Christmas Magnifies Things

Christmas magnifies everything. Whatever you’re going through seems bigger at Christmastime. The good things seem even better, and the bad things ~ infinitely worse.

New romance is ecstasy at Christmastime. Loneliness is a bottomless pit. Family ties seem tighter . . . or more frayed. Grey weather is even bleaker on Christmas Day . . . and fresh snow even more magical.

It’s like Christmas is an overlay that changes the color of the everyday.  A filter that intensifies everything.  A magnifying glass that highlights the tiniest detail.

Christmas narrows it all down to one pin-point of time ~ that breath-hold as you wait for the gift to be unwrapped, for the verdict on its value to come down. I only get one chance at this ~ and what if I fail? We plan and strain ~ and too often our dreams of a Dickens Christmas die in a disappointing Christmas, and it doesn’t measure up. We don’t measure up. Again.

Across much of the world, Christmas is the pinnacle of the year. And how it captures our hearts! But Christmas is only one day ~ a man-made opportunity to remind ourselves of the greatest Gift ever given, and the Family that will never die. The twenty-four glittering hours pass, and life moves on. Hopefully, we are richer for taking the time to stop, be together, and believe.

My grandmother gave birth to her first child (my mother) on December 21. What intense joy! Five years and one week later, she lost her husband to kidney disease at age 28. What intense heartbreak. On her way cross-country from New York to Indiana for his final hospital stay, she heard “I’ll be Home for Christmas” playing in a restaurant. She said it was a long, long time before she could joyfully listen to carols again.

But she walked on. She did embrace Christmas again . . . and again ~ over 50 more times before she celebrated with her husband in Heaven. I remember that her home glowed with garlands and ribbon and mantel-snow and lights ~ I never knew the current of sorrow that surely ran underneath it all.

My mother-in-law spent Christmas 1982 in the hospital. She had been diagnosed at age 44 with a brain tumor and was to have surgery the next day. I treasure the photos of her opening gifts in her hospital bed with her children by her side. She’s smiling. She was to have only one more Christmas with her family. But still, she celebrated. And we still celebrate. We miss her presence intensely; but, because of Christmas, we know we’ll see her again.

How well I remember my own intense Christmas of 2012. On December 20 ~ the day my son came home from his first year in university ~ I lay on an ultrasound table, undergoing a follow-up to my mammogram the week before that had showed something “suspicious.” The intense joy of our reunion mingled with intense fear over my future.

There followed two breathless days of waiting, and a phone call from my doctor on December 23:  “It’s a complex cyst, probably benign. We’ll follow up again in 6 weeks.” What intense relief! And yet . . . and yet . . . the question still hung . . .

I felt Christmas so deeply that year. I realized that illness doesn’t take time off for the holidays. I watched wide-eyed, taking everything in. Some of my favorite memories from that year were totally unplanned: my youngest watching a spontaneous early-morning Christmas movie with Daddy, the breakfast table made festive simply with what I had on hand.

And yes, two months later I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And yes, I underwent surgery and chemotherapy and radiation. I struggled to regain my strength. And for two years I seemed to appreciate Christmas more. Then this year . . . I took on the burdens again. I clutched for control. And I lost some of the joy.

So I’m reminding myself: slow down, breathe, and revel in God’s good gifts.

There will come a last Christmas together. We may or may not have the warning: savor every moment. I’m not sure that I want it. What I want is to be in the moment, pleasantly surprised by whatever comes. And the knowledge that whoever is missing from the family circle is celebrating Christmas with Jesus. And the hope that . . . Someday . . . we’ll all be together again.

It’ll be bigger and better than anything we can imagine.

It's Been Two Years

I wasn't going to let this milestone go by unnoticed!  While it may seem strange to "celebrate" the anniversary of a serious diagnosis, what I'm actually celebrating is that fact that I've had two glorious years since then.

The sky was achingly blue, the sunshine brilliant, the brick houses so vivid as we drove home from the hospital that fateful day. The beauty around me seemed surreal, and all I could think was, "I have cancer. How long do I have left to live?"

How does it feel to be told that you have cancer? I can easily reconjure the desperation in my heart, but I think my own words from two years ago say it best. Here's my diary entry for Wednesday, February 20, 2013:  

Well, I have breast cancer. There's just no good way to put it. Not the result we were expecting or hoping for. Even the doctors are surprised: a cancerous cyst. So now I face scans, surgery, chemo, radiation, and the pill. Not a pretty picture. Hard to tell the kids; hard to see them and Greg cry. I'm numb, scared, a little angry. But we'll trust God ~ and fight this hard.

The next day:

A lot of ups and downs today. Tears when I read notes from precious friends. Only slept a couple of hours last night, so took a couple catnaps this afternoon and evening. A good dentist's visit ~ no cavities!! And clean teeth heading into chemo. A very encouraging talk with [friends by phone], just tracing God's hand in my appointment set-ups so far. Miracles, they said! But feeling low and sad tonight. Girls [are], too.

And the next:

Another almost sleepless night. The girls and I were up in the middle with the cat ~ and a weird noise. Read to the girls [today], then a short nap . . . . Afternoon [phone] conversations with [some fellow cancer survivors/patients]. A lovely song and good conversation with [another friend]. A movie, Skype with [our university son] Cal (so good), and a visit from [more friends]. Cheerful!

Finally, on Saturday:

A much better night's sleep. Even dreamt a little! Studying my Bible in the morning felt normal, but then a sense of urgency and despair set in. Greg felt lonely and sad. I learned that [another acquaintance] had died in December of lymphoma. Got some necessary deskwork done, and a good walk with [my daughter] Nic, but just feeling really low and black before bed. Then a good chat with Mom.

And on Sunday:

God gives strength for each new day . . . . In church this morning, prayer for me and encouraging words afterwards lifted my spirits. A little nap before lunch ~ felt good. Long talk with Cal this afternoon. I started my journal of my journey thus far.

There were still four days until my surgery, but I'll stop my entries there. I believe this is the first time I've re-read most of these writings myself, and I find them sobering. But what strikes me are the patterns. Sleepless nights . . . naps . . . sweet conversations with my family . . . strengthening talks with others who'd "been there" . . . overwhelming darkness . . . and the light of Scripture, God's sovereignty, and prayer. In many ways, these things are still the fabric of my life, although the sleepless nights and black despair are few and far between now.

Then in my diary I notice the things that made life seem normal still: reading, movies, deskwork, walking, writing. Thank God, these are still with me, as well! 

I remember telling a friend during that time: "Cancer is no different than real life. It just makes everything seem bigger and more intense." Don't get me wrong ~ cancer is definitely life-altering. But with a good God, friends, and family to walk with you through it, life can still be sweet. 

Thanks to ALL of you who have journeyed with me!

The Daily Things

It came and went without any fanfare or recognition. I actually had to check my diary to confirm the date. And here I am, four months and a handful of holidays later, finally writing about it.

The one-year anniversary of my final radiation treatment fell on October 8, 2014. And I didn't even notice. It seems like that would have been a major milestone, something worth posting about. But at that point last fall, we were in the midst of a heavy travelling schedule, speaking in churches and visiting family and friends. I was struggling to keep my head above water as we tackled a laundry room renovation and carried on our ministry here while taking major trips a couple of times a month.

I was tired and irritable, and found myself getting upset over the littlest things, things that wouldn't matter in a few months, or a hundred years . . . much less in eternity.  

And I had to ask myself: how can a person go through something as life-threatening as cancer, and still get angry over a measuring mistake during construction? It seems that by now I would have figured out what was really important, embraced it, and let the rest go.

The fact is, it's seldom the big things in life that trip us up. Oh, sure, they jar us. They stop us in our tracks, make us scream heart-wrenching questions, shake us to the core. But then, as the crisis becomes a daily reality, we seem to dig deep, find the Strength we need, and steady ourselves for the long haul.

But it's the little foxes that spoil the vines, as wise King Solomon once said. Or, as one of my friends told me, meltdowns usually come "apparently over something totally dumb ~ like they didn't have my usual brand of ketchup on the grocery shelf. But of course, that was only the trigger. It is the little things that get to us. We're good at balancing the BIG things, and most of the time God doesn't send too many at us at one time. But if that foundation of all the little things gets shaky, it makes the balancing act so much harder." She lived overseas as a military wife for a time, so she knew what she was talking about.

It seems we can "gear up" for the big things. I clearly remember the day in May 2013 when I was told I had a foot-long blood clot in my right arm and would need to give myself daily blood-thinner injections until the end of my chemotherapy. Scary? Yes. Heart-stopping? Yes. But God gave me several opportunities that day to share my faith. I drove home from the hospital rejoicing.

As I drove, I thought about my son who had just finished his first year of university and was needing to work long hours in Pennsylvania over the summer to pay for his school bill. I felt empathetic panic rise up in my heart for the trials he was going to face. And I realized with a start that I was more worried for him than I was for myself.  More worried about a heavy workload than a blood clot? Somehow I knew God was going to take care of the big things, but the daily things? Well, that's another story.

Sounds ludicrous, doesn't it? I know full well that He cares about the world wars ... and the little sparrow that falls outside my door. If He can help me face cancer, He can help me face a "too-full" calendar. I just have to view them both in light of eternity.