ONE-EYED GOD WINKS

The morning we returned from our cruise, I checked in to the cancer center for a PET scan. 

Sitting in the waiting room, I observed the comings and goings of precious souls in various stages of cancer. Some were in wheelchairs, many had brightly-colored scarves covering their hairless heads, most looked gaunt and weary.  Yet every single person who looked my way offered a smile which I gratefully returned, along with a prayer. 

I didn't consider myself to be “one of them”.  I didn't feel like a cancer patient. Still,  I was honored to be in the company of  mighty warriors who never volunteered for such duty. 

I couldn't really tell you the precise moment that clarity struck, or as I like to say, sh*t got real. Somewhere between the waiting room and the act of being slid in and out of the PET scanner like an indecisive pizza pie, I accepted the reality that cancer would change my life in a defining way. 

And once again I heard, “Breathe in Jesus... breathe out peace.” 

As I became accustomed to the noise of the machine, I noticed music playing softly in the background. It was a Christian song that I had heard before, but really did not know. (I don't often listen to contemporary Christian music – I'm an old-time gospel kind of gal.)  Even though I couldn't hear all the words, the beautiful melody calmed me.   Then, just as the noisy scanner clicked off, I heard the final chorus of the song loud and clear: 

It is well, it is well... with my soul. 

My face broke out in a smile as I tried to keep my eyes from leaking. Those nine little words at the end of that song were a God Wink to me. 

[God Wink (noun) An event or personal experience, often identified as coincidence, so astonishing that it is seen as a sign of divine intervention, especially when perceived as the answer to a prayer.]

Last year, when my brothers and I were planning Mom's funeral, I was adamant about including “It Is Well” in her celebration services. I wasn't sure why, but I knew it had to be. 

Several months later, my cousin sent me a CD she had recorded from old reel-to-reel tapes of our family singing gospel music. It was a treasure of unspeakable worth. My Daddy's big bass voice blending with his Dad and family, along with my Mom's beautiful alto, simply flooded my heart with precious memories. But the best part was hearing their noisy chatter and jovial banter between songs. My Mom's voice – wilting violet that she was – came through loud and clear. In her twangy Texas brawl she drawled, “Paaaaauuuuul, I wanna sing that song that we sang in church... It is Well With My Soul. I loooooove that song – I want it sang at my funeral! 

And three decades later, my soul remembered and her wish was fulfilled. 

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Yesterday, I was visiting with my sister/friend – my 'ride or die' chick. We've been together from the cradle. From skinned knees to age spots... baby lotion to Retin-A... diapers to Depends (she's gonna kill me for that one). 

My friend was telling me how worried she was about my health, fearful of not having me in her life. “Robin, the entire time you were in surgery, all I did was pray and sing this song over you..." 

 

As she played the song, the words touched me deeply. We listened together in silent tears, our old familiar hearts exchanging words too hard to speak. And as I heard the last chorus I realized... 

This was the very song God had sent me during my PET scan. 

So many God Winks. So much peace in the knowledge that God is walking beside me each step of the way. Not a whisper of need to understand His purpose, only inadequacy in expressing gratitude for my blessings... for His healing.  Always with the understanding that 'Even If' He did not heal me, my hope is forever in Him. 

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Approximately half of Ocular Melanoma patients have a specific genetic make-up indicating a high risk of developing cancer mets (primarily to the liver). For this particular cancer, DNA testing is a very accurate prognosticator. 

This morning, I received the results of my biopsy. They were everything we prayed for --- I'm in the other half.

My doctor gave me an “Excellent Prognosis” which means this: Melanoma is a tricky little turd and there's always a possibility that years down the road, it might show up, again. It's also likely that I could die tomorrow from eating 14 servings of desserts in one setting. That's exactly how the King of Sweden died in 1771 and I'm pretty sure he's my Spirit Animal. 

But cancer..?  Nope.  Not today.

P.S.  GET YOUR EYES DILATED!!!

The 'C' Word

I'm radioactive, y'all. 

Two days ago, I underwent surgery to sew a disc filled with radioactive seeds to the back of my right eye. 

I have eye cancer. (The medical term is Ocular Melanoma but don't Google it... it'll scare the crap out of you.) 

I'm one of the lucky ones – mine is very small and treatable. The radiation and some other opthal-magic tricks should stop the melanoma in its tracks. 

But even with a good prognosis, there's not a great way to tell people you have cancer. Just the mention of that 'C' word freaks everybody out and they start talking reeeeaaaal slow, treating me like I'm gonna break. 

I'm not gonna break. Or even crack. 

I have laid it at God's feet – where everything in my life belongs – and I am golden. Glowing like a glowworm. 

If I had my druthers, I would have kept this between me and God... wouldn't have told anybody, even Dickie. But apparently, leaving the hospital after eye surgery without a driver is frowned upon in this establishment.

And then there's the fact that God just keeps pecking away at me, reminding me that He can use this to His glory; reminding me of my purpose... why I'm here. 

Clearly, my purpose is to overshare the details of my life on my blog and Facebook. 

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About seven weeks ago, my eye became suddenly blurry. The optometrist immediately referred me to an ophthalmologist. My appointment just happened to be at the same time the Dickman was scheduled for an upper and lower GI. We gave Jacob the dubious task of accompanying his Dad to The Butt Scope. (Key to this story is understanding just how much my husband loses his ever-loving mind on sedation.) 

After the scope, the nurse took Jacob back to recovery where he overheard his Dad earnestly trying to convert the sweet Hindu doctor to Christianity and also gunning for all the nurses to get a pay raise.  All Jacob could do was apologize and clamp his hand over his Dad's big mouth. As quickly as possible, he loaded him in the pickup and brought him to me. 

After a battery of tests, I was waiting to meet with the ophthalmologist.  I looked up just in time to catch a dopey-looking Dickman lumbering towards me with Jacob following closely behind, sending apologetic looks over his Dad's shoulder. 

“He's been a handful, huh?” I asked JP.

“Let's just say, I will never show my face in that office again, mmmkay?” replied my long suffering son. 

I told Dickie he could stay with me, but only if he kept his mouth shut. 

He just giggled. 

The doctor called us back to his office to give me the news. I heard the words, “Ocular Melanoma”, and before the first finger of fear could even began to creep up my spine - clear as a bell - a little voice in my head said, “Just breathe. Breathe in Jesus, Breathe out peace.” 

And I did.

The Dickman, however, was a few beats behind. I explained to my doctor that he was 'a wee bit loopy' from his buttscope. The doc looked at him in concern and asked, “Did everything go well?” 

“Oh, yeah,” replied Dickie with a goofy grin, “The doctor said I was a perfect butthole.” 

Which (pardon the pun) brings us full circle...

Dickie sent this picture of me eating ice cream after surgery to my entire family. I told him I couldn't believe he shared such an awful picture of me. He said, “It's not bad... that's exactly how you look when you're tired and hungry.”

(The worst part of the surgery was that they wouldn't let me wear ANY makeup. Also they refused to give me a boob job, no matter how nicely I asked.) 

But seriously, I'm doing great. In fact, I got up this morning, put my sneakers on and ran three miles. I'm kidding. I ate four pieces of french toast covered in syrup and a Twix bar.  I'll think about eating healthier tomorrow. (Again, I'm kidding.)

The radiation disc will be removed in a couple of days and then, well... then I'll get on with living this wonderful life I've been given more of.  

I plan on loving deeper and speaking sweeter... breathing in Jesus, breathing out peace. 

P.S.  If you're reading this and are not getting your eyes dilated yearly, DO IT NOW.   

P.S.S.  You know all those other things in life you've always wanted to do? You should do them, too. Now.

I Keep Falling In Love Again...

After burying our Mamas 360 days apart, then immediately boarding a cruise ship BOTH times, the Dickman and I have decided that cruises are a great place to find solace in grief. 

Think about it:  A Floating Feedlot of endless buffets where you can eat your feelings away day or night. Or, if you get tired of chewing... bottomless cocktails just waiting to be served by smiling waitresses;  polite stewards who pick your clothes up off the floor and turn your bed down every night (just like Mom used to do).  And on those days when sadness washes over you like a wave, there is always a quiet place to stare out at the ocean and feel the Bigness of God. 

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I watched as he stared pensively through the ship window after breakfast. “How's your heart?” I asked. 

“This is the closest I've come to really crying...” He replied, as tears rolled down his face. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was in fact, really crying. Instead, I began crying with him.  I'm not sure how long we sat there, letting the grief of the past week – the past years – wash over us in soggy silence.  He finally looked away from the ocean, blew his nose in his napkin and  gave me a shaky smile as we headed back to the buffet for dessert. 

Later, we docked in the Dominican Republic, where I had arranged one of my infamous island adventures – a waterfall hike and jump. Yep, you read that right: Waterfall.Jump. (Did I mention that the Dickman doesn't swim?  Or that he had shoulder surgery a mere 3 months ago??  A knee replacement in April???)  I assured him he would not be required to jump... he could walk around the falls or slide down on his bottom. But still, he would be hiking up the mountain and through the jungle with his shiny new titanium knee, then sliding down waterfalls into rushing water.  I couldn't help but worry that this time, I might be taking things a bridge too far.

After meeting our guide, we were assured that he would keep my Dickman safe and would escort him around the falls, rather than over them. 

Imagine my shock when I turned around at the first waterfall to see this... 

He jumped! Dickie jumped and he slid and he splashed his way through the adventure right along with the rest of us!! I can't even tell you how proud I was of him for conquering the rushing water like a gray-headed Tarzan in an blue life vest and helmet.

But really... isn't it funny how you think you know someone intimately for basically all of your life, yet still they can surprise you?

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A few months after Mom died, I was going through some of her things and came across one of her Bibles. Mom was always an avid Bible reader, so it was no surprise to find her Bible all marked up and well-used. The surprise was in seeing that Every.Single.Verse had been underlined.  It was a tangible sign of her faithfulness, which spoke deeply to my heart...

Coincidentally (or not), a few weeks later I saw a post on FB with a challenge to read through the Bible in 60 days. I was immediately inspired!  I printed out the schedule and committed myself to finally reading ALL 66 books. Every sentence. Just like my Mama. 

Selfishly, what I expected to get out of the reading was a sense of 'fellowship' with my Mom, to follow in the footsteps of her marked-up Bible.  I should've known God had waaaaaay bigger plans. 

I fell head over heels for the Holy Spirit, y'all. 

I mean, it's not like I didn't know Him. He's always been a part of me, hanging around inside of me, near the vicinity of my spleen... a nebulous spiritual force. All throughout my life, if I would shut up and listen, He would comfort me, reassure me... redirect my path. There have even been occasions when I didn't know what to pray for and He rescued me by interceding with those wordless groans Paul spoke of in Romans...

Yet, there was always the head scratcher of the Holy Spirit being all tied up with the Trinity... a concept not easily explained without a 3-D model and PowerPoint presentation. I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that I embraced the comparison of the Trinity to a Turducken. I mean, who couldn't understand such a simple concept: 

But all of a sudden, instead of being a mystical entity within the innermost layer in a trio of fowls (divine concept run amok), the Holy Spirit became Somebody.  

Every time I opened my Bible, it was like opening the door to my new Best Friend.  I found myself being transformed daily.  I'm not sure if it was the rapid reading schedule which kept the Big Picture in context or simply the receptiveness of  my heart at that point in time, but Sweet Jesus... how that Book came to life for me! Scriptures I had read all my life were filled with deeper meaning.  Characters I had studied in depth became even more real, all because of the Holy Spirit.

The more I became immersed in the Word, the more I became infused with the Spirit. He became my very own personal tutor, giving me insight leading to understanding and finally, revelation. 

And get this --- not only was I given a deeper spiritual connection, but after the 60 days were up, my sadness and grief were gone. Conquered! Somewhere along the way of highlighting verses and searching for wisdom, peace had filled my soul and settled into the cracks of my broken heart.  Just like He said it would.

...Isn't it funny how you think you know someone intimately for basically all of your life, yet still they can surprise you?

(I've just started a second 60-day reading. If you want to join me, click on the link below!)

https://jeffandersonauthor.com/readthebook/

God Knots

Blessed as I am, I'm not gonna lie.  It's been a bit of a struggle to look forward to the holidays, this year.

Due to all of our crazy schedules, we voted for an early Thanksgiving.  At the last minute, I invited my Cooper brothers (and their precious Cooper spouses) to crash our Haney Happy Thanksgiving Dinner. You wanna know why?  All you have to do is ask Wise King Solomon.  He knows almost everything.

In Ecclesiastes, he talks of a cord that is not easily broken.  You know the verse.  You've heard it quoted many times at weddings in reference to the relationship between husband and wife in unity with God.  Though I absolutely love the symbolism and have staked my own marriage on the message... in truth, ol' Solomon's words have been taken out of context.  Instead of matrimony, he was con-templating the futility of "meaningless things", such as having no one to share life's blessings and toils.  He specifically wrote of a man who was all alone, who had no children or brothers.  Solomon tells us that although "two are better than one", it's the cord of three strands that is the strongest.

I agree with Solomon.  God doesn't mean for any of us to do life alone. From the cradle to the grave - all along the way - He has gifted us with family and friends and co-workers and support groups.  He brings us together and ties us into unbreakable knots.

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Yesterday, my house was filled with many cords in my Heavenly Knot.  But it was the presence of my brothers that gave me strength.  No one else has shared the sounds of my Mother's heartbeat from the inside.  No one else knows exactly how much I miss her, feels the bipolar juxtaposition of being both blessed and heartbroken in this world without her and our Daddy.

Nobody else knew why my baby brother's eyes got a little shiny when he saw the celery stuffed with pimento cheese (Mom's fav) or noticed that my big brother and I ate most of the pecan pie (sugar gets us through the tough times, man).  

But at the end of the meal, when our waistbands had been stretched beyond all reasonable bounds and our ears were ringing with laughter, seriously... what chum could possibly stay glum?  Certainly not me nor my chums.

Mandie Lee got the wishbone (surprise!) and won the break against her G-Dude (surprise!).  She didn't tell me what she wished for, but I'll tell you mine...

I wish for everyone to have a Happy Thanksgiving and be grateful for their heavenly chords and God-tied knots.  I wish that if your Knots have come untied, that you will let God re-tie them and be thankful.  And if you're not in a Knot, get your butt out there and find one... and be blessed.  

GOD IS...

I was tired.  Soggy from the rain.  Hangry for lunch, which had eluded me hours ago.    

Praying for patience, I knocked on my patient's door.  

She was a ninety-four year old woman who had recently relocated from her lifelong home into the tiny bedroom of an assisted living facility.

She greeted me with a smile as bright as sunshine.  My gloomy mood dissolved in the twinkling of her crinkled eyes.  

It was love at first sight.

“I heard you're having some knee pain...?”

“Only if I move!” she chuckled. “But I need to get in shape! I've got a birthday in a few weeks and I'll be doing lots of dancin'!” 

“Are you planning a big celebration?”

“You bet I am! You can't believe how many friends I have! And they ALL come out and bring LOTS of food and we play music and just have the BEST TIME - every year! And after the party is over, I always go home and cry.  Isn't that silly? I can't help it. I think about how much everybody loves me and I can't hold back the tears!” 

“I don't think you're silly.  I think you're a mighty lucky lady." 

“Psssh!  Ain't no such thing as luck, sweetie. Blessed is what I am!  God has blessed me more than I could ever imagine and you know what?!  He just keeps on doing it!  Haha!!” She declared with unbridled joy. 

Blessed?

She's bald.
She's legally blind.
Her hearing is almost gone.
Her hands are deformed with arthritis.
Her every step brings excruciating pain.
She is a widow who has outlived her children.

Her doctor wants her to stop walking.  Become wheelchair-bound.

Yet, there she was... overflowing with gratitude for her blessings and asking me to get her dancing again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took me a long time to finish my evaluation. I dragged it out as long as I could. I wanted nothing more than to sit at her feet and let the glory of her goodness flow over me for days. 

As I reached to hug her goodbye, I thanked her for brightening my day and told her we would have her dancing like Ginger Rogers before her birthday. 

She replied, “Oh honey, I'm no Ginger. I haven't worn heels in years!” 

                      * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Y'all, I'm not gonna lie... there aren't enough tricks in my therapy bag to get that sweet, broken lady dancing again. I'm just not that good.

But God is.  

God. Is.  

And He makes my job so much easier.  All I have to do is teach her some quad sets, throw in a few adductor squeezes, fit her with a couple of knee braces, cover her in prayer...

And this.  This is the scripture I am claiming for my dubious dancer...

(Also, I want to grow up to be just like her, mmmkay, God?)

Fire Ants and Floods

Even though I am hundreds of miles removed from the floods, Hurricane Harvey has me completely swamped. 

I can't quit checking up on my people. I stay glued to the TV and internet, crying with each waterlogged rescue and cheering on every story of human kindness. The beneficence of our Lone Star Heroes is uniquely inspirational.

My every prayer is for God to stop the deluge. I pray for the ones who have been impacted by the torrential storm as well as those who are bracing for the next onslaught. I pray that God will hold them safely in His arms and that He will unify the rest of us in love and desire to help our brothers and sisters.   

While checking Facebook today, I noticed that much of the vitriolic and divisive dialogue had been replaced with post after post offering help and support to the flood victims and links to donation sites.  And prayers.  Lots of prayers.

Then, right there in the midst of it all, I found an ironically fascinating story of the Floating Fire Ants. 

https://www.houstoniamag.com/articles/2017/8/27/yes-floating-fire-ant-nests-are-a-real-thing

As the article explains, fire ants have the ability to come together during a flood and hold onto each other to make a living raft. By joining together, they become strong enough to form a watertight bond which enables them to stay afloat for ridiculously long periods of time. 

It reminded me of the philosophy of Plato.  You remember Plato, don't you? He was the ancient philosopher who warned society about being so self-focused as to become void of the glue that holds it together. (Or was that the Beatles?) 

Regardless, I'm betting those fire ants don't care if their floating buddies are lighter or darker in color, or if they share the same political beliefs, or even who pays the most taxes. I'm pretty sure their egos melted away with the first drop of rain. Instead, what could have been an Ant Apocalypse somehow morphs into an organized community of cooperation and respect that manages to remain united under very stressful conditions. 

We can learn a lot from the little critters. 

These are scary and challenging times, y'all.  I think we should raft-up and hold each other tight. Because they need us and we need them and I need you and you need me... 

And we all need Jesus. 

Together, we'll ride out every storm.  

(John 16:33)

Untethered Cord / Sustaining Roots

Everybody knows what a wonderful job my Mama did in teaching us how to let her go.  Fabulous job.  Stellar.

She only forgot one small lesson:  She forgot to teach me how to live without her.

Right now, I'm like Sandra Bullock in the movie, "Gravity". Remember that terrifying part when she suddenly becomes untethered from the space station and begins to float around in space like a freaking asteroid? That's how I feel without my Mama: untethered... floating aimlessly... wondering when in the heck George Clooney is gonna show up and save me.

Only it's never gonna happen because George is in Italy with Amal, gestating twins at the Villa.  Screw you, Clooney!  And while we're at it, screw Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Five Stages of Grief. Who is she to tell me my grief should have stages as orderly and predictably as a droid??

There's nothing orderly or predictable about my grief stages, cause I'm making 'em up as I go:

STAGE 1:  Sleepy

STAGE 2:  Bitchy

STAGE 3:  Sad

STAGE 4:  Hungry

STAGE 5:  Pudgy

STAGE 6:  Bashful

STAGE 7:  Dopey

It's not like I am a rookie at this grieving gig.  I really thought I knew what to expect.  I was prepared to endure those sneaky waves that try to drag me under.  But it's different every time, isn't it?  Grief is as individual and unique as our love for the ones we lose.  Each and every one.

It's a heck of a lot of work, grief is.  It's like a job.  A lonely, snotty job.  And some days are better than others.

When anybody asks how I am doing I usually say, "I'm okay, I think?"  Then, I'll give them a big smiley smile just to prove it. Maybe throw in a hug for extra measure.

But then there is That Person. The nosy and meddling one. The one who can never simply ask how I am doing, but has to ask, "How Is Your Heart?"  

Most days I can honestly answer, "I'm okay, I think?"  But some days... some days I can't even answer.  Some days the words get stuck in my throat and pour out of my eyes in soundless reply.  Some days I pull up the covers and sink into the sadness.  But on Most Days... I work through the grief like a boss.  

This Sunday is not Most Days.  

Sunday is Mother's Day.  Wednesday is her birthday. 

Though I don't imagine that I will miss her any more on Sunday or her birthday than I miss her today, than I miss her right now in this tetherless, motherless void...  it's shaping up to be a sh*tty week, y'all.

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There is a big ol' gorgeous cottonwood tree in my backyard.  It's literally the reason I wanted to live in this house.  Trees are a precious commodity in this part of Texas - especially pretty ones - and I never take her for granted.  On breezy days of spring and sunny days of summer, I love to sit under My Tree, close my eyes, and enjoy the peaceful song of her leaves.  Every October I am besotted by the spectacle of her vibrant colors.

But without fail - every single winter - I agonize whether or not My Tree has died and am crushed by fear that she might never come to life again.

Yet, she always returns.

Yesterday, I was outside reading  and stumbled upon an excerpt from a book entitled, "Motherless Daughters:  The Legacy of Loss" by Hope Edelman.  It was a moment of sweet symmetry, sitting beneath My Tree, reading about Motherless Daughters... and trees. (Not a coincidence. Coincidences are nothing more than God's way of staying anonymous.)

Here's my favorite part, where the author writes about nature's amazing metaphors for life:

“In the redwood ecosystem, buds for future trees are contained in pods called burls, tough brown knobs that cling to the bark of the mother tree. When the mother tree is logged, blown over, or destroyed by fire – when, in other words, she dies – the trauma stimulates the burls growth hormones. The seeds release and trees sprout around her, creating the circle of daughters. The daughter trees grow by absorbing the sunlight their mother cedes to them when she dies. And they get the moisture and nutrients they need from their mother's root system, which remains intact underground, even after her leaves die.  Although the daughters exist independently of their mother above ground, they continue to draw sustenance from her underneath."

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Before she left, Mom gave us our marching orders.  She told my big brother to "Stay Strong".  To my baby brother, she said, "Don't Worry", and to me... "Don't Cry".  I complained that she gave me the hardest one and told her that I didn't have to mind her if she wasn't here.

And I haven't.  I haven't minded her at all and I don't even care. She's not the boss of me anymore.

I'm the boss of me, now.  And just to prove it, I'm planning an entire day of disobedience this Mother's Day.  I shall cry ALL the tears I want to cry while snot runs down my face until I wipe it away on my sleeve.  I'm gonna buy a 2 pound bag of peanut M&Ms and a package of Oreo's and I'm gonna eat them with my elbows on the table and talk with ALL the food in my mouth.  And then I'm gonna find my sharpest scissors and go running in and out with them, slamming the screen a million times.  In the cold.  With my hair wet.  No jacket.

Disobedience loves company. Therefore I cordially invite my Sisterhood of Motherless Daughters to join me.  Whether it is your first or your 21st Mother's Day without her... I welcome you to join me in crying ALL the tears because our beautiful angels are worth every salty drip.  And also we will eat ALL the chocolate, just because we can.

After our eyes are sufficiently swollen and our noses are shiny and red, we will dry our tears and take a couple of deep, shuddering breaths.  We will message each other (no calls) and ask, "How Is Your Heart... ?"

We will remember the legacy of our angels.  We will be grateful for the deep, deep roots of love that sustain us.  We will reply to each other, "I think I'm okay."

And then... we will smile.