It didn't seem as dramatic as some of the others. It seemed meaningless compared to the stuff some women have walked through.

But as the night went on, I realized that God is writing all of our stories. So NOTHING is insignificant to Him because HE is the author. It has given me the courage to share my story on this blog. Over the next week I will tell you about me. I will share what God has written over the most dramatic circumstance of my life. I will show you God's handiwork.  If nothing more, I want to write it for my kids to have and read.  I want them to see who I am and what choices I have made.  I want them to see how God redeemed me.

Please bear with me.

I struggled with what I was going to say on my cardboard. I ended up with...

I TURNED MY BACK ON GOD

{flip over}

HE NEVER LET GO OF
ME

A huge thank you for all the women who worked their fannies off to put this together.  What a project!  I know that lives were touched, women were changed.  

The day we met Karman.

A few months ago we started making some changes for our family.  Our calendar was jam-packed and no one was happy.  We met ourselves coming and going most of the time.  Rarely did we eat dinner at the same time and I hardly saw Skip.  Our kids complained.  They both said they wanted more time at home.

Easier said than done.  Right?

We sat down with both the kids and made a list of their activities and asked which ones they could let go of.  Zeb made a couple of cuts that were pretty painless on his end.  He wrestled with the decision for a couple of days.  After he made up his mind, he never looked back.  It has been a real positive change for him.  He requires more time to just BE.  Going from one activity to another was so stressful on him.  We started to see a huge improvement in his behavior. 

*sigh of relief*

Langley's activity cut was a little harder.  Mostly for me.  The activity that she chose to stop was gymnastics.  She has been in gym since she was 18 months old and she made it to level 2 on the team.  We have invested lots of time, energy and money into this sport.  The level 2 girls practice two nights a week for a total of four hours.  Each level adds more hours and more nights.  For the better part of a year she has been asking for a break.  I am not proud of it, but I refused.  To be completely honestly, I let fear creep in my heart.

What if she takes a break and never goes back and then she won't be a great athlete or cheerleader?
What if she comes back and has lost so much?
What if she can't get back on the team?
What if she becomes an adult that regrets quitting gymnastics like I do?
What if...?  What if...?  What if...?

Fear and doubt and mommy guilt held me back from letting her take a break.  Shame on me.

I realized it was my issue of insecurity and not anything to do with gymnastics.  Once I got a little perspective we sat down with her and weighed the pros and cons about taking a break.  We agreed to take December off and then assess.

Well, December turned into January.  January turned into February.  February turned into March.  The child has not missed it.  Time to let go. 

{Please do not hear me wrong.  I am not against these activities, or any others.  I just know my kids and I know they had too much on their plates.  Behavior was in the toilet, theirs and mine.  We just needed to step away for a little bit and catch our breath as a family.  Sometimes, too much of a good thing is still too much.}

In the meantime, we have been asking Langley if there is anything else she would like to pursue now that her school nights are more free.  In the future I can see her wanting to try karate or an instrument, or tennis.  But the one thing she expressed an immediate interest in was horses.  Every book this child checks out of the library is about horses.  Most of the pictures she draws have a horse in them {and a rainbow...love her}.  She asked if she could learn to ride a horse. 

Okey Dokey. 

Thankfully, we have a dear friend at church that has a sweet mare in a boarding stable north of town.  She has such a passion for horses and encouraged us to come and ride her Karman.  Karman is as gentle of an animal as you will ever find.  She is 22 years old and incredibly patient and obedient.



She is beautiful and gentle.  Everything you want in a horse!



We finally found a great sunny day for our outing with Karman.  It was absolutely perfect.  I am not sure God could have made a better day.  Everything from the weather, to the horse, to the behavior, to the sunset was amazing.  This was the happiest I have seen my kids in a very long time. 

I am so thankful that Zeb was able to come with us.  I didn't think he would get as excited as he did.  He was the first one to jump in the saddle.

See how docile Karman is?  She didn't flinch when Wit started grabbing at her face.  What a beautiful moment!

Langley.  A little nervous, but she soon got comfortable.  I just love that she already knows how to hold the reins.

Zeb was so comfortable in the saddle.  He is a natural.  Our friend recognized that and let him get to a trot.  Awesome!

A little girl's dream day!  I just love Karman's colorful blanket.  Makes me think that this horse was made for my rainbow girl.

One happy boy after a good trot.  I love that toothless (still) smile!  He wants to go back on spring break!  I don't think Jamie will be able to get rid of us!

I am glad that we have time now in our schedule to pursue a different activity.  I don't know if horses will be something that Langley wants to follow, but at least we have some breathing room to let her figure it out.

Slowing down to breathe is a lesson that I hope my kids will learn.  Life moves too fast.   It's good to have times of stillness.  It's been necessary for our family.

I am sure we will fill that space up again with things.  And that's OK.  But for now I am enjoying being home more and having days free to go ride horses, play with neighborhood friends, or whatever comes to mind.

Thank you, Jamie and Karman.  We had the best day!

The boy who walked thru fire.

I caught on fire once during a Youth Life retreat.  Literally, caught on fire.  Not just "caught on fire for the Lord", I actually caught on fire when a spark from the fire flew up and landed on my jacket.

Maybe I should back this up a few months.  I fell in love with this really cute guy in my drama class.  I sat behind him and we became "buddies".  We would tell each other jokes and laugh, we passed notes about our crazy drama teacher, we even did duets together.  I was so smitten.  I just knew in my heart this was the boy I was going to marry. 

I was sixteen and full of crazy hormones that made me think crazy thoughts.

He was one of the most popular boys in school.  An athlete, a honor student, class president.  You name it, he was all of it.  I was just another girl.  Overweight, frizzy hair, OK grades, no talents, nothing special.  But I knew we had a connection.  I am sure for him it was more of a friendship than a love connection.   But in my heart he was my future husband.

Crazy.

I centered my activities so I could see him more often.  {Um, stalk much?}  Anyway, I just wanted to be around him because we were so comfortable together.  I had never experienced that with a boy before and I knew it was special.  I heard he was going on this retreat weekend and I immediately signed up, too. 

During the weekend they kept the boys and girls separate except for worship times and special activities.  This boy that I crushed on was the same boy that pushed me off the treetops obstacle course because I was too scared to jump off myself.  Nice.

On the last night was the campfire/devo time.  Boys and girls huddled around the fire and sang praise and worship.  Many gave their hearts over to the Lord that night. During the closing prayer, an ember from the fire jumped up and landed on my jacket.  It immediately started to flame {big, huge flames...or at least in my imagination}.  No one noticed because everyone had their eyes closed.

Except for one boy.

He was on the boy's side of the fire and noticed me and my flaming arm.  Swiftly, he jumped the fire and came to my rescue.  He may have smoldered the jacket fire, but my heart's fire burned more intensely. 

We left that weekend and life moved on.  He dated someone else and I continued to be his buddy.  I am not sure what events turned his feelings from friendship over to interest.  But that boy finally asked me to a movie.

Yada. Yada. Yada. 

Long story short.

That boy turned out to be the man who walked thru fire.  For me.

That man has been with me through so many fires I can't even count.  He has been my humanly rock when life dealt nothing but fiery circumstances.  Loss of my dad, early college rebelliousness, huge school debt, babies, post-partum depression, daily living, insecurities, etc, etc, etc.  Through it all, he has rescued and provided.  He carries this family on his back as we navigate through this scary world.  He walks thru fire everyday for us.  For me.

Today is his birthday.  I hope he knows how much we love him.  I hope he knows that walking thru the fire means something to me.  I notice.

I love you, Skip.  My leaping fire boy.

I would be nothing without you.