Training

Friends. Today is the second anniversary--two years since the discovery of the tumor that served as a railroad switch and changed the trajectory of our lives. Just typing those words, I still feel the drop and the wind-rush of the roller coaster that ensued.

Next I unconsciously reach and rub my leg, half-expecting to feel the lump that propelled me through scans, flights, and medical offices as if I were on an express train: appointments and procedures flashing by like stations. And on those express trains, there is no getting on or getting off in the regular places. You stay on, skipping past stations and the people waiting on those platforms, everything a blur.

Even so, in the midst of our isolation we were not alone. I still remember and am grateful for the many acts of kindness and generosity that came our way. I remember that scarf you knitted or sand dollar you mailed or salmon you brought for dinner; the card you sent, the internet you got hooked up, the shirt you had made. The check you sent. The car you lent and the children of mine you took into your home when it was inconvenient for you. Later, the rehab walks you took with me that were so slow you must have wanted to scream (but didn’t). I remember how you walked in and joined us in our story--no small thing when it’s a story that constantly reminds of us of something that most folks in our culture would prefer not to ponder.

We have been pondering it anew the past few weeks, life and death and cancer and stories. Viva La Vida fell on Mother’s Day weekend this year. Jesse returned home late last Tuesday from his annual conference in Princeton. The story of my cancer will always be very much caught up in that place and period of our lives. It was such a sweet time, and the sudden loss of it brought a grief of its own.

There is grief, but there is also a great deal of gratitude. I am grateful for gifts I mentioned above. Many of the tangible gifts made it into my #liturgicalradiation series (I Instagrammed my way through radiation, taking some tangible item into my sessions and praying for the person associated with it).

One gift that could not be carried in was a video compilation of some of my nearest and dearest lip-syncing Katy Perry’s “Roar” for me. It was amazing. I have gone back to it again and again. The kids have picked it up as “Mom’s song.” Along with Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song,” it became the theme song of the time (see playlist below). And so when Jesse came back from Princeton this week, he brought us all back presents with an Eye of the Tiger theme. We are all kitted out with tiger stripes and I’m feeling a bit bold and steely and joyful to wear them. Jesse brought me a new hat for hiking in. It’s perfect.

It’s perfect because I now regularly hike. This in itself is no small thing, for me an act of growing courage and hope and strength (we also found out in February that it is probably helping to heal things that one surgeon thought would never improve). I am able to hike because of God’s gracious care of me, and helped along my way by the generous gifts of friends who are still walking with me, both metaphorically and physically. I walk with strong legs and working lungs, fancy boots and steadying poles, all of which have been gifts freely given.

Putting on a tiger hat and walking out of the door brings all of these things to the front of my mind. And now, instead of praying for people during radiation sessions I am praying as I climb the trails. What a tremendous gift it is to walk out of my front door and keep going up the mountain. One step at a time: the opposite of a speeding train.
#caminotraining #dontwaittocelebrate #twoyearslater

Nasturtiums on my last hike