The Gamble

 Image source: Original photo,  2024.

I didn't know what to do.

Eclipse Day 2024 loomed over northwest PA long before the afternoon of April 8. My small town hosted a block party because "by the next total eclipse, we'll all be dead." We heard rumors of people booking hotel rooms months--maybe years--in advance and paying $1000??? 

My husband was also coming to town that day, but not for the eclipse. He was returning with 11 youth and chaperones from a two-week trip to Liberia. They would land in Pittsburgh at 5:00 p.m., an hour and 45 minutes after totality, an hour and 35 minutes from our house. What a day for a flight--what a dilemma for me.

Should I leave early enough to give myself a buffer, miss the eclipse, and risk total darkness alone on the highway? Or experience the eclipse with my people and risk leaving Greg stranded at arrivals with me stuck in traffic for hours? Or was this just going to be another Y2K, all smoke and no fire? I mean, how bad could it be?

I weighed my options, talked it over with Greg on the other side of the world, and debated with friends about what to do. But in my heart, I knew I would watch the eclipse in Meadville and leave for Pittsburgh as soon as I could, and let the chips fall where they may.

At 11:30 Monday morning, Greg texted from the Brussels airport: "What is the eclipse frenzy like? Have you noticed it in town?"

I replied: "I've actually been in the house all day so I have not seen a thing. Going to head to Mom's about 1:30. Will know more after that!" 

Yes, I did. 

Though the forecast was "cloudy," I left my house with sun shining from a bright blue sky, and headed for Mom's across town. At least I could bypass the crowds and be 10 minutes closer to the airport.

The first hint of hype came as I drove down our street. Just past the college, bumper-to-bumper cars parked along one side. Never saw that before.

I stopped at the bank in town to make a deposit. A sign on the door said, "Closing at 1:00 for the eclipse." Hmmm.

Next stop, Tim Horton's for Iced Capps. Instead of a long line as expected, I met an empty drive-through and a cryptic, "We're closed." Curiouser and curiouser. I swung into Starbucks for frozen drinks instead.

By the time I reached Mom's, clouds had rolled in. She was watching Erie News. Already, their roof-top camera was showing a crescent creeping across the sun.

I grabbed my eclipse glasses and headed to the backyard. Put the glasses on and saw total darkness. Peeked out to locate the sun, and got poked by a ray of light. But oh! when I saw through the glasses the same orange crescent they'd shone on TV, I felt satisfied. This was going to be worth it.

I hauled high bistro chairs to the middle of the lawn and we settled in with our treats and our glasses. For the next half hour, we talked, snacked, and watched clouds drift across the eclipse (always through our glasses, of course). It seemed to take forever; but as the sun's crescent shrank, I grew more anxious. What would totality be like? Black as night? Could I capture it with my phone?

At 3:00, I took a panoramic video. Birdsong in bright afternoon sun sounded strange. The temperature dropped. Fifteen minutes to go. I tingled with suspense 

At 3:15 the mercury light suddenly glowed. Mackeral clouds, mingling white with gray, looked oddly like a storm. 

At 3:16, pines stood in silhouette against a silver western sky. Radiance pooling just under the pole light emphasized darker grass beyond. A puff of wind, and then another, cold and clammy, brushed my face. "Did you feel that?" I gasped. Something was coming. I started to film, turning slowly in a circle.

The world changed eerily to dusk, the sky still day-like with darkness below. Lights shone out from houses; the plaza in the valley lit up like night. The west glowed with sunset. "Creepy" was the only word we could find. Booms like gunshot, fireworks, or tannerite echoed through the hills. Children's voices rang across the ravine as they reveled in this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

And then, the sun! We took our glasses off and glimpsed the "diamond ring effect" with one bright spot shining out. I ran to the center of the yard to snap a picture past the trees, and my voice burst out like the children's: "God, You are amazing!"

In a moment, the day came back. Just like that, immediate. By 3:20, birds chirped happily and all the grass grew green. What a time of worship.

I knew I had to go. I had a plane to meet. But I lingered, not caring what it might cost me, not wanting to stop staring now that we could look with naked eye at the moon passing on.

Finally, Mom and I went into the house, a little dazed at what we had seen. She thanked me for coming, for experiencing this with her. 

"It's a great memory," I said.

"A new memory," she added, eyes sparkling. At 56 and 80, we have a lot of old memories. But thank God, we're still making new ones.

I backed out of the driveway, headed down the hill. At the corner gas station I met a small traffic jam. No matter. I paused and waved a few cars through. Still on a high, I felt gracious and polite. But on the main road we slowed to a crawl.  At the exit to I-79, we stopped, waiting to merge. Never before had I done that. Finally on the highway, travelling well below the limit, I looked at the road climbing into the foothills. Two lanes of traffic, bumper to bumper, as far as I could see. An omen of what was to come.

My GPS said I would reach the airport at 5:00, But for the next hour, as we crept sometimes at 25 mph, my ETA extended minute by minute, finally stopping at 5:25. I tried to calm my heart, to fight the urge to scream and pound the steering wheel. I told myself that if the plane landed at 5:00, they would need time to disembark, to collect their luggage. I should still be ok.

At 4:30 a mom excitedly messaged our Liberia group, "Looks like they land in 7 minutes! . . . They are flying over 79 right now! We can see it." 

A few minutes later, Greg texted, "Just landed." I was still 45 minutes away.

I felt trapped, stuck with my decision. My worst fears were coming true. Tensely I zipped through every opening in traffic, switching lanes, holding my breath and hitting the brakes (like everyone else) at each speed check. (There were many.) I looked longingly at the northbound lane where a few cars cruised serenely along. If only I were over there! 

Greg called at 5:10. I had to confess I was still 15 minutes away. "Don't park," he said. "That's perfect." And it was. I pulled up to Door 1 just as the last of the crew was coming out with their luggage. Warm hugs of greeting, we loaded the van, and Greg took the wheel. I was happy to hand it over.

As we drove north on I-79, where I had recently longed to be, we looked at the south-bound lane. Still two lanes bumper-to-bumper as far we could see, and all the way home. I learned later from a neighbor that their friend took 4 hours to get to Pittsburgh that day. He left half an hour after I did. Another man who navigated back roads after the eclipse to attend a funeral further south told me he couldn't believe I had made it to the airport in only 2 hours. 

I probably should have skipped the eclipse and left sooner like everyone else. But maybe "sometimes it is better to feel a prickle than to be wise."¹ I did not regret my decision (just the consequences). But I would not have traded Eclipse Day with Mom for any on-time arrival. By God's grace, I got to do both.

Questions flooded my mind that day. What was an eclipse like for ancient peoples? How soon did they start recording these phenomena and predicting the next? Was this how it felt the day Jesus died and darkness descended for 3 hours?² Was that an eclipse, too; or was the universe simply mourning because its Creator had died? Oh the glory when darkness passed and He rose again!

I realized later that when the moon was over the sun, we were not plunged into utter darkness as I had imagined. There was always a ring of light, and one bright ray. God gives us, in the physical world, a window into the spiritual.  

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. . . . The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. . . . to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God."³

Satan is trying to wipe out God's light. Our days sometimes feel dark, fighting without and fear within.⁴ But when we look up, we see always a ray of hope. He will not leave us comfortless. He will come to us.⁵ The Son will shine again.

3:15 p.m. Mercury light glows.

 Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:16 p.m.  Pines stand in silhouette.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:16 p.m.  Darkness falls.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:17 p.m. Plaza lights look like night.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:18 p.m.  Sunset.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:18 p.m. Diamond ring.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

3:20 p.m. Daylight returns.

Image source: Original photo,  2024.

¹The Story of Holly and Ivy, Rumer Godden, Scholastic: 1992, p. 24.

²The Bible, Matthew 27:45; Mark 15:33; Luke 23:44 (ESV)

³The Bible, John 1:5, 9, 12, 13 (ESV)

⁴The Bible, II Corinthians 7:5 (ESV)

⁵The Bible, John 14:18 (KJV)

 

No More Muse

 Image source: Original photo,  2023.

I used to wait for the muse to strike. Or an anniversary to roll around. Or a new diagnosis.

Hence my sporadic posts, and the almost-three-year gap from April 2020 to February 2023. Last year when uterine cancer loomed, I suddenly felt like writing again. I told Greg, “I guess my breast cancer story had gotten a little stale.” Finally, I had new material.

I don’t want to be that way, only feeling I have something to share when my life hangs in the balance—only remembering God’s goodness when I fear the worst.

My blog's purpose is two-fold: to find encouragement in my struggles, and encourage others in theirs. Inhale and exhale. From now through eternity. 

I want to write regularly, tracing His sovereign care not only in crises, but in the everyday. In many ways, I shouldn't be here. But I still am, so God must have a reason, a job for me to do. His assignments come sometimes in my own trials, and sometimes in the trials of others.

The Apostle Paul wrote, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too. If we are afflicted, it is for your comfort and salvation; and if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which you experience when you patiently endure the same sufferings that we suffer. Our hope for you is unshaken, for we know that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in our comfort."¹

A certain poem captivated me 30 years ago when I read it in Elisabeth's Elliot's The Shaping of a Christian Family. The words etched themselves almost automatically on my heart. I've shared them several times in ladies' gatherings. Sometimes I just breathe them to myself. I've often wondered who wrote it, so I went in search of the source.

I found a lovely printable here. I also learned that Mrs. Lettie Cowman included the poem in Streams in the Desert, her daily devotional compilation. I knew I had a copy somewhere, a precious copy that Mom gifted me a decade ago. A copy that had belonged to my Great-grandmother Edna Smith, mother of my Grandpa Lloyd. 

I went looking on my shelf of old books, and found it! Because the website said Cowman had closed with the poem, I started at the back, carefully flipping the pages of this 99-year-old book. On the entry for December 19, there it was. Hand-penciled crescents at beginning and end marked the poem as special. I gasped and covered my mouth at this discovery of yet another link to my spiritual heritage. Great-Grandma Edna must have loved this poem, too!

I share it as the cry of my heart--what I want, and what I want to do.

Call Back

If you have gone a little way ahead of me, call back-- 

'Twill cheer my heart and help my feet along the stony track;

and if, perchance, Faith's light is dim, because the oil is low,

Your call will guide my lagging course as wearily I go.

 

Call back, and tell me that He went with you into the storm;

Call back, and say He kept you when the forest's roots were torn;

That, when the heavens thunder[ed] and the earthquake shook the hill,

He bore you up and held you where the very air was still.

 

Oh, friend, call back, and tell me for I cannot see your face;

They say it glows with triumph, and your feet bound in the race;

But there are mists between us and my spirit eyes are dim,

And I cannot see the glory, though I long for word of Him.

 

But if you'll say He heard you when your prayer was but a cry,

And if you'll say He saw you through the night's sin-darkened sky--

If you have gone a little way ahead, oh, friend, call back--

'Twill cheer my heart and help my feet along the stony track.²

If you are facing cancer, loss, or deep pain, I long to tell you how He carried me through mine. And someday, you can do the same for me. 

Image source: Original photo, “Edna's Book,” 2023.

¹The Bible, II Corinthians 1:3-7, ESV.

²Streams in the Desert, compiled by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, 1925.

Another Year

Image source: Original photo, “Homefire,” 2023.

I’ve been having flashbacks. Last February was so dark for me. Sudden, unrelenting stomach pain led to a CT scan stat, which revealed a necrotic fibroid as large as a 4-month-old fetus. Given my history of breast cancer and Tamoxifen, plus my mom’s recent uterine cancer, we feared the worst.

When I googled whether a fibroid could be cancerous, I didn’t like what I found. Alone one night in my living room before a roaring fire, I bowed myself and begged God for mercy.

Total hysterectomy came on February 27, 2023, just one day shy of the 10-year anniversary of my first breast cancer surgery. Lord, couldn’t You even let me get to ten years?

To our great relief, the doctor saw nothing alarming, and the pathology came back two weeks later all clear. We walked with light steps and joyful hearts.

I still have precious memories of those days, even before our fears were relieved. Praise songs that burst from my soul through my lips. Scriptures that spoke straight to my fears. Friends who encouraged me and brought food and gifts. Our children who called or came from afar to visit. A cozy bed Greg created in our living room where I could enjoy the fire and watch the snow outside. Cats who curled up on the end of that bed, and a dog who slept on the floor by my side.

The other day, Greg and I were discussing cancer survival. “How long has it been?” he asked me. “Ten years?”

“Yes,” I said. Then my eyes grew wide. “No, wait…eleven! It’ll be eleven at the end of this month!” We gazed at each other for a moment, amazed that it had been that long…and that we had almost forgotten.

Of course, I know that cancer could rear its ugly head again at any time. But I’m so thankful for this journey, the ones who walk beside me, and pockets of hope and joy along the way.

        Image source: Original photo, 2023.

 

        Image source: Original photo, 2023

Image source: Original photo, 2023

Almost Home

I did it. I finally finished reading Rose From Brier.

Why did it take so long? Almost a year! Starting last March, this book carried me through cancer fears and hysterectomy recovery. It made me feel closer to the grandpa I never knew.

But I couldn’t bring myself to finish reading it. I thought I needed the perfect mindset or setting. Finally, I told myself, “Just read.” So, early one morning, curled up on the couch, with the blinds closed to the world and a lamp lighting the pre-dawn darkness, I turned to the last chapter, “A Door Opened in Heaven.” The chapter begins with a beautiful poem called “Winter,” about the joy that comes after “our falling leaves . . . fall into His hand.”¹ Then Amy Carmichael speaks to those who have no hope of recovery. Hard, beautiful words.

“I was thinking of the long road to the Land at a great distance, and of how very delightful the work of a doctor must be when he can tell one who had expected to have far to walk that the road may be quite short; and of how more than delighted such a traveler must be. . . .”² 

I thought of Grandpa Lloyd as a 28-year-old father who knew he was dying. Did he read this chapter in his own copy of the book? Did he weep as I did? Because I did weep, face crumpled, shoulders shaking, eyes dry as the tears stayed deep in my soul. I wept for those I love who are nearing Home.

Then I went to a funeral. We had two in our church family in the span of 17 days. I don’t enjoy funerals. But Solomon said (and he was the wisest man on earth): “It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.”³ 

The heart is made better! These funerals celebrated life.

The first was for a man who came back to Jesus just weeks before he passed away. His funeral was a comforting testimony of being found by the Shepherd. 

The second was for a 54-year-old man who had inclusion body myositis. Mick lived with this incurable, wasting disease for 13 years. As his uncle described it, “He knew there was no help available, and nothing coming.” But he lived with great faith and a fight for life.

His brother- and sister-in-law sang "Celebrate me Home" by the Perrys, a song that poignantly describes the journey from one place that we love to another.

Then that evening we went to a concert that brought everything to culmination with this song⁴. "Weary traveler, just hold on . . . you won’t be weary long. Someday soon we’re gonna make it Home!” Oh, the power in those words!

Sometimes the road to Heaven seems to stretch on forever, and we long to just be There. Then suddenly we find that Heaven may be just around the bend, and we realize we’re not quite ready. Even then, Jesus never leaves our side.

My friend Carol has just started her own cancer journey. It’s more serious than we all expected. She says, “I have felt an incredible peace throughout all of this; it just has to be the prayers of God’s people! Yes, there were tears this morning after the sobering prognosis from the oncologist, but God is still on the throne and in the miracle-working business. Even though we might not want to go on this journey, He is taking us on this journey and there is no better place to be than with our Savior.”

He is with His children through the breathing half, and all the way Home.

Image source: Nicola O’Boyle, “Rose From Brier,” 2024.

¹ Rose From Brier, p. 202.

² Ibid., p. 203.

³ The Bible, Ecclesiastes 7:2-3 (KJV)

⁴ "Weary Traveler," by Jordan St. Cyr.

The Final Chapters

My grandfather died at 28 years old, right at Christmastime—December 28, 1948. He was younger than my oldest son is now. His daughter (my mom) was five years old; his son (my uncle) was two.

His God-focus through terminal illness is astounding. He left a lasting impact on the flock he pastored. And his life intersected mine long after he was gone.

In June 2016, I faced my second breast cancer. My friend Tracy, who had survived a brain tumor, gifted me Rose From Briar, Amy Carmichael’s letters “from the ill to the ill (p. 13)” because it had meant so much to her in her own trial. It met me in my darkest place and carried me through the days before and after my surgery like no other book than the Psalms. Written from India in 1933, Brier’s poems and prayerful words are still so pertinent that I pass it along to others who need its peace.

In 2018 we moved to a new home and I unpacked a box of my grandparents’ books. Buried in the stack was an old blue volume with a water lily embossed on the cover. I turned it in my hands. On the spine, gold letters said Rose from Brier—Carmichael. I gasped. Opening it carefully, I read handwritten on the flyleaf: “Presented to Lloyd Smith by the Senior Class of Baptist Bible Seminary, 1942.” The next two pages were filled with signatures of his college classmates, some who had become well-known pastors or professors. Every one added a special Scripture verse. My heart overflowed. The very book that ministered to me had ministered to my grandfather in his own fight for life. I bowed myself and wept.

When my Mom battled uterine cancer in 2021, I gave the book to her, saying, “I think your daddy would want you to have this.” When I faced a total hysterectomy and possible uterine cancer in 2022, I asked to have the book back. Although I had my own paperback, underlined edition, I wanted to hold the hardback my grandpa had read. I kept one copy by my bed, and the other in my devotional basket so that whenever I needed it, it would be close.

As I read the familiar words again, I was struck with the profound insights Amy Carmichael had written almost 90 years before. They soothed my soul, brought me to the foot of the cross. Even after my own pathology came back benign, I kept reading. I wanted to preserve the raw emotions that had thrust me to the heart of God. I didn’t want the book to end.

It has sat unopened for months, the last two chapters unread. Today, as I ponder Grandpa Lloyd’s untimely passing, the last chapter titles seem especially fitting: “Thy Calvary Stills All Our Questions” and “A Door Opened in Heaven.” Even though he left this earth 75 years ago, his legacy lives on. And I’m ready to finish the book.

Birthdays Look Different

Birthdays look different after cancer.

Many years ago (before my diagnosis), I caught up with a writing mentor who had survived breast cancer twice. She was maybe sixty, which to me seemed pushing old age. “But isn’t every birthday just a joyful celebration?” I asked, thinking she must feel grateful for each year added to her life.

She agreed, but I sensed hesitation. Now I understand.

I turned 56 last week. I’m not happy with the changes and limitations that come with getting older. But I want to be old, because it means I didn’t die young.

And just in case you thought I did, I’ll follow up on my last cliffhanger post.

On March 14, 2023, two weeks after my radical hysterectomy, Greg and I sat in my gynecological oncologist’s office awaiting the pathology results. I knew all too well the fear that fills the sterile room as you wait for the knock on the door, and the words to follow. So I took my knitting and focused on each stitch. Busy hands, calm mind.

A knock. The physician’s assistant entered. I froze, eyes alert to every non-verbal. “Hi!” she said. “I have your results here,” tapping a manila folder. She sat down on a stool, wheeled herself over to me. Then “Oh!” She noticed what was in my hands. “I’m so glad you brought your knitting—or is it crochet?”

“No, it’s knitting.”

She laughed. “Well, I can’t do either.”

“I can knit, but I can’t crochet. My sister crochets, but doesn’t knit. I think maybe different peoples’ brains work differently.”

“One of these days, I’m going to have to learn,” she said.

I held my breath. Why are we talking about knitting? Do I keep this conversation going? She’s killing time, trying to soften the blow…

Then she turned to Greg. “I know Doctor told you he didn’t see anything suspicious.”

Here it comes.

“But it’s still really good news.”

Still?

“It’s all benign.” She opened the folder and painstakingly walked us through all the things they had found in me. My eyes skimmed the page, just in case it said “cancer.” Nothing. Definitely a huge fibroid, and other issues with my endometrium and ovaries, but NO CANCER. Relief came slowly; tears of joy were a bit delayed. A long, painful recovery still lay ahead, but no chemo or radiation. I was walking free! We celebrated with lunch at Cheesecake Factory, and I went home to rest. And knit.

Now, eight months later, I sometimes forget the gift I’ve been given. I take breath for granted. I struggle with life and wish I didn’t have to do hard things.

But I don’t want to forget what God brought me through. I don’t want my story to grow stale. May every birthday, every anniversary, every doctor’s visit, every new scare remind me of my blessings and the privilege of encouraging my fellow travelers on our journey Home.

Choosing Joy

Waiting makes me philosophical. 

Surgery two weeks ago went well. My total abdominal hysterectomy (or TAH) removed a melon-sized fibroid as well as uterus, cervix, tubes, and ovaries. The surgeon announced that he didn't think it looked like cancer. But a cancer diagnosis is pathology-based. Tomorrow we'll get those results.

Moments of intense peace and joy (almost euphoria) have overwhelmed me these past two weeks, brought on perhaps by medication or Divine intervention or both. Deep, cleansing breaths come more naturally, undoubtedly improved by the space my lungs have to expand now that that nasty fibroid (and other things) are gone. I accept these gifts.

But in the back of my mind, never far away, lurks the question, "Is it cancer?" 

I'm reading the devotional Rose From Brier, notes that Amy Carmichael wrote "from the ill to the ill" in 1933.¹ Amy, a missionary in India, was bedridden for months following a serious accident. Her thoughts and poems are brief but deep, easy to read when I feel like reading, and comforting to mull over while I rest.

She says in her introduction: "All these letters have been written . . . at the time the storm fell upon me, not after the coming of the calm."² This is what I hope my blog will be--comfort not just with good reports, but in the waiting, too.

A precious scripture to me in the uncertainty leading up to my surgery was "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."³ In the continued uncertainty since my surgery, I have clung to these additional words: "Because you have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice."⁴

I've imagined a hundred times tomorrow's scene in the surgeon's office. What will he say? If he says "no cancer present" I may weep for joy. If he says "bad news" I may weep with fear. I cannot prepare to rejoice or crumple because I won't know until that moment.

But the truth is, I am under His wings. I keep seeing myself as a little chick, peeking my head out every so often to see if a storm is coming. But no matter what happens, I'm in the safest place. Nothing can touch me here. I can already rejoice.

 

 

¹Amy Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 2015 ed. (Fort Washington, PA: CLC Publications, 2015), 13.

²Carmichael, Rose from Brier, 14.

³Bible, Psalm 91:1 (NKJV)

⁴Bible, Psalm 63:7 (NKJV)