tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27062403808706826002024-03-13T14:03:04.254-07:00Cinnamon Rolls and BaconFeasting on life in the other MoscowHannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-85017699336957526352019-12-28T12:47:00.001-08:002019-12-28T12:49:03.137-08:00A Voice Heard in Ramah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is the fourth day of Christmas, which in some Christian traditions is the day that commemorates the murder of the infant boys by Herod after he heard the news from the wise men that a new king had been born.<br />
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In all our feasting and gift giving and twinkle lighting, the mass murder of innocent children is a painful part of the Christmas story that is rarely mentioned—and even more rarely meditated on. Instead, we push that bloody massacre back into the shadows of history where it gets buried under fuzzy blankets and covered over with tinsel and hidden behind tempo-keeping farm animals (pah-rum-pah-pum-pum) as if it never happened. That part of the story just isn’t very cozy and glittery and cute. It elicits outrage. It forces us to take sides. It smacks of politics. So why dwell on it? Why not just forget about it and think only happy thoughts by the fire?<br />
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Well, for starters, we should remember it because it’s part of the story that God tells. *He* put it in the Book, which means He wants us to remember it. Hundreds of years earlier, He had also given it to the prophet Jeremiah to foretell: “A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.” We remember it because with it, we can feel something of the weight of the events we celebrate at Christmas. It shows us, with blood and tears, what was at stake when God took on flesh and shone the Light into our darkness—a darkness that did not want to be exposed.<br />
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Some say that Christmas is a season that should be free from politics—a time for family and decorations and cozy feelings and setting aside our differences. And Christmas can involve all those things. But it isn’t *primarily* about those things. Christmas, from the moment the angel first appeared to Mary, has always been political. Politics, in fact, is very near the heart of the Christmas message: “The Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”<br />
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Maybe we, in our modern democratic states like to think of this announcement about thrones and kings as something out of the fairy tales, removed by distance and time and from reality itself. Maybe this Jesus is a “king” like the modern European monarchs—a mere figurehead who exists to bestow knighthood on pop stars and wave white-gloved hands from marble balconies and populate the pages of the tabloids. This isn’t a king as in a real, you know, *KING*, is he? He’s not a political ruler who demands anything or affects my everyday life, right?<br />
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Wrong.<br />
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Christmas makes claims on your life, on your allegiances, on your body, on your choices. To celebrate the incarnation is to celebrate the God who spent the first nine months of his earthly life, fully God and fully man, inside the body of a young woman. God incarnate lived among us as a zygote, an embryo, a fetus—an unborn child whose unborn cousin, filled with the Spirit, lept for joy at His coming. To love the One born at Christmas is to love the unborn. The recognize the full divinity and full humanity of the unborn Christ is to recognize the full humanity of all children yet to be born. And you can hate Him and fear His influence and so join with Herod, bathing the world in innocent blood in an attempt to obliterate the claims His kingship and humanity makes on all of us. Or you can come from the ends the earth with gladness and all your costliest treasures to fall before Him in obedience and worship. There is no middle way. Christmas is political to the core.<br />
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This child born in Bethlehem is the King who rules the nations with a rod of iron—a king who can tell you what to do, and you must do it. A king whose favor is your life and whose fury is your destruction. He’s *that* kind of king, and Herod rightly feared it. Herod, in fact, understood it better than we do.<br />
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The announcement of the birth of this new King did to Jerusalem and its leaders something like what the election of a new president does to the United States. Fear. Joy. Handwringing. Elation. Confusion. Celebration. Anger. Disbelief.<br />
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In fact, the news of this King should still shake us to the core—even more greatly than the outcome of any presidential race. This isn’t just an election to a 4-year term over a single nation, with checks and balances carefully in place. No. Jesus didn’t come into the world asking, pretty please, for your vote. He, as the Son of God, came as the rightful King of everything, requiring our full allegiance, whether we like it or no. This Christmas news is the proclamation of a new ruler over *every* nation, the King that rules kings, with absolute authority—*forever*. “Of the increase of His government and discipline there shall be no end.” So you bet Herod was shaking in his boots: “He was greatly troubled and all Jerusalem with him.”<br />
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The terrible, wonderful news Herod learned from the gift-bearing eastern sages threatened to destroy everything he had worked for. What could be done to stop it? Something swift. Something drastic. He was so troubled, in fact, that “he became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men.” If one infant threatened to usurp his power and his plans, he was prepared to destroy all the infants, just as a precaution. His kingdom. His choice.<br />
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Christmas apolitical? Hardly. “He has brought down the mighty from their thrones.” The angel proclaimed it. Mary sang of it. Herod feared it. The shepherds rejoiced at it. All Jerusalem was troubled by it. Joseph was warned of the coming politically-motivated violence and fled with Mary and the Christ child to the very land where Pharaoh had once done to Israel’s baby boys what Israel’s own ruler was now doing to the children of his own people. And so this, too, is Christmas.<br />
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The Christmas season *is* political. But it truly is a season for rejoicing. It is a season for giving gifts. It’s a season for spreading a feast—a table in the presence of our enemies. It is a season for laughter and singing. But mingled with the sound of our carols and joyful voices, we should still hear another sound that echoes down the centuries—the voice heard in Ramah, of Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted because they are no more.<br />
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<i>_____________</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God.</i></div>
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<i>Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,</i></div>
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<i>and cry to her that her warfare is ended,</i></div>
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<i>that her iniquity is pardoned,</i></div>
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<i>that she has received from the Lord’s hand</i></div>
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<i>double for all her sins.”</i></div>
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<i>_____________</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man.</i></div>
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<i>He will dwell with them, and they will be his people,</i></div>
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<i>and God himself will be with them as their God.</i></div>
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<i>He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,</i></div>
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<i>and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning,</i></div>
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<i>nor crying, nor pain anymore,</i></div>
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<i>for the former things have passed away.”</i></div>
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<i>_____________</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!</i></div>
Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-12389467033768074472019-01-16T14:01:00.001-08:002019-01-16T14:42:18.765-08:00Life-changing magic<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="9ok0l-0-0"><span data-text="true">Thanks
to her new television series, Marie Kondo and her "life-changing magic"
have been all over my social media lately, eliciting a series of love-it and hate-it responses. </span></span><span data-offset-key="9ok0l-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span data-offset-key="9ok0l-0-0"><span data-text="true">Honestly, I'm not even interested in directly interacting with
Kondo's show or book here, b</span></span>ut before I begin what I have to say, I know that somebody's going to see the above image,
immediately feel defensive, and respond with something along the lines
of, "I don't agree with <i>everything</i> she says, but I did find
Kondo's advice on _____ really helpful." So allow me to save you the trouble right at the outset. <br /><br />I get it. I appreciate a clean
closet, too. Go ahead and fold your T-shirts in whatever kind of
origami makes your mornings easier. And feel free to purge that tangled
mess that's metastasizing in your garage. I, too, enjoy being able to
actually park a car in there, so I'm not silently judging your tidy
home. But, at the risk of pulling a full-on Jesus juke, I
do want to mention three brief points and push back a little against this </span></span><span data-offset-key="9ok0l-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span data-offset-key="9ok0l-0-0"><span data-text="true">seeking-joy-through-simplifying </span></span>impulse that
Kondo seems to embody:</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="eu7n2-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="color: #76a5af;">1. God is kind of a maximalist. </span>Even
a bit over-the-top rococo at times. I mean, how many kinds and colors
of butterfly does one planet really need, anyway? And don't get me
started on the sheer number and variety of birds and flowers—really
excessive. And how about PEOPLE? So many kinds and colors and shapes of
people everywhere you turn, just cluttering up the space and taking up
His time! <br /><br />But in all seriousness, if God delights in both the spare simplicity (<i>deceptive</i>
simplicity, if you ask me) of the Mongolian steppes, and in the wild
multiplicity of the Amazon jungle, then so can we. Whenever "my cup
runneth over," I should not respond by asking Him to please try to show a
little more restraint. When His kindness fills up our homes to
bursting, the correct first response is "Thank you!" So I recommend that
we refuse to purge the clutter until we have first received the clutter
with gratitude. Every sweater that no longer fits is, first, a gift
that was given by a good God. Every excess kitchen gadget is something that
you've been blessed to receive, even if it was just for a short time. As
the proverb says, "where no oxen are the manger is clean, but much
increase comes from the strength of an ox." Mess and clutter <i>can</i> be evidence of laziness and greed, sure. But quite often, mess and clutter are simply the evidence of a full and productive life. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="23m29-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="color: #76a5af;">2. An ongoing lack of joy is symptomatic of deeper trouble</span>
than the jumble of cords and coffee cups on your desk. Again, I'm not
saying that stuff can't present temptations, but the problem isn't in
the <i>stuff</i>. The problem is in the <i>heart</i>. Always. Our anger,
frustration, impatience, loathing, and every other ugly weed we produce
is growing not from the pile of broken crayons in the junk drawer but
from the rot in our own hearts. So if we must minimize something, I
suggest we start with that inner mess first. </span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQMjQc7CJC0/XD-ojnZpseI/AAAAAAAAF9M/9PJ3HoJbAd4yg40c7EorDzp5-jXv8KykQCLcBGAs/s1600/Bible-Joy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQMjQc7CJC0/XD-ojnZpseI/AAAAAAAAF9M/9PJ3HoJbAd4yg40c7EorDzp5-jXv8KykQCLcBGAs/s320/Bible-Joy.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
<span data-offset-key="92ct3-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="color: #76a5af;">3. Bad news: We actually <i>can't</i> clean up that mess by ourselves.</span> However, <i>good</i> news: There is someone who <i>can</i>. The Spirit of God is the one who can fully clean up the mess you've made of your heart. (And, yes, you <i>have</i>
made a mess of it. And so have I. And so have we all. Don't let the
tidy exteriors fool you.) Jesus is the only one who washes us clean on
the inside so that love, joy, peace, patience, and all the other good
fruit can start to grow where the weeds once were. So please, don't try
to make the occasional "spark" of joy become a substitute for the
unquenchable flame of joy that comes from a new life in Christ. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8rfd5-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1icv5-0-0"><span data-text="true">In
other words, even if you pare your purse collection down to just one
sleek, all-purpose handbag, you can still manage to carry yourself to hell in it.
New year's resolutions can be helpful, but a slim waist and a tidy
closet, as good as they may make you feel for a short while, are not
going to cure anorexia of the soul. Stop starving yourself, and start
feasting on the words your spirit needs in order to thrive. Open the
Bible. Read the Word. Meet God there.
</span></span><span data-offset-key="1icv5-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span data-offset-key="1icv5-0-0"><span data-text="true"><i>That</i>, my friends, is the lifelong habit where the real life-changing "magic" is found. </span></span><i>In His presence is fullness of joy. At His right hand are pleasures forevermore. </i></span></span></div>
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-34162482277638676182017-07-02T12:03:00.000-07:002019-01-18T13:51:45.795-08:00Based on a true story<style>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Um, excuse
me?" I am kneeling next to a newly planted row of tomato starts and
pulling weeds when I hear a woman's voice from over my bent shoulders. Several
small businesses share the busy alley next to our back yard garden, and I
assume the voice is speaking to someone else. I do not look up. With the back
of my gardening glove I brush some loose hairs away from my eyes, and I
continue weeding, tossing a few more invasive cheeseweed seedlings onto my
growing pile. But then I hear the voice again, louder this time, "Hello?
Miss? <i>Excuse</i> me." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Because of the steady
stream of foot, bicycle, and car traffic that passes by the garden each day
it's not uncommon for passers-by to stop and say a kind word or two about the
new raised beds or about how nicely our plants are coming along. "Oh,
hi," I say, rising stiffly from my knees and turning to face the voice,
"Sorry. I thought you were talking to someone else just now." I smile
and wait for her to speak. She has stopped her vintage bicycle next to our bent
chicken wire fence and rests her hands on her narrow hips. Her eyes are a blue
so pale that I seem to be looking not at the eyes themselves but at two vacant
holes in her head through which I can see the cloudless sky behind her. I reach
over and grip the splintery handle of my shovel and lean my weight into it so that I can stretch my legs. I look at her expectantly. She does not smile back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">After running her eyes over the whole garden plot,</span> she finally says, “Well,” with a voice as crisp and sour and cool as the stalks of rhubarb growing behind me, "I just was riding by here and couldn't help noticing what you're
doing, and </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I have to say that </span>I am genuinely shocked. What, in god’s name is this heap
of dead plants?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Oh those?" I
chuckle a little. "I'm not keeping those, actually. I'm just going to toss
them in the compost when I'm done."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"I <i>figured</i>
you weren't planning on keeping those. And I’m appalled. That's why I
stopped—it looks like you're <i>killing</i> them."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Yesss? Um, I guess I
am," I respond with a nervous laugh-cough. "Take that!" I say,
leaning sideways and yanking a young dandelion out of the carrot bed. I intend
it to be a lighthearted joke, but it flops somewhere in the dust near the
bicycle tires and dissolves into the gravel. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">The cyclist widens the
pale blue holes in her head and tightens her lips. Clearly I am not making a new friend. After a long and uncomfortable pause, the words, "What in the
<i>world</i>?" shoot toward me, and I resist the urge to duck. "How
can you even call yourself a gardener? How can you treat plants this way?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I blink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I blink again,
speechless, and tighten my grip on the shovel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Well? <i>Do</i>
you call yourself a gardener?" she demands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">This is a relief, a
question I can answer. "Oh, well, yes. An amateur, but yeah, I guess I'm a
gardener."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Ha!" she
says. I can taste something bitter on the back of my tongue as she opens her
mouth to continue. "Correct me if I'm wrong here, <i>gardener</i>, but
last last time I checked, gardeners are people who <i>love</i> plants.
Gardeners are people who <i>nurture</i> plants. So explain <i>this</i>!"
She flings her hand toward my little pile of wilting dandelions and pigweed
seedlings and then turns with raised eyebrows to scan the alleyway—as if she is
trying to find somebody willing to join her in her triumphant outrage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Well, this is
actually an important part of caring for the vegetables I planted here." My voice has a bit of a nervous shake in it. I can't believe I'm having to defend my weed pile. "This <i>is</i> what
nurturing a garden looks like." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Oh <i>right</i>. Then
why are you brutalizing perfectly innocent seedlings? Seriously. Why do you
hate plants so much?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"They're
weeds, not <i>good</i> plants." I resist the urge to roll my eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Says <i>you</i>.
The difference between a so-called 'weed,'” she says, making scare quotes in the
air with her fingers, “and a 'good' plant [more scare quotes] is just your <i>opinion</i>. You have no right to
determine which plants should live and which should die. What do you have
against them, anyway? What right can you possibly have to inflict your opinion on every other plant?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I stare at her for a
moment, trying to weigh whether this is some kind of satire, some kind of
practical joke. But her cold eyes are glaring so widely that I can see the
whites completely encircling the blue. ”Well," I begin,
"I have gardener's handbook that I can check whenever I'm not quite sure
which kind of plant I'm looking at. But after a few years of seeing these
things grow up, you get pretty good at identifying..." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"What! You have
this book, so now you're some kind of expert? Seriously? These things look just
like all the other plants around here. They're really not that different. See
that one? It’s not even touching the ones next to it. Not hurting a thing! And
anyway, they're <i>tiny</i>. Look at them! Totally. Harmless. And if you just
gave them a <i>chance</i>, you might actually learn to see the unique beauty in
them!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Actually,
I..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"I am dead
serious," she continues, "I cannot understand how any gardener could
do...<i>this</i>." She broadly sweeps her arm toward the weed pile again.
"If you really loved plants—if you were a <i>real</i> gardener—you would
treat them with care and help them grow and appreciate them for what they are."
She crosses her arms, satisfied in the irrefutability of her argument.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Suppressing the chuckle
that is trying to escape, I cough into my shoulder and glance around the
alleyway, looking for a hidden camera. Maybe this is some kind of skit for
reality television. But no, I see nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“</span></span>That’s the thing,” I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You're missing the point. I love the plants that are <i>supposed</i> to
be in the garden. I love these snap peas. I love the carrots. And <i>if</i> I
love these plants, then I have to root out the invaders.” I point to a dandelion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Look. This is total discrimination. Either you
love plants or you don't. You are obviously a plant hater. You're <i>hurting</i>
plants. There's the proof!"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"But if I don't get
rid of the bindweed, then <i>it </i>will get rid of my snap peas. I am not
raising a garden in order to eat bindweed for dinner. You’re welcome to try
some, however, if it would sooth your conscience.” Sarcasm is getting the better of me, and I can feel my suppressed smirk has
surfaced. I can’t straighten it out quickly enough, so I look down at
my dusty shoes and pretend to scratch an itch on the bridge of my nose.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">“</span>I’m sorry,” she says,
not sounding sorry in the least, “but I don't know why people like you take
these things so simplistically. Not everything is so black and white. The concept of a 'weed' is just a social construct, and nobody
needs to take sides here. There should be harmony among <i>all</i> plants—no! exceptions!” She pounds her handle bar to punctuate those last two
words and then sighs. “Bindweed and snap peas can peacefully coexist."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I look up at her pained
expression and exhale slowly so as not to outright guffaw in her face. “Uhh,
not really. Not without doing serious damage to the snap peas. Not without
choking out the plants that are the whole point of this garden."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"You have got to be kidding. You
are a total weedaphobe! I <i>knew</i> it! You're afraid of bindweed! This is so
unbelievable. You're acting out of irrational fear. I mean, look at these
things. Look at how tiny and harmless those little bindweeds are." She
leans her bicycle toward my tomato bed and points them out to me for my
edification. “They have these beautiful white flowers. <i>Beautiful! </i>What
are you afraid of?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"I'm not <i>afraid</i>
of them. I just know what they will do if I let them grow unchecked. If I call
myself a gardener at all, I will call a weed a weed and then I'll cast it into
the outer darkness, so to speak.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Ahhh, so then
what about the ones over there?" She points to the opposite side of the
alley where a small forest of thistles and dandelions have sprung up next to
the neighbors’ dumpster. "You think you're going to get rid of all the
so-called 'weeds' in the world? Think again. They are stronger and more
resilient than you think."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">The laugh finally
escapes, despite my best efforts. "Believe me. I am fully aware of how
resilient they are. That's why I'm out here doing this again for the umpteenth
time this summer. But I am certainly not trying to single-handedly take down <i>every</i>
weed in the world. I'm not even trying to get rid of the ones next door. It's
my <i>garden</i> I'm concerned about. I am focusing on the weeds right <i>here</i>
because they are the ones I’m responsible for. I am focusing on the ones that
are trying to take over my good plants."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Are you kidding
me? '<i>Good</i> plants'? These plants that you're killing had just as much
right to be here as those peas do. In fact, I bet a lot of them were here
first. But obviously you're too closed-minded to appreciate what they have to
offer. Do you realize how useful and beautiful some of these plants can be?
Look at this dandelion you've ruined. If you had just let it grow, it could
produce lovely yellow flowers and friendly little fairy puffs! But ooooh. It's scaaary, isn't it? Can't let it grow freely,
can you?" She snorts. "I guess you're afraid of flowers, too.
Flowerphobe."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I roll my eyes toward
the sky. A redtail hawk is riding an updraft directly overhead, scoping out his
lunch options. Then I turn my gaze back to the lady’s face and look hard
through her sky-colored eyes. "This has nothing to do with fear. It has
everything to do with wanting to take care of my peas. It has everything to do
with loving my garden."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"So pulling plants
up by the roots. You call that love?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Yes. I do."
My nose is starting to itch for real now, so I rub at it with the back of my
wrist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Well. If that's
what you call love, then I would not even want to imagine how you'd treat the
things you hate. Look at how damaged those poor little plants are."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I look. And I smile a
broad, genuine smile. "Yes. Totally damaged. Isn't it great? And once
they're all <i>dead</i> and <i>rotted</i> and <i>decomposed</i> in my compost
heap? <i>Then</i> they will be given the opportunity to return to my garden. At that point
they will be welcome. But not before."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Garden
hater." She climbs back onto her bike. "Plantphobe."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Come back in a
month or two, and I'll let you have a bite."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">She snorts again.
"Oh <i>really</i>. Of what?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">"Bindweed, if you
like."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-language: JA;">She narrows her pale
eyes and opens her mouth as if to respond, then closes it again and pushes off
without a word. I listen to the crunch of gravel under her tires as I lean my
shovel back against a T-post and return to my knees to take care of my tomato
starts. The soil is warm between my fingers. Come July, there will be fruit.</span></div>
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-63490743364922164332015-08-20T12:06:00.000-07:002015-08-20T12:06:55.404-07:00Three yearsOn this day in 2012, Jonah was diagnosed with cancer. <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSlBhX399Zc/VdYTifT4waI/AAAAAAAABt4/DKA4eTQM4WQ/s1600/JonahHospitalIMG_0094_10341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSlBhX399Zc/VdYTifT4waI/AAAAAAAABt4/DKA4eTQM4WQ/s320/JonahHospitalIMG_0094_10341.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
A month earlier, after our annual family reunion, our boys had returned home tan and tired from four days of swimming and playing and staying up late with the cousins they see once a year. The other boys quickly slept off the fatigue, but Jonah’s exhaustion seemed to linger.<br />
<br />
At first we thought he was simply in a blue mood, missing his cousins. Or perhaps he was nothing more than bored after coming home to our quiet routine after a week of constant activity. We gave him extra chores to do. I handed him a shovel and set him to work digging out roots of a shrub we had cut down in the front yard. He did the work sluggishly and with limp arms. We gave him pep talks. He yawned his way through them. We tried to keep him busy. He lay down on the couch, the bed, the floor at every opportunity. And then he came down with a fever. After testing positive for strep, he stayed in bed for most of a week and completed a ten-day round of antibiotics. But afterward he looked more pale and sickly than he had before. <br />
<br />
We shuttled him to lacrosse practice, where he wheezed his way down the field. Our highly active, athletically competitive boy merely walked up the field, loosely holding his stick, while his teammates rushed and spun past him toward the goal. That’s when I began to feel uneasy.<br />
<br />
Then Jonah’s fever came back. His face and lips by now were almost yellow, and he complained of constant dull pain in his arm. His swollen tonsils and intensely sore throat returned. He would not get out of bed, and his room gradually took on the stale smell of fevered breath.<br />
<br />
We brought him back to the doctor, but this time Jonah did not test positive for strep. His spleen was enlarged and his energy low, so the doctor suspected a textbook case of mono—textbook except for his age. That was unusual. He told Jonah to rest up and come back for a follow-up visit if he wasn’t feeling better soon.<br />
<br />
Within days, Jonah’s health rapidly deteriorated. On the morning of his follow-up appointment, he could not walk. His breath was shallow. He cried when we asked him to stand. We had to carry his weak, pale body to the car. He could not even sit up in the back seat. After one brief visit with Jonah, and a negative test for both strep and mono, the doctor sent him straight to the hospital for bloodwork. <br />
<br />
Jayson had to carry Jonah through the doors and push him down the polished hospital hallways in a wheelchair to the lab. After the blood draw, Jayson started back with Jonah toward the automatic sliding doors when the lab technician came running after him, calling, “Wait! Don’t go anywhere. Jonah’s blood counts are at critical levels, and the doctor needs you to stay.”<br />
<br />
That was at dinner time. At home, I was halfway through preparing a meal for my cousin who had recently given birth to a baby girl. Waiting apprehensively for news on Jonah, and grateful to have my mind and hands occupied, I rolled out dough and washed lettuce. Then Jayson walked through the back door and delivered the heavy news. My joints seemed to turn to liquid.<br />
<br />
By bedtime that night, Jonah was in a hospital bed ninety miles away in Spokane, with an IV in his arm and chemo dripping into his veins. <br />
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• • • • • </center>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-og3ZReA-9BY/VdYk8Y9Vk9I/AAAAAAAABuM/mQGyIkGNDH0/s1600/hawaii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-og3ZReA-9BY/VdYk8Y9Vk9I/AAAAAAAABuM/mQGyIkGNDH0/s320/hawaii.jpg" width="320" /></a>That was August 20, 2012. If you’ve followed <a href="http://cinnamonrollsandbacon.blogspot.com/search/label/Jonah" target="_blank">my blog</a> or social media posts (hashtag "prayforjonah") through Jonah’s treatment, you know about a lot of his story since then. We have slogged through dark swamps of distress and sailed on deep swells of blessings. This cancer has laid Jonah flat on his back—on hospital beds and on Hawaiian beaches. We are not finished with this extended season of testing, and we, like all of you, don’t know what new trials may come. But we are grateful now to be nearer to the completion of Jonah’s treatment for A.L.L. leukemia—a three-and-a-half-year adventure that is leaving us all with a bigger vocabulary and a deeper faith and a greater understanding of the strength and joy that God brings through suffering. <br />
<br />
Jonah’s final spinal tap—his 25th—is scheduled for early November. And Jonah’s final dose of chemo—after 3 1/2 years of taking it every single day—is slated for December 3. You can imagine what a delightful Christmastime this year’s is shaping up to be!<br />
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So thank you, yet again, all for your ongoing, faithful prayers and gifts and words of encouragement. The light at the end of this long, narrow tunnel is burning steadily brighter. Jonah will not be considered cured until August of 2017—five years from his diagnosis. In the meantime, he will continue to return to Spokane for monthly checkups at the hospital, and, as some of the side effects may not appear until further into his life, we ask for your continued prayers for his full and complete healing, and peace for us, his parents, especially after his treatments end. I'm told that the "watch and wait" phase can be as great a test of faith and patience as any of the intensive phases of treatment.<br />
<br />
For now, however, we are grateful to have come this far, and Jonah is looking forward to December 3 with great anticipation. To be done with chemo is a tremendous milestone, and December 3 sounds like a perfect day to throw a big, joyful party. I hope that, wherever you are on that day, you will celebrate with us.Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-37598721357997625002015-02-04T12:03:00.003-08:002015-02-05T09:24:00.885-08:00No Place at the Table<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<i>Yesterday morning, I was reading</i><i> <a href="https://theopolisinstitute.com/covenants-of-exclusion/" target="_blank">a thoughtful essay on the history of American race relations that our friend Brendan wrote for the Theopolis Institute,</a> and his words, combined with the </i><i><i>news of Harper Lee's upcoming sequel to </i>To Kill a Mockingbird,<i> </i> reminded me of a brief conversation I once had with my grandmother. She told me a little story about a woman who came to live with her family in the 1930's. T</i><i>his seemed like as good a day as any to share it:</i><br />
<br />
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• • • • •</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-01tRecmDX9U/VNK49cDtqoI/AAAAAAAABWk/U8T0dSGMuxU/s1600/GGHighSchool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-01tRecmDX9U/VNK49cDtqoI/AAAAAAAABWk/U8T0dSGMuxU/s1600/GGHighSchool.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Grandma Fran in high school at her home in Marissa, IL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
About six months before my grandmother died, I was sitting next to her on the floral sofa in her sunny basement apartment at my parents' house, looking through a dusty shoebox full of old photos. As the brittle and faded images emerged from the box, they brought with them dozens of stories of small-town life in southern Illinois: high school dances, grade school plays, baseball games, and Sunday afternoons on the porch with fresh-squeezed lemonade and homemade ice cream.<br />
<br />
But the one photo that I remember most clearly was a black-and-white image on a penny postcard—a solemn full-length portrait of a slender middle-aged black woman in a ruffled satin dress. I turned the card over to check for a name, but the back side, apart from the printed address of a St. Louis portrait studio, was blank.<br />
<br />
This was the only photo of a black person that I had pulled from the entire shoebox, and I wanted to know more. Who was she?<br />
<br />
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</div>
Grandma took the photo in her arthritic fingers. She considered the photo quietly for a moment, the sound of a clock quietly tsk-tsking on the side table. I could smell her faint perfume mingled with the Bengay she rubbed daily onto her aching joints. Then she cracked a thin smile and began her story.<br />
<br />
The woman's last name was Smith (that's all I can remember now), and she had been a friend of Grandma's mother, my great-grandmother. Miss Smith had grown close with the family—working for them as household help—back in Missouri when both my Great-Grandma McCreight and Miss Smith were young women. After my great-grandmother married, Miss Smith remained single and continued to live and work in St. Louis, but she corresponded regularly with my great-grandma for many years. <br />
<br />
Eventually—close to twenty years later, I would guess, when my grandmother was in high school—the letters from St. Louis stopped coming. My great-grandmother was concerned by the silence and wrote Miss Smith to find out if something was the matter. Miss Smith, it turned out, had fallen very ill and was now facing a long, slow recovery during which she was unable to earn enough money to live on. "Well, of course Mother asked her to come and live with us," my grandma told me. But Miss Smith resisted the invitation for weeks, maybe months, until at last she was no longer able to put food on her own table. Then she moved to Marissa, Illinois, to live with my grandmother's family. <br />
<br />
"We just <i>loved</i> her," my grandma said. "We really did!" <br />
<br />
"We really did!" She said it with emphasis, as though it might come as a shock to me. And it probably <i>was</i> a shock to the people that lived around her childhood home. As you can imagine, in a southern town in the mid-1930s, not every citizen did "just love her." Grandma's father was well respected in the community. He served as the postmaster, appointed by President Calvin Coolidge himself, and just about everybody knew him. His family, with its collection of freckled redheads, was a fixture in town. People liked them. But the town ordinances specifically forbade black people from taking up residence within city limits—even, apparently, as house guests. Some of the neighbors must have complained because my great-grandfather had to go before the city council to obtain a special provision that would allow Miss Smith to live with their family. <br />
<br />
Grandma said that over time "everyone" fell in love with Miss Smith, once they got to know her. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps. I hope so. But the fact remained that she was the only legal black resident of Marissa, Illinois, at that moment in history. The only one. And only on account of a special legal exclusion granted to my grandfather. <br />
<br />
Honestly, it's hard to believe that everyone "fell in love" with Miss Smith the way my grandma remembered it. My grandmother was hardly more than a child at the time, and both the region and the era suggest that not everyone would have tried to get to know Miss Smith, let alone welcome her with open arms. And who knows what head shaking and finger pointing took place behind the family's backs? <br />
<br />
Miss Smith lived in the McCreight family home for an extended period—for well over a year. All six kids, my grandma said, adored her. My great-grandparents loved her. She was a tremendous help and comfort to my great-grandmother who suffered from debilitating asthma attacks. She was an old and dear family friend. <i>And yet…</i> She lived upstairs in the hot, drafty attic by herself. Grandma said they tried to give her a better room in the house, but she wouldn't take it. And at family meals, Miss Smith could not be convinced to sit with them. Only on special occasions would she join the family at the table. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, my grandma recalled, Miss Smith would sit on the floor when there weren't enough chairs. "I just couldn't understand why she would do that!" Grandma said with a chuckle. “Dad would offer her his chair. We <i>always</i> told her to come have a seat with us! But every time, she'd say, ‘Oh, no. I know my place. I know my place.'" <br />
<br />
That phrase, “I know my place," was, for me, the hardest part of the story to hear. My grandmother shook her head at it, unable to understand, all those decades later, why this house guest of theirs would choose to say such a thing. To her it seemed a little funny—a personality quirk, perhaps. But it made me wonder why my grandmother's family, for all their kindness, did not <i>insist</i> that Miss Smith sit with them at the table. Why did they not downright forbid a clearly unhealthy woman from inhabiting the most miserable room in the house? Why, if they truly loved her, did they not take her by the hand and lift her off of that floor and give her that chair and refuse to take no for an answer? <br />
<br />
Miss Smith said she knew her place, and my great-grandparents did not—or <i>could</i> not—help her to <i>un</i>-know it. Everybody "just loved her," but she still had no seat at the family table. <br />
<br />
A year or two later, after her long recovery, Miss Smith returned to St. Louis and continued to write letters for a while, but she eventually lost touch with the family. Grandma never heard what became of her. But I wish I knew. Did she eventually marry? Did she have any children of her own? Are some of her grandchildren or family members still living right there in Missouri? Living, perhaps, in Ferguson at this moment? What small part, for good or ill, might my grandma's family story have played in the greater narrative of the events that happened there this year? And what small part will the words and actions of my own family play in events yet to come? <br />
<br />
My grandma's family was, I realize, more welcoming than many white families would have been at that time and in that place. But their love, it seemed, was incomplete. At the end of the day, Miss Smith still knew, or believed she knew, that she was not <i>truly</i> welcome. Not <i>really</i> at home. Not <i>fully</i> party of the family or the community. That phrase, "I know my place," remains a painful echo from my own family history—a history that is not, after all, quite as distant as I might wish it to be. Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-74774892919041455832014-12-28T16:18:00.001-08:002014-12-28T16:18:19.791-08:00Comfort, comfort ye my people<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is the fourth day of Christmas. Today we continue to welcome the arrival of the incarnate King—the Word made flesh. Today we continue to give gifts to our children and to sing of the birth of the Second Adam. Today we again raise our glasses and our voices in celebration of the event that marked the beginning of a new humanity—the beginning of all things made new. Today our spirits rejoice in God our Savior who has visited us in our low estate. <br /><br />Today is also the Feast of the Holy Innocents—a day that, according to the church calendar, commemorates the massacre of the infants by king Herod following the visit of the magi. Today, many churches around the globe remember that loud lamentation—the voice of Rachel weeping for her children because they are no more. <br /><br />Today is the collision of two feast days, one of joy and the other of mourning. And today, I feel both the weight of that glory and the weight of that grief.<br /><br />
• • • • • •<br /><br />Last night, as I lay awake next to the low hum of the humidifier, trying to relieve the pressure from a splitting sinus headache, I received a Facebook notification on my phone—a friend asking for prayer for her son and husband who were lost in the dark and snow on a mountainside in central Idaho with a search and rescue team sent out to find them.<br />
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My heart raced. Jayson and I had just spent the afternoon driving slowly home from Spokane and knew how icy and treacherous the highways were. We ourselves had slid on the road and seen cars being towed from snowy ditches, and I could only imagine how much more dangerous the driving conditions must be on a winding mountain road. We prayed for the safe return of these two men and for peace for my friend as she sat up during the long, dark hours waiting for news. <br /><br />Still unable to sleep, I read another prayer request sent out by yet another friend. This time, my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. Earlier in the day another friend of mine and her husband had left home with their daughter, a former classmate of Jonah’s, to drive her to Montana for a visit with friends. As they drove on those same icy, snow-covered roads, they were involved in a collision that injured my friend, but that killed their daughter instantly. <br /><br />I spent a good part of the night with an aching head and a breaking heart, praying and praying again for these dear families—and particularly for these mothers. Both of these families have already suffered through tremendous trials, long periods of uncertainty, and pain of body and spirit. And yet both of these families, in the middle of their various struggles, have shown all of us what it looks like to have joy in the midst of trouble. These mothers in particular have been an ongoing example to me of selfless love, steadfast patience and joyful encouragement—women who pour themselves out to bless those around them. <br /><br />As I prayed, I wondered, not for the first time, at the sudden and severe providences of God.<br /><br />• • • • • •<br /><br />
I know that at times like this, Reformed Christians like me tend to toss Romans 8:28 around like some kind of magical band-aid: God works all things together for the good of those who love Him, so turn that frown upside down! But trusting in God’s mercy and kindness, believing that He is doing good in the direst circumstances, is not always an instant cure for a broken body or a breaking heart. <br /><br />Does the reality of pain and death undo the truth of that verse? No. But I also cannot pretend to know exactly <i>how</i> God is working all things for our good. Why must these families, of all people, be given this additional weight to bear? Why this? And why them? I don't know the answer. But I remind myself that God is working for the good not only of those who suffer but <i>also</i> for the good of those who are witnesses to their suffering.<br />
<br />
Knowing how these women, these friends of mine, have repeatedly expressed their deep trust in the goodness of God while facing life-altering trials is something that has certainly worked for good in my own life. In many ways, it's through seeing the example of other suffering saints that I found courage to face smaller trials in my own life—and that prepared me for facing some of the hardest days of Jonah's cancer treatment. For that I am grateful. But knowing that God is doing good through these hard moments does not mean that the moments cease to be hard. <br />
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How many times have I have bitten my nails in fear or felt tears welling up with sadness during the most harrowing moments of a good story—a story that I already knew would have happy ending? Knowing the end—knowing the good to come—does not take away the tension or the tears. How much more so when the story is the one lived out before our eyes in real time? If even Jesus, who knew that Lazarus would soon step out of his tomb alive, wept at the death of his friend, we might weep as well. <br />
<br />
The valley of the shadow of death is a place none of us hope to find ourselves. And yet all of us will walk through it sooner or later. As I lay awake last night, I ached for my friends who were walking there at that very moment. God does promise to be with us in that dark place, but He does not promise to swoop in and remove us from it. He may not take us out of the presence of our enemies. But He does prepare a table before us there—even in the presence of the last enemy. <br /><br />God is working all things for good. Can it be true? Even this? Even cancer? Even loved ones lost on an icy mountainside at night? Even (I can hardly type the words) the death of a child? All things working together for good? <i>All</i> things?<br />
<br />
I still believe it. It is peace and comfort. It is a hope that, in these dark hours,
keeps us from despair. But it is not an anesthetic that can be
clinically injected into our troubled souls to immediately take away the
pain. <br />
<br />
• • • • •<br />
<br />
It is Christmas. During this season, we remember with joy that the Light has come into the world. But this day also reminds me that the story does not end there. Light did come, but the world did not comprehend it. The Lord of Glory was born into a dark world that would spill the blood of the innocent—and that would, in the end, spill the innocent blood of the Son of God Himself. The sky would go dark. The earth would shake. And through those hours of deepest darkness, when the Light of the World seemed to be extinguished forever, God would, definitively and perfectly, unexpectedly and gloriously, work all things—yes, <i>all</i> things—for our good. <br />
<br />This morning, I woke to bright sun shining through snowy branches and sat up, hoping for news from my friend whose husband and son were lost. I checked my news feed and read her update with the report of their late-night rescue with such relief that I cried. I was overwhelmed with grateful joy. And as I thanked God I remembered my other friend whose daughter is no more. And I wept again, overwhelmed by the terrible loss. I was still wiping away tears when my youngest son ran into my room and bounced on my bed declaring, “It’s Christmas again!” And so it is. Oh, tidings of comfort—and joy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The sunrise from on high has visited us, to give light to those who
sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the
way of peace.</i> —Luke 1:78-79</blockquote>
<br />Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-37113506860872069512014-12-16T12:06:00.003-08:002014-12-16T12:12:28.743-08:00A Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here we are, already at the end of another year full of reasons to be grateful. I'd love to have written a nice, newsy Christmas update to include with all the greeting cards we would have sent out to friends and family this month. Maybe the news update will still happen, but having only just gotten my computer back after two and a half weeks in the shop, I now find myself busily catching up on all the computer work I should have gotten done during that time. So the Christmas card mailing is not happening this year. It's honestly a bit of a relief to put off all the printing and labeling and mailing until next year, but I'm sorry not to send you all something festive to hang on the refrigerator. <br />
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Here, however—in digital form—is this year's card, arriving not in your mailbox but in your news feed. Feel free to print it out, stick it on your fridge, and pretend it came with a stamp!<br />
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Many blessings to you and your families this Christmas! </div>
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<br />Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-47555065969135548002014-09-20T15:33:00.001-07:002014-09-22T14:16:38.491-07:00Taste Not<i>Nakuru, Kenya. 1991.</i><br />
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The girls from my Form Two class at the international school had collected in the white-walled lunch hall where bright, equatorial sunlight lay in blinding streaks across the heavy wooden tables and the polished concrete floor. The double doors on either side of the room were open to the breeze—a long breath of eucalyptus and red earth and damp grass, fresh and warm after the drenching Kenyan rains. <br />
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I was attending the boarding school as a day student—the only non-boarder, the only American, and the only white student in my class—during the five months that my father taught journalism at the nearby university. Having arrived halfway through my eighth grade year, I was only just beginning to understand the manners and customs that shaped life at the school, and no hour of the day presented a steeper learning curve than the lunch hour. I had learned to wait to sit until our teacher sat, to always eat with my fork in my left hand and my knife in my right, and to never call "pudding" dessert as I would at home. I had also learned that food choices here were determined by more than a simple matter of preference.<br />
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Mlle. Dubois from Nice, who taught us French, presided over the table that day. She stood alone at our head, beautiful with her sun-freckled cheeks and long brown curls, hardly looking older than us thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls. She bowed her head slightly and led us in a hastily mumbled, "Bless us and these thy gifts, which we receive from thy bountiful goodness." A prayer generic enough to offend few and to please none. <br />
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She sat abruptly and stiffly. We sat loudly and awkwardly, all creaking chair legs and gesticulating arms and angular teenaged knees beneath our green uniform skirts. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m1N2Gd228bU/VB3LGWMaPnI/AAAAAAAABQc/bx67c9ImUpA/s1600/hadada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m1N2Gd228bU/VB3LGWMaPnI/AAAAAAAABQc/bx67c9ImUpA/s1600/hadada.jpg" /></a>We poured glasses of iced lemonade from a plastic pitcher, and our conversation trickled lazily around the table, changing accents as it flowed from girl to girl, while we waited for the food to arrive. A hadada ibis landed heavily in the tree outside, bouncing its weight on a thin branch, and began hollering its name, over and over, to the iridescent starlings that pecked for their lunch on the trim lawn below. “Hadada!” he hollered, “Hadada!” As if hungry for acknowledgment from any listener—even the lowliest of birds. As if he were afraid the world might forget his identity. As if he hoped his nervous bravado might be taken for confident laughter. “Hadada!”<br />
<br />
A pair of best friends from India, Pooja and Sejal, sat on either side of me and leaned forward to speak in shrill, hurried whispers over me. From time to time they would include me in their banter, but they often interspersed their musical English with Hindi slang that I could not decipher, and now their stifled giggles formed an unseen barrier that I could not cross. Mlle. Dubois raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow their direction but said nothing. <br />
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The door to the kitchen squeaked open, and a row of servers walked into the lunch room carrying large beige plastic trays and the smells of fresh bread and oniony gravies. My belly rolled thunder, and I clutched my side, hoping no one had heard. At each table, a member of the kitchen staff in a wrinkled white apron placed a dish of overcooked mixed vegetables. The kitchen door swung open, shut, open shut. Then followed a basin of steamed pudding with a pitcher of warm vanilla custard to pour over it—something sweet to entice us to finish those limp vegetables. <br />
<br />
We girls, with all of our varied religions and languages and nationalities and shades of ebony and mahogany and copper and pink, might have formed some kind of heartwarming, we-are-the-world postcard of global peace, gathered as we were around that under-salted bowl of vegetables. Green beans and lemonade. A bloodless communion. We took and ate—Catholics, Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims, and we assorted flavors of protestants all serving ourselves from the same dish. Warm bread arrived next in towel-lined bowls, and we ate from the same loaf. Conversation began to build, and chatter about boys and maths and field hockey filled the air: “So, which house is going to win the tournament?” “Ha! You really think he’s cute?” “You got an A? Oh, shut it. That exam killed me!” <br />
<br />
Then came the platters of meat. <br />
<br />
I looked toward the Form Three table across from ours and made eye contact with my friend Angela Wahome. She smiled warmly. Her teeth had been recently repaired in Nairobi after a collision with a field hockey stick during one of our P.E. matches. They shone against her dark, even skin, and I admired their new, artificial whiteness, even as I wore my own whiteness like an outdated shirt. Not long after I had arrived at this school, Angela had sought me out, in her quiet and unassuming way, and had introduced herself to me. That I was the only white student in my class had made me uncertain of where I might fit in. That my class was an unfamiliar crowd of teenagers claiming a half dozen different religions made my own faith seem less comfortably certain. But Angela was a Christian. I was a Christian. To me that seemed bond enough. We were sisters, and she had become an anchor to my unmoored soul. I smiled back. <br />
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One of the kitchen staff rounded the corner and laid a covered dish on the table. He lifted the lid, saying, simply and softly, "Pork,” before moving on to the next table. The well browned roast, sliced thick and smothered in gravy, smelled of Sunday afternoons at my grandmother’s house. Comfort food. I usually gave little thought to what sort of animal had given its life for my lunch, but here in this room full of girls from every tribe and tongue and nation, the question could not go unanswered. We might break bread, but I could not break beef with the girl to my right or to my left. Every imaginable religious dietary restriction seemed to be represented in that room, and every restriction had to be honored. We were cut off from one another by a carving knife. <br />
<br />
I picked up the platter of steaming pork, took a slice, spooned on a little gravy, and passed it to Pooja, a Hindu, who, still giggling, took a couple slices and passed it down the table. Some girls took and some passed it on without allowing so much as a finger to touch the meat. Today it was surprisingly good—tender, well salted, and more peppery than usual. On days like this I thought of the Sikh boy in my class, a vegetarian, and pitied him for what he must not taste, must not handle, must not touch.<br />
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Minutes later, the kitchen door swung open again, and a few more servers in aprons carried new platters of meat through the little lunch room, calling, "Beef! Beef!" A dozen or so Muslim hands shot up, and the servers worked their way along the tables, ladling cubed beef onto the plates of those with their hands in the air. Sometimes if the pork looked nasty, I'd opt for the beef along with the Muslims, but most of the time I ate the meat of the day without comment. <br />
<br />
My Pakistani friend Shabnum sat across the table from me and was eating and talking in her animated way with another girl, gesturing with her fork as she spoke between bites. When the server neared our table and again called, "Beef!" Shabnum froze. She pulled her hands back from the table and dropped her fork and knife with such a sudden recoiling, as if they had transformed into a pair of serpents. She stared at her plate. She turned and stared at the server. She looked back to her plate again with wide-eyed horror. “What— What—“ She struggled for speech. “What is this? What are we eating?” Her dark eyes moved from face to face along our table, searching for reassurance. <br />
<br />
“It’s pork,” Mlle. Dubois said bluntly. <br />
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In the bustle of the noisy lunchroom and in the excitement of sharing gossip, Shabnum had not heard the word "pork" when the server had placed the platter on the table. The meat was dark like beef, and none of the girls around her were used to paying attention to food concerns other than their own. Nobody had noticed Shabnum's mistake. <br />
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“Oh my god. Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygod. Oh my GOD!” Shabnum’s chest rose in quick, shallow breaths. “Oh no. Oh hell. Hell! Oh God,” she continued in a hoarse whisper, pushing her chair from the table with a screech against the smooth floor. She held her hand to her heart and ran out the open door and down the slope toward the hockey fields, whispering panicked curses as she went.<br />
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Mlle. Dubois set down her fork without a sound. The room had gone nearly silent, and she looked down the table at our bewildered faces. I could hear the sound of my own chewing, and the noise of my teeth working seemed strangely offensive. I stopped and held the wad of half-chewed pork inside my cheek. We had several Muslim boys in my class, but Shabnum was the only Muslim girl. None of us knew what to do. Or to say. Or even to think. We looked to our teacher whose face showed that she was clearly as uncertain as we were. At last she said softly, “Pooja. Hannah. Sejal. Go after her and see if you can cheer her up.”<br />
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We glanced at each other nervously but stood. Cheer her up? How? Here we were, an American Presbyterian and a pair of Hindu girl friends, sent to bring good cheer to a young woman suffering from some kind of unspeakable turmoil of soul over a piece of pot roast. What were we supposed to do? Tell jokes? <i>Sooo, two Hindus and a Presbyterian walk into a bar…</i>? <br />
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We stepped carefully down the damp grass and whispered to each other. “Did you see what happened? Was it just the pork?” “Yeah, she ate it on accident.” “She thought it was beef.” “That was kinda scary.” “Completely. You think she’s OK?” “I don’t know. What do Muslims believe about sinning on accident?” “I have no idea.” “Where did she go?”<br />
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We wandered across the lawn until we turned the corner of the pool house, where we found her in the shadows, pressing her back against the cool cinder block wall and staring at the fast-moving clouds overhead. She did not look toward us, but we could see wet streaks marking both cheeks. Her arms were folded tightly around her tall, thin body. “Shabnum?” Pooja said. No answer. “Um, I’m really sorry. Um. Are you OK?” <br />
<br />
Shabnum uncrossed her arms and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “No,” she said.<br />
<br />
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Sejal said brightly. Shabnum did not uncover her eyes. Sejal looked at me and shrugged with a forced smile still on her face.<br />
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“Yeah,” I added. “It was an accident, right? God will forgive you, right?” I felt a shudder go through me. <i>Do Muslims believe that Allah forgives? What about understandable mistakes? </i>I wondered. I didn't know what I was saying. <br />
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“No!” Shabnum flung her arms down. She turned her red, watering eyes toward me, and I felt my own begin to burn. “You don’t understand!”<br />
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Pooja and Sejal both stepped toward her to put a hand on her shoulder. I stayed back, uncomfortable in both my skin and in my soul. The air was growing warm, and the humidity felt like weight. Shabnum shrank away from their reach, but Pooja tried again, “Shabum, I’m sure there are millions of people who do stuff like this—who eat the wrong thing or do the wrong thing on accident. It’s totally understandable.”<br />
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“I mean, it was a complete accident, yeah?” Sejal said, “'Cause you thought it was beef. Allah knows that, yeah? He knows you thought it was beef, so it wasn’t, um, a sin or whatever.” Sejal looked back at me and shrugged again. We were foolish girls wading into waters blacker and deeper than we could tread. My neck itched, and the air grew heavier.<br />
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“Oh God!” Shabnum shouted at the grass. “You don’t understand!” We three would-be comforters looked at each other in confusion. “Oh hell!” Shabnum shouted again. “ I might be going to hell!” The last word cracked in her throat. She slid her back down the rough wall, sat on the damp earth, clutched her knees, leaned her head back, and sobbed.<br />
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A bell rang. Students from the lunch room began to fan out across the lawn toward the various classroom buildings. Several girls looked down the hill toward us with curiosity. Angela stopped walking and looked at me with concerned, questioning eyes. I stuck out my lower lip and shook my head. She grimaced and walked on. <br />
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“Oh God!” Shabnum wailed again, seemingly unaware of how her voice carried across the school grounds. <br />
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“Allah won’t send you to hell for eating pork by <i>mistake</i>!” Pooja said with a kind of vehement certainty that surprised me. “He wouldn’t do that!” She sounded almost offended. <br />
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Shabnum's tears fell on her white blouse and formed an uneven pattern of translucent dots where they landed. “You don’t understand.” Shabnum repeated. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand.” And I didn't.<br />
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How could I understand? I could not understand what it was to feel the crippling fear of damnation. I could not understand how anyone could find hope of relief from a god who, it seemed, might send a repentant teenaged girl to hell for a cafeteria mix up. <br />
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I wanted to tell her something about guilt and forgiveness, about freedom from shame, but I found no words. In my remaining months at the school
with Shabnum, we would never again speak of this incident. We would proceed
as if nothing had happened. Shabnum would laugh, and I would laugh with
her, and we would pass the plates of meat around the table as we had done before. But the memory of those moments would trouble me for many weeks and months. Even now, decades later, when I push my grocery cart through the checkout and see the headlines on women's magazines that say "Eat without Guilt!" I sometimes picture Shabnum's thin form shuddering with guilt and fear next to the pool house. And I wonder what more I might have said.<br />
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Mlle. Dubois appeared at the top of the hill. “Time for class,” she called to us. “Are you ready?” We looked at each other, unsure of what further good we could possibly do, and unsure of whether to leave Shabnum alone in her misery. Mlle. Dubois sighed. “No? O.K. Ten more minutes. Then come to class.” <br />
<br />
We nodded and turned back toward Shabnum’s crumpled figure. She was biting the side of her hand as she wept, and the three of us stood in silence and listened to her muffled sobs. We watched her shaking shoulders and felt the humid air rustle our polyester skirts. “Hadada!” hollered the bird in the tree. “Hadada!” another laughed in return. “Hadada! Hadada! Hadada!” The joke seemed mutual now. The starlings pecking the grass did not look up. <br />
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“Shabnum?” I said quietly when her weeping had calmed to sniffs and sighs. <br />
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“Please go,” she whispered. “Please go away. You don’t understand.”<br />
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“Hadada!” In the branches overhead, an ibis continued to laugh.Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-82919500272302838262014-06-27T15:12:00.001-07:002014-06-27T15:28:18.359-07:00Jonah's Wish Trip to Oahu<div class="description_wrapper">
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After nearly two years of battling
leukemia, Jonah was granted his wish to swim with dolphins in Hawaii.
Through the Make-A-Wish Foundation, the whole family flew to Oahu and
stayed for six days, in a beautiful suite overlooking the Pacific (complete with wild sea turtles!), at
the Sheraton Waikiki. </div>
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During Jonah's trip, we visited Pearl Harbor, met Kaleo the dolphin
at Sea Life Park, enjoyed local food and entertainment at a luau, tried
surfing for the first time, went snorkeling, swam, swam, swam, built sand castles, soaked up the tropical sunshine, toured the Dole
Pineapple Plantation, checked out the food trucks and shave ice on the
North Shore, spotted wild dolphins during a sailing excursion on a catamaran, enjoyed beautiful
scenery–including daily rainbows, saw some old friends, and met several
other Make-A-Wish families. We were treated like royalty, and will carry
happy memories from this trip for the rest of our lives. THANK YOU,
MAKE-A-WISH, for giving Jonah the vacation of a lifetime!<br />
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Here's a video slideshow of our trip. Or, if you prefer, <a href="http://www.prplpomegranate.com/hawaii-pics/" target="_blank">click here for an online gallery</a> where you can see the photos individually. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="375" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/99306441" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/99306441">Jonah's Make-A-Wish Trip to Hawaii</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user1839105">Hannah G</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-16821339566230658032013-09-04T14:16:00.001-07:002013-09-04T14:16:50.733-07:00Reflections on a Year with Cancer<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You know those stories that people tell where somebody is
described as “going weak in the knees,” or when there’s news that people have
to “take sitting down?” Those had always seemed like exaggerated figures of
speech to me. I mean, who <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> goes
all noodle-legged in the face of bad news, after all? Certainly not I. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I have
never needed one of those Victorian fainting couches to catch my swooning form.
I have no smelling salts in my medicine cabinet. And if you see tears welling
up in my eyes, you can pretty rightly assume it’s from hay fever.</span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My seemingly stoical DNA, you see, derives from a rather
chilly blend of tight-lipped Englishmen, hard-headed Germans, windblown Scots,
and the kind of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>rugged,
sunshine-is-for-sissies northern Europeans who chiseled out a living from the
frozen fjords. Stout hearts and dry eyes—that’s us. As <a href="http://amzn.to/136C7co" target="_blank">one author</a> put it, “If I
were commissioned to design the official crest for the descendents of
emotionally muzzled Vikings everywhere, I would begin by looking up the Latin
phrase for ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’” Exactly. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But on the evening of August 20, 2012, when my husband
carried home the heavy news that our ten-year-old son, Jonah, had been
diagnosed with leukemia, I crumpled onto the bottom step of our family’s
stairway and sobbed. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">All through that evening and for many of the days that
followed I learned what it was to go weak in the knees in the most literal
sense—no metaphor about it. Each time a doctor would bring new information, I
had to take it sitting down. Every time the phone demanded to be answered, my
chest felt squeezed in a vice that gripped tighter with every ring. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My child may die. My precious firstborn son may be taken
from us.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Everywhere I went, I seemed to
feel an unbearable weight pressing down on my shoulders—a weight that I could
not carry. We were given hefty stacks of informational books and brochures, but
I could not open them. I could not allow my eyes to rest on phrases like
“mortality rate” and “likelihood of relapse.” These were words too heavy for me
to lift from the page. </span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My child may die.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> It
continues to be a weight that I cannot carry. But I have learned that it is
also a weight that I </span><i>need</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> not
carry. That I do not carry. That is not mine to carry at all.</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Words Made Alive</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--a0x-cn057g/UiUO6_kX4VI/AAAAAAAABCk/VGBqIZfaMCA/s1600/portaccess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--a0x-cn057g/UiUO6_kX4VI/AAAAAAAABCk/VGBqIZfaMCA/s320/portaccess.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two years ago, our church started a Sunday School class to
teach the Heidelberg Catechism to the children. Week after week my kids would
recite from memory the answer to that week’s question and would review the
answers to the questions that preceded it. This means that week after week, the
question would come back: “What is your only comfort in life and in death?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then a chorus of sing-song treble voices would reply:</span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“That I am not my own, but belong—
body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ. He has
fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from
the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair
can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven; in fact, all
things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by
his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing
and ready from now on to live for him.”</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the frightening days that followed Jonah’s diagnosis,
those familiar lines that had rattled around in my own head for so many years
and that had echoed around the walls of the Sunday school classroom for so many
weeks sputtered to life. That dusty paragraph began lighting up like the county
fair at nightfall. I had seen those antique words before and believed them, but
never quite so fully. Never quite so desperately. Never in such bright, neon
colors.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Each night as I pleaded with God for Jonah, I pulled those
words, like a lifeline, into my prayers: “Jonah is not his own. He is not <i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> own. God Almighty, he is </span><i>your</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> child. And nothing can happen to a hair on his head
or to a blood cell in his body apart from Your will.” And even in the praying
of those words, that suffocating, crippling weight began to lift. Jonah belongs
to his faithful savior. Body and soul. In life. And, yes, even in death. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Psalms, too, and hymns that I had sung for years and
committed to memory—sometimes without much thought—were now surfacing in my
head and heart and proving to be both priceless and indispensable. All those
pictures of God as a refuge, as a fortress, as a rock, as a tower, as a
physician, as a lover, as a friend now meant something far more concrete. Here
was comfort beyond imagining. Here was peace beyond understanding. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was as if I, when I was feeling particularly wealthy, had
stuffed a large roll of high-denomination dollar bills into my pockets without
thinking and then forgot about them. But then, when hard times fell and I
thought I was going broke, I put a hand into my pocket and discovered that I
was still rich after all—and that I not only had all that I needed, but that
what I did have had appreciated in value. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here were these words, that had seemed at times—especially
when I was young and tired of memorizing—to be so much gravel, tossed into my
empty little head and tumbled around over the years. But now, here they were
again, pouring back out all shining and precious and polished smooth—not gravel
at all but rubies. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in
trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though
the mountains fall into the heart of the sea” (Psalm 46:1-2). I remembered
those lines as a little ditty set to a tune for teenage voices and a solo
guitar. But thanks to that melody, simple as it was, those words were
epoxy-glued into the back pages of my mind such that I never lost them. But I
had also never really deeply considered them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s not that I had ever doubted the truth of those words,
but I believed them, more or less, in the abstract. They existed somewhere in
the clouds. Now, however, in the middle of my trouble, with my comfortable
little world falling into the sea, those true words came down out of the ether
and touched the very solid ground beneath my feet. God is a refuge—from fear
and death. He is strength—when my knees buckle and I cannot stand. He is a very
present help—a right-here-right-now help; a help mediated through comforting
words and free babysitting and hot meals and carpool rides and peaceful sleep.
He is a help in trouble—in cancer and confusion and grief. Therefore we will
not fear. We will not be afraid of this. Not even if the world crumbles around
us and cancer does its worst. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mongering Fear</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The more I’ve read about cancer, the more it seems that
health publications (both mainstream <i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> alternative) <i>want</i> everyone to <i></i>
be very afraid of cancer. Scroll through a hundred health blogs, and flip through a
teetering stack of health magazines, and it seems that this is the endlessly
repeated headline: “5 Foods that Fight Cancer.” “12 Secret Weapons Against
Cancer.” “17 Strategies for Staying Cancer-Free.” Without the fear of cancer, I imagine that readership would plummet. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Believe me, I fully understand the desire to learn more about what causes cancer and what cures it. I had a <a href="http://bit.ly/14VHjRQ" target="_blank">cancer scare</a> of my own not long ago, and I (like most people I know) have had friends and relatives who have died of various forms of cancer. It's a disease that touches the lives of just about everybody, so it's no surprise that we fear it. But it's also no surprise that there are people out there who are eager to prey on people's fears. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I once read a post, shared by a well-meaning Facebook friend, that said, "Finally! Johns Hopkins Medical School reveals the truth about cancer!" The link offered a numbered list of generic tips (Stop eating sugar!) but also endorsed a number of health products—by brand name—that we should buy. This seemed more than a little fishy, so I checked the sources. It turned out to be a hoax; Johns Hopkins had shared no such thing and had devoted a whole page of its web site to dispelling the misinformation and outright lies. But by that time, the link had already been shared on Facebook upwards of 20,000 times. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The reason I think we are so eager to read all those cancer articles and to believe sketchy posts like the one I mentioned is that it can make us feel like we have the tools to get back in control of our lives. Cancer is scarier than most diseases because it is still, in spite of all that up-to-date
information (and misinformation), shrouded in mystery. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Why does one of our children get leukemia while the rest remain perfectly healthy? Why did one of my mom's siblings get cancer while none of the other 8 have? How is possible that a man who smoked his entire life never gets lung cancer, while a woman who never even touched a cigarette dies of the disease? The answer, from what I can tell, is: <i>We don't know. </i>Cancer is a bogy that seems to lurk around every corner,
and we feel helpless against it. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A sense of helplessness, however, can give us a glimpse of
something like Truth. And that kind of Truth can be terrifying. Our days are
numbered, and not—contrary to to our hopes and wishes—by <i>us</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. So it’s easy, even for Christians like us who
should know better, to want to panic in the face of our helplessness and to grasp at some semblance of control. We could easily spend countless hours trying to keep up with the latest health advice—even when we know that latest health advice keeps changing on us again and again and again. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">First w</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">e're told to hide from the sun to avoid cancer. And then we find out
that our sun boycott is causing Vitamin D deficiency, which can cause<i> cancer</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. So we start chugging fish oil for the Vitamin D.
But then we are told that the fish oil can be tainted with mercury, which is linked to<i> </i></span>cancer<span style="font-style: normal;">. We work hard to provide our families with
good nutrition that will fight cancer. But then it turns out that kids who have
better nutrition are also more likely to be tall, which puts them at greater risk for </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_717257004">cancer</a></span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">. And then when we finally do get cancer, we fight it
with radiation and toxic drugs that can cause</span> cancer<span style="font-style: normal;">. Cancer, like Shakespeare’s fool Touchstone, chases
us around the world-stage, shouting, “I will kill thee a hundred and fifty
ways!” </span>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don't think it’s</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> simply a fool's errand</span></span> to try to steer clear of this threat to our health. Especially not after all that we've been through with Jonah. But at the same time, I think we have to be careful. There does come a point when concern for health becomes obsession with health—when prudence crosses the line into panic and we lose sight of God's promises and providence. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Whence Comes My Help?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sitting by Jonah’s sickbed for countless hours has provided
me with plenty of time to meditate on our own helplessness—on our own lack of
control over so many of the details of our lives. And what’s odd is that our
helplessness, while it might seem frightening to some, has actually provided a
very real sense comfort because we know that “our help comes from the Lord who
made heaven and earth.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Who is more helpless than a small child? And yet who in
the world is more carefree? That is because a young child is not burdened with a
sense of self-sufficiency or a compulsion to pull himself up by his own bootie straps. He is free to rest and play because he knows that somebody else takes care of his needs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If our lives are ultimately in our <i>own</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hands, however, then we can never rest, never turn our backs,
never loosen our white-knuckle grip for a moment. But if our lives are ultimately
in God’s hands, then we are free, like that child, to keep our own hands open—both to
give and to receive a thousand other joys. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">As we have dealt with Jonah’s
cancer, our helplessness has deepened our dependence on God. And dependence on God,
paradoxically, has brought </span><i>in</i><span style="font-style: normal;">dependence—a sweet freedom
from all the other cares and worries that can so easily take over. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Even as a Christian, it’s easy to be swayed by the
messages
of every health article under the sun. But</span> as I’ve read the Bible this year, I’ve noticed that there are an astonishing number of promises from God </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">(you know—the One who made our bodies
in the
first place?)</span></span></span> that have to
do with health and strength and long life. And yet I haven’t come across a
single one of those promises that hinges on nutrition or exercise or any of the
usual concerns. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I still believe that those concerns are means that God routinely uses to sustain our lives. But if I were
trying to compile a list of “Biblical Tips for Better Health,” I think it would
have a whole lot less to do with consuming organic produce and joining the gym, and a
whole lot more to do with fearing God, honoring parents, befriending Lady Wisdom,
and seeking first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness. </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not a hair can fall from our heads—or a cancer cell form in our bodies—without the will of our Father in heaven. He knows what we need before we ask, which means I don't have to keep tying</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> myself into awkward knots in attempt to
keep up with all the latest cancer-dodging advice. Resting in God's care allows me to take
a step back from the fears of the moment and to gain
some perspective on this salutary game of Twister—and to laugh a little.
And a merry heart, after all, "doeth
good like a medicine." </span></span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ultimately, our lives are not in our hands. And that truth, instead of
scaring us, should allow us to loosen our kung-fu death grip on health,
to step away from all those
hot-off-the-presses articles about the latest cancer scare, and to <i>quit
worrying</i>. Seriously. Quit. Worrying
is bad for our health. And which of us by worrying can add a single day to his
life?<span class="woj"> Rather,
“Fear the Lord and depart from evil. It will be health to your flesh and marrow to your bones” (Proverbs 3:7b-8). </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="woj">That right there is a ruby to keep
in your pocket.</span>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The Belly of the Whale</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just last week my husband took all the kids to a local nursing home
to bring a little joy to the lonely and afflicted. And the next day Asaph, who
is five years old, said to me, “Mom? You know that place where people go to
live until they die? I saw an old lady there who was sitting in a wheelchair.
And her teeth were out, so she pushed them back into her mouth. I said hi to
her, but she didn’t hear me.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s shocking, isn’t it, son? It’s shocking that we crumble
until our legs cannot hold us. Until our teeth fall out of our mouths. Until
our ears grow numb to the voices of children yelling “Hi!” six inches from our
heads. But what’s more shocking is that we forget this about ourselves. Here in
this university town of ours, where the beautiful and the invincible spill out
of every coffee shop and swarm the halls of the shopping malls, we find that
the fresh supply of youth never dries up. We spend our days in the house of
feasting, toasting each other’s health, and checking each other’s sexy curves.
Meanwhile, life’s epilogue is lived out behind closed doors, along sterile
hallways under fluorescent lights, so that the rest of us can forget the final
pages of our story. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But not my children. My own Jonah has slept within the black
innards of the whale. He has looked death straight in the mouth and smelled its
foul breath. My own little blue-eyed five-year-old has navigated through those urine-scented hallways in the house of mourning and learned some wisdom. He has
seen our latter end. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The truth is that we are <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in that place where we will live until we die. But while I will try to push that final day back as long as I can, I</span> never want to spend so much time
simply staying alive that I forget to <i>live</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. As <a href="http://amzn.to/1dJ72CF" target="_blank">one author friend put it</a>, “Life is meant to be spent.” And not just, I might
add, on ourselves. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Long life can be a great blessing, but what good is a long
shelf life if our contents are never used up before we reach our
expiration date?</span> Better to be a cheap plastic jug of grape juice
cocktail—or a boring old cup of cold water, for that matter—that is poured out to quench someone's thirst, than to
be a bottle of the finest Châteauneuf-du-Pape that is
kept safely corked on a shelf for decades until its contents turn to
vinegar. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My grandfather </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(who died of cancer)</span> </span>did not live as long as many of his peers, but he also lived <i>more</i> within those years than many of his peers. He learned to speak English, served in a war, </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">raised nine children, was faithful to his wife, ran a dairy farm, felled trees (as well as a few of his fingers), </span></span>worked in the church, owned a retirement home, excelled at bowling, and poured love on his dozens of grandchildren. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I was about Asaph’s age, my grandfather used to do a trick in which he brushed his teeth and whistled at the same time.
I thought it was hilarious—him holding his dentures and toothbrush in his mangled fingers, while a
merry tune played on his wrinkled lips. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When my own teeth fall out, I hope it
will make <i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> little grandchildren laugh.
And I hope to be laughing with them. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Manna in the Wilderness</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YXbdH9DXV7k/UiUPjqRIMCI/AAAAAAAABDE/ZSST4PWY9xA/s1600/firstpitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YXbdH9DXV7k/UiUPjqRIMCI/AAAAAAAABDE/ZSST4PWY9xA/s320/firstpitch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the early days of Jonah's treatment, I parked </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the Children's hospital garage </span></span>next to an SUV that had the words "CHILDHOOD CANCER SUCKS!" scrawled in gold paint across the back windows.<span style="font-style: normal;"> And I don't disagree. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I have watched my son vomiting for hours, writhing in pain
while his hair falls out and his wide eyes plead for a relief that is far from
coming. But for the record, you need to know that cancer is not the worst thing
that can happen to you. In fact, we have gained so much from this experience
already that we may one day look back and see that cancer was the actually one
of the </span><i>best</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> things that ever
happened to us. And even in the hardest stages of his treatment, Jonah has discovered
that a life-threatening illness is not without its perks. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just last weekend, Jonah was invited to throw the first pitch at a
Spokane Indians baseball game, escorted onto the field by Super Bowl MVP Mark
Rypien. Jonah has been in the dugout and on the field to shake hands with
Seattle Mariners. He’s had a movie star come to visit him. He has heaps of books and toys and crafts and cards and even an iPad thanks to the
kindness of those who heard of his plight. And now, through the Make-A-Wish
foundation, he’s in the process of planning a dream vacation to
Hawaii—something we could never afford to do with him otherwise. So much love,
joy, peace, and just plain fun have come his way on account of his cancer that
one of our other boys once said, “Aw, man! I wish <i>I</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> had cancer.”</span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Children’s Hospital has also done such a great job of
creating a welcoming environment for these sick kids that <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> our boys clamor for the chance to go along with
Jonah for his appointments. Jonah himself sometimes laments that his days of
staying overnight at the hospital are over. He loves all the nurses and the
one-on-one attention from parents and grandparents. His memories of cancer have
been so well seasoned with blessings that he has more than once told us he
wishes he could start his treatment all over again. And he is no masochist.
This was simply the best-worst year of his life.</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="text 2Cor-12-9" id="en-ESV-29015">Power Made Perfect in</span> Weakness</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This has, without question, been the most difficult
year of our lives. </span></span>My son has life-threatening disease. But do I wish this had never happened? Do I wish I could
erase the last twelve months and start them fresh and clean and cancer-free? I
hesitate. But strange as it sounds, I don't<span style="font-style: normal;">. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have had people tell me that they just don’t think they
could do what we’ve done; that they couldn’t handle facing childhood cancer;
that it would simply be too hard. And I suppose the expected reply would be, "Oh, no, of course you could! You're a strong person. You could handle it if you had to." Well, maybe it's that stiff-upper-lip DNA of mine, but I'm not always a good cheerleader. In fact, what I generally say is, “Yeah you’re right. It <i>is</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> too
hard. You </span><i>couldn’t</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> do it.” </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The reason I say that, however, is that </span><i>I </i><span style="font-style: normal;">can’t do
it either. I can’t handle it. Not me. Not our family carrying all this trouble
on our own strength. We </span><i>didn’t</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> do
it. We </span><i>didn’t</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> handle it—at least
not in some kind of stoical, self-sufficient, inner-strength, “No thanks, I’m fine” kind of
way. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;">Rather, we were helpless. We were weak in the knees. We had to take
it sitting down. But God was our strength. We were neck-deep in trouble. But He is
a very present help in trouble. We were faced with the fear of death. But our comfort is that we belong, even in death, to our faithful savior, Jesus Christ. This year was God’s work. This
year was also—through all that our friends and family and churches did to carry
our burden—<i>your</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> work.</span></span><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> And having seen
with my own eyes the unfailing mercy and goodness of God, I am no longer afraid.</span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s been one year since Jonah's
diagnosis—when the battle for his life began—and we have seen our prayers
answered again and again.</span></span> After a summer full of baseball and swimming and bike riding and lacrosse, he started
school with his class last week, and he visits the hospital only once a month.
His hair, his color, and his laughter are back. But the fight for his life is not over; we are facing
the Last Enemy, even now. <i>My child may die</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Even after a year, I still can hardly bring myself to say those words aloud,
and my throat aches if I try. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;">This
has been a year of testing, but this has also been a year in which all
those abstract truths that we have always believed truly put on flesh.
God's power is made perfect in our weakness. God is our refuge and
strength. This is why my knees
are steady. This is why that terrible weight is gone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You have dealt well with your servant,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> O Lord, according to your word.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Teach me good judgment and knowledge,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> for I believe in your commandments.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Before I was afflicted I went astray,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> but now I keep your word.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You are good and do good;</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> teach me your statutes. (Ps 119:65-68)</span></span></div>
Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-21229562643375038522013-05-16T14:05:00.001-07:002013-05-16T14:11:24.172-07:00Spinal Tap<br />
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It's Tuesday morning when I first sit down to write this post, and the sunshine is blazing through the massive eastern windows of the waiting room in the children's hospital oncology clinic. Brilliant light glares through the ten-foot-high wall of glass with an intensity that seems overzealous for so early in the season. It flashes off of glossy magazine covers and sparkles cheerily through the saline fluid in Jonah's IV bollus. It warms the back of my shoulders to the point of discomfort and renders the feeble, electronic glow of my laptop screen almost useless. </div>
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It's hard to believe that only one week earlier, I was snapping photos of snow falling on my flower garden. This sudden explosion of summery heat has set me—and my spring tulips—into a kind of squinty-eyed shock. Pale, winterized north Idaho inhabitants like me generally require a more gradual change of season. I'm used to waiting through drizzly May days for the occasional break in the clouds when a patch of promising sunlight will rest on the rug just long enough to lend it a hint of lingering warmth. I am used to keeping the winter coats ready on their hooks, just in case, until sometime in July. I am used to sending my kids to their first morning swimming lessons of the summer when the outdoor thermometer still reads 48°. But this? I am not used to this. This is <i>true</i> water park weather, and it's only the first week of May. </div>
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Jonah is sprawled out horizontally across one of the small armless waiting room couches. It's safe to say that he is basking, soaking his skinny limbs in the warm tide of sunshine that washes over him. All he needs is a beach towel and a pair of trunks. And yet, here he is, several floors above the street, on a hill overlooking Spokane, waiting not for a for trip down the waterslide into the pool but for a trip down the hallway into a windowless procedure room lit by fluorescent tubes, for an early-morning spinal tap and a dose of toxic drugs. </div>
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Hardly a summer holiday. </div>
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I glance up from my over-bright screen and make brief eye contact with another mom who is sipping hospital coffee from a white styrofoam cup. The sunlight sets curlicues of steam aglow between her face and mine. I very nearly say hello, but she quickly turns her puffy, sleep-starved eyes away toward the window. I follow her gaze to where the tops of the pine trees are lost in the brightness of the sunrise.</div>
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Next to her, a dark-haired boy, about Jonah's age, is also waiting, slouched low in his chair. His eyes are closed, and his crossed arms rest across his belly. They are by far the hairiest arms I have ever seen on a child. I try not to stare, wondering if this kid is getting the same chemo as my son. Jonah's own hair held out against the drugs for a long time—much longer than for most cancer patients—but now he hardly even has hair on his head, let alone on his extremities. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes have thinned.</div>
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I turn my attention toward him. His feet are propped on a lime-green ottoman, and he is reading—or pretending to read—his paperback. "You want anything?" I ask. Then I remember. "Oh, nevermind. I forgot you can't have anything until after your LP." </div>
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He looks at me from over the top of his book and slowly shakes his head. "Nope." He punctuates the word with a soft pop of his lips on the 'P'. The other mom glances back toward me for just an instant, and then again back to the window, half-closing her eyes against the brightness.</div>
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I wonder about trying to meet these people, about asking this other boy his story, maybe make a new hospital friend for Jonah. But asking those <i>sooo-what-brings-you-here</i> conversation starters can be painful and distressing when they are asked in a children's oncology ward. ("Oh, brain radiation. And you?") Sometimes small talk seems, well, <i>too</i> small in the shadow of the enormous, cancerous elephant in the room. So I decide to keep quiet and return to my typing. Besides, I think to myself, it's early, and we are all so sleepy and ridiculously warm in here anyway. </div>
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The day before, Jonah and I had driven to Riverfront Park to eat a late lunch following a checkup, and we came unprepared for the weather. The afternoon heat slowly baked into Jonah's black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, while the May sunlight threatened to burn his bald head. My dark hair absorbed the heat like a cast iron skillet. We moved to some semi-shade and ate our sandwiches on a dusty, metal-grid picnic table. Nearby, a half-dozen flip-flopped moms with squealing children splashed—some of them fully dressed—in the park fountain. No men among them, and not a wedding ring to be seen reflecting the sparkle of afternoon light. At least two of the moms displayed tattooed cleavage above the squeeze of their strapless sundresses as they bent low to lift their dripping toddlers. Every mom is wearing shades. This, I noted, appears to be the year of the gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EGlTiGY8e_Y/UZVFDNi0teI/AAAAAAAAA5s/ddHBzZ_EeUY/s1600/carousel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EGlTiGY8e_Y/UZVFDNi0teI/AAAAAAAAA5s/ddHBzZ_EeUY/s1600/carousel.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Jonah eyes, fortunately, were transfixed by the colorful rise and fall of merry-go-round horses on their gilded poles. He was listening intently to the carousel music and asked <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">i</span>f the tunes were played live on a real organ—an instrument he hopes to learn to someday. Maybe he was considering future summer jobs—organ gigs at carousels and baseball parks.</div>
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"No, I don't think so. Just a recording. But I bet there used to be an organ in there at one time," I said. </div>
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"Oh," he said, disappointed. He slowly dragged a limp french fry back and forth through a puddle of ketchup and then set it back down. "Ugh. I am <i>roasting</i>."</div>
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This is the kind of unseasonable heat that makes politicians climb onto their climate-change soapboxes and panicked consumers trade in their Hummers for pocket-sized electric cars. It is also the kind of weather that sends flabby humans of northern European descent out in herds to overwhelm the city streets and public parks with vast displays of blindingly pale flesh. Human dignity, it seems, cannot compete with the promise of a spring sunburn. Too-tight shorts and too-short tube tops parade unabashedly across the lush lawns while well-fed seagulls hop and flap eagerly after them, hoping a few bits of that muffin-top whiteness will drop in Wonder Bread crumbs to the ground. </div>
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The cool air of early morning is sweet when we walk to the car the next day, but as we pull onto the interstate to return to the hospital for Jonah's spinal tap, the sun is already poised to dominate the day—not so much as a hint of a cloud to interrupt the faintly blue expanse above us. Watching the drivers in the east-bound lane flipping down their visors and shielding their eyes with their hands against the rising glare, I am glad to be driving west.</div>
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Jonah tilts his seat back and snoozes on the way. I enjoy his company, but when he sleeps, I savor the silence—or rather, the steady hum and whoosh of the highway—instead. The rare luxury of uninterrupted thought makes me feel all glowingly poetic inside. I have a habit of trying to compose witty similes or apt metaphors while I'm driving in a quiet car. I imagine catchy first lines for short stories that I will never attempt to write. Often, I use the time to pray. This morning, however, I am thinking of styles of sunglasses, and how they seem to forge the way for styles of regular glasses, and how they serve better than carbon-14 for calculating the dates of old photos. (<i>Ah, yes, 1982. The year of the saucer-sized frames with the graduated pink-tinted lenses.</i>) This is deep stuff. </div>
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The brilliance of my thoughts is interrupted by the sudden dimness of the hospital parking garage. Jonah sits up and looks around. He sighs, and his shoulders slump when he remembers where he is. </div>
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At last, the nurse steps into the waiting room and says Jonah's name. He sighs audibly again<b>.</b> He does have his favorite hospital activities that he looks forward to—especially when the music therapist is there. But on spinal tap days, he dreads the hospital because he knows how he will feel afterward. "You ready, buddy?" the nurse asks in that too-chipper, slightly condescending sing-song tone that he hates. He shakes his head firmly but stands up anyway, shoving his book into his backpack with unnecessary force. "O.K! Let's go!" she says, flashing coffee-stained teeth between freshly glossed lips. She takes brisk steps, but Jonah shuffles, and she has to turn and wait for him to catch up. The IV pole squeaks and rattles along the linoleum tiles, and I hold the IV line up to keep it from getting tangled in the wheels or caught underfoot.</div>
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In the procedure room, several nurses are waiting, and one of them attaches Jonah to several monitors—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels. Then the anesthesiologist arrives to ask the usual list of questions. He's young and blond and wearing jeans and<b> </b>a massive silver ring and a silver bracelet below his rolled-up shirt sleeves. Very hip. He cracks a few jokes, makes small talk about sports, and manages to get a smile or two out of Jonah while filling syringes with milky-white propofol. "Milk of amnesia" he calls it.</div>
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At last the doctor arrives, all five-foot-aught of her, with her mass of brown corkscrew curls. Probably the world's cutest oncologist. The oxygen starts, then the proposal, and then Jonah's eyelids flutter closed. He's out. The doctor preps his back with iodine, and moments later<b> </b>Jonah's spinal fluid begins to drip slowly into a clear vial. A nurse walks quickly by us to prepare for the next patient's procedure, and her elbow knocks a vial of propofol onto the floor. It shatters, leaving a spray of glass shards and white liquid on the floor. The nurse gasps with dismay. "Oh, no need to cry over spilled propofol," I say dryly, and the whole room of doctors and nurses erupts into laughter. </div>
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We're all still smiling as the oncologist injects a syringe full of acid-green methotrexate into Jonah's spinal fluid. And with that, the procedure's done. All that's left is to wait for him to sleep off the anesthesia. For most kids, this takes a matter of minutes. For Jonah, it can take hours for him to come around, and more often than not, he wakes up sick. This time, they wheel him into an infusion room where they let him recover by himself in a more comfortable bed. I turn down the lights and sit with him in the darkness for a few minutes, just to make sure he's resting quietly. Someone down the hall is carrying on a one-sided conversation in hurried Spanish. </div>
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When I open the door to the hallway, my eyes take a moment to adjust. I return to the playroom to chat with the music therapist who has taught Jonah to play a few simple chords on the ukulele during previous visits. The room is hot and summer-bright. As she asks how Jonah's doing, I see the same mother and son from the waiting walk past the doorway and down the hall. </div>
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A little girl walks in and immediately sits down to play with a large plastic dollhouse. Her mother has buzzed her own salt-and-pepper hair close to the scalp in order to, I assume, show her solidarity with her balding child. I've seen a few other parents who have done the same. Above her head is a computer printout on the wall depicting the complete pantheon of Disney princesses with egg-bald heads. Snow White on chemo. Sweet, I guess. </div>
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When Jonah finally wakes up, it's well past noon, and he is woozy and nauseated, but I manage to help him to sit up and drink a sip of orange soda—the only thing that sounds palatable to him—before we head out the clinic doors. He carries a pink emesis bucket with him, just in case. Minutes later, we are back on the highway, driving home through miles and miles of velvety-green hills under a brilliant blue, cloudless sky. I am wearing last year's sunglasses. Soon we will be home. And Jonah is already talking of playing baseball.</div>
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-24539464455166770642013-02-28T11:54:00.001-08:002013-03-01T09:53:23.670-08:00Update on Jonah, 2/28/13<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonah on our walk this morning, with a view of downtown Spokane. </td></tr>
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The last couple of months have been, on the whole, a period of rest and restoration for Jonah. His most recent treatments have not hit him quite as hard as many others have in the past. Delayed Intensification, his current eight-week phase of treatment, began three weeks ago, and we fully expected that he would need to live in Spokane during most of that time. His body, however, tolerated the chemo well enough that he was able to go home in between his treatments. We are very grateful for that unexpected time together away from the hospital. </div>
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Tuesday night was the first one we have had to spend in Spokane during this phase, and, ironically, it was the first Tuesday of this phase of treatment that Jonah did <i>not</i> receive chemo—but also the worst night of suffering he has endured in months. This week is supposed to be a brief respite from the drugs before the doctors administer a series of very powerful (and toxic) drugs next week. This "week off," however, has turned out to be the most difficult week of Delayed Intensification that he's had yet.</div>
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Jonah had suffered through a few days of digestive troubles and abdominal pain due, his doctor believes, to overgrowth of yeast in his system, and she wants him to stay in town to make sure it clears up sufficiently. If his counts are high enough, and his gut is doing better, Jonah may be able to go home for the weekend. But in the meantime, he has been dealing with some new trouble—sudden hair loss and severe withdrawal pains from going off of a potent steroid he was taking last week. Not only was Jonah's hair coming off in handfuls on his pillow—a distressing (and itchy) experience—but Jonah's legs were in such pain that he was unable to sleep most of the night Tuesday night, and yesterday he was unable to rest comfortably throughout most of the day. Today, however, the hair loss has slowed down just a bit, the pain has lessened dramatically, and Jonah was downstairs making pancakes before I was even out of bed and wanted to go out for a walk through the neighborhood right after breakfast. </div>
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While we are grateful for a better day today, we are also anticipating a rough time for Jonah in the two weeks that lie immediately ahead. One of the drugs he will be receiving was, in the past, responsible for his very worst bouts of nausea, and he will also be given another truly nasty drug that can result in longer-lasting (and more serious) side effects. Some of these side effects may not appear until years later, which makes the prospect even more daunting. None of us, as you can imagine, are looking forward to these treatments, but we are grateful to know that we are being held up by all of your love, help, and prayers. And we have not forgotten that we pray to a God who, Himself, knows what it is to suffer. </div>
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As we anticipate a difficult few weeks ahead of us, we'd very much appreciate your prayers for our entire family—for Jayson and me as we try to give all of our children, including Jonah, the love and attention they need; for our other boys as they live with the disruption created by our separated family; for my mother-in-law as she takes care of the house and kids while Jayson and I are away; and, of course, for Jonah. Pray that his courage, his faith, his patience, and his body will remain strong. And, as always, please pray that these difficult treatments would result in a long, healthy, and fruitful life for him. Our hope is that the present trials will result in deeper wisdom and grace that will remain with him, and with all of us, for many, many years to come.</div>
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-51425417274177252612012-12-31T15:26:00.002-08:002013-01-09T09:56:14.248-08:00Many, Many, Many Thanks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Now that this year has drawn to a close, I realize that I don't really want to write the typical end-of-year letter summarizing all the various activities and interests of each member of our family. I would almost have to write two letters—one describing the cheery pre-cancer first half of our year and one describing the crazier post-cancer second half of 2012. But if you've been reading this blog, you already know most of what I would tell you, and you certainly know that Jonah's battle with leukemia has been the headline story that has nearly eclipsed everything else. In the midst of that struggle, however, we have seen more clearly that the goodness of God extends to even the smallest details of our lives. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hrcrmouxFv4/UOIYykWXCGI/AAAAAAAAAwU/rWdsOfhG_lM/s1600/ornament.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hrcrmouxFv4/UOIYykWXCGI/AAAAAAAAAwU/rWdsOfhG_lM/s1600/ornament.jpg" width="150" /></a>A couple of months ago, for example, I asked our friends and family to pray for a mild winter this year because of all the driving we would be doing between here and Spokane. It seemed like a big request, and it's the kind of prayer that, I think, many of us fully expect God to ignore. But three days later I laid open the front page of the local newspaper to discover this headline: "Crews anticipate mild winter." "Mild winter"—that's the very phrase I had used. <i>Well</i>, I thought, that was a quick answer. Then, a few days before Christmas, as Jayson and Jonah made their way home from the hospital along dry roads and between muddy fields, and imagining a wet, green Christmas, they prayed for snow. The next evening, Jayson opened the curtains, noticing that it was unusually light outside, and started to laugh. Lo and behold, snow was falling in fat, graceful, grace-full clusters of flakes, perfect for fort building and snowmen.<br />
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Was all this sent for us, just because we asked? Is it arrogant to think so? It's not unusual for snow to fall this time of year, after all. Mild winters come and go, certainly. And <i>yet</i> "Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly that it would not
rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years." (James 5:17) Stranger things, you see, have happened. Bigger prayers than ours have been answered. And Jonah is now at a class sledding party, making full use of that chilly answer to prayer—and of an accidental scheduling error that kept him from going to the hospital today. Grace upon grace.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EklHGNo4Sqc/UOIYLqh7krI/AAAAAAAAAv0/Vm8z33dTy0A/s1600/GGLiam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EklHGNo4Sqc/UOIYLqh7krI/AAAAAAAAAv0/Vm8z33dTy0A/s1600/GGLiam.jpg" width="320" /></a>Numerous people have told us they prayed that Jonah could be home for Christmas, and we are extremely grateful to report that he was able to spend all of the past week and a half at home and has enjoyed a relatively easy phase of treatment during the month of December, with only a few bad days of nausea. Jonah has even begun to look forward to his hospital visits lately, since he has started to develop friendships with some of the patients and has felt well enough to take advantage of the crafts and other activities available to the kids there.<br />
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This less intense phase of treatment will continue until late January, when he is scheduled to begin "delayed intensification." For that stage of his treatment, Jonah will again be required to spend most of his time close to the hospital. We are extremely thankful for the generosity of some friends of my aunt and uncle who, without ever having met us, offered their condo as a place for him to stay during those two months while they spend the winter in the Arizona sunshine. We are, once again, overwhelmed by the kindness not only of friends and family, but of complete strangers. You all have been the answer to many, many of our prayers.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-anaoFvEQgvo/UOIX_SVyc8I/AAAAAAAAAvs/N0lqI-8za9c/s1600/judepaul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-anaoFvEQgvo/UOIX_SVyc8I/AAAAAAAAAvs/N0lqI-8za9c/s1600/judepaul.jpg" width="225" /></a>This brings me again to the main point of this post: <i>gratitude</i>. One thing that I have failed to adequately express to all of you is how tremendously grateful we are for the help and prayers and support that we have received during the last four months. You may be familiar with the phrase, "To whom much is given, much is required." It's true. But we have found that the inverse has been true as well: To whom much is required, much is given. We have been given far more than I can possibly list here. <br />
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We tried feebly at first to keep up with the thank-you notes, but within weeks it became clear that the task was beyond us. In spite of our good intentions, the acts of kindness poured in at a rate that exceeded our card-writing capabilities. So please forgive our lack of written response to your outpouring of love and generosity. Dozens of you chose to remain anonymous, and dozens more sent sweet, hand-written notes and generous checks and encouraging cards letting us know that you've been thinking of us and praying for us. But whether we know you by name or have no idea who you are, I want you to be aware of how grateful we are to you for carrying us through this tremendous trial. We could not possibly have done this on our own. So I apologize if the rest of this post reads more like an acceptance speech at the Oscars than a Christmas letter, but a long list of acknowlegements is in order. <br />
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First, the care packages for Jonah have been a great encouragement to him during difficult days. The gifts themselves were delightful and often provided a welcome distraction from his loneliness and discomfort. But he also was cheered by the knowledge that so many people continue to remember and care about him during this long illness. The piles of get-well cards have been and continue to be a boost to Jonah's morale. Thank you.<br />
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The little gifts for the rest of the boys have also helped them to feel loved while everyone's attention is focused on Jonah. The surprise toys and treats for the siblings have been especially wonderful during those long weeks when our family has had to be apart. Our four younger boys have had to suffer an upheaval in their lives as well, so thank you for remembering them. <br />
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Likewise, the gift cards and monetary gifts for our family have blessed us enormously as we have had to cover the expenses of traveling, eating on the road, setting up house in a new location, buying expensive medications, and much more. It is such a blessing to know that when each new expense arises we have the means to pay for it. Thank you.<br />
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To our church we owe a huge debt of gratitude for covering the biggest expenses we have incurred. It was through our church that we were able to get a second car—something we simply could not manage without during this stage of our lives. It was because of our church friends that we had a beautiful home away from home to live in on lake Coeur d'Alene during the first few months of Jonah's treatment. And it has been through our church that our most daunting medical bills have been paid for. Whenever I think of the ways that our church has helped us, it brings tears to my eyes. You, our church family, have loved us as true brothers and sisters. Thank you.<br />
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In addition, our local church community has taken on the massive task of providing meals and treats for our family during our months of topsy-turvy schedule. In the past, we have had a taste of your culinary skills here and there, but I think we have now sampled something from more of your kitchens than perhaps anybody else has. And we have not been disappointed. You are an astoundingly talented bunch of cooks. Thank you for sharing your culinary skills with us. <br />
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I cannot possibly list the names of all the people who have gone out of their way to serve our family in our hour of need, but I would be horribly remiss if I didn't mention at least these two by name: my dear friend Annie, and my mother-in-law, Marilynn. As soon as they heard the news of Jonah's diagnosis both these women immediately went into action to provide us with help. <br />
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Annie suddenly became my personal secretary and activities coordinator, organizing all those meals and rides and school lunches and house cleanings, and much more. I hate to think what we would have done without her. She has been the truest and most loyal of friends. She has blessed us all more than words can express, and I love her like a sister.<br />
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And Marilynn. I cannot sing her praises highly enough. She is currently enjoying a well-deserved break back in Arizona during these easier weeks of Jonah's treatment. But she got on a plane almost as soon as she learned of Jonah's cancer, and she plans to come back again to help us through the harder months ahead. Throughout these difficult times, she has been like a ministering angel to us, changing diapers, taking library trips, washing mountains of laundry, playing games, mopping floors, and providing love and constancy for us all when we needed it most. She seems to have infinite reserves of patience, and she has kept this household running smoothly while Jayson and I have been living out of suitcases and taking turns sleeping in hospital rooms. And, because we have no guest room, she has done all this while sharing Jude's bunk bed in Jonah's absence and sleeping on the couch when Jonah's been home. My mother-in-law is truly a saint and I love her dearly. The debt of gratitude we owe her can never be repaid.<br />
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Lastly, we are, of course, thankful to God, who has provided us so richly with all that we have needed and far, far more. He has been our rock, our fortress, and our deliverer. He is our strength and our song. And His grace continues to fill our lives, flowing into every corner, and falling on us daily, as pure and as lovely as Christmas snow.<br />
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There. That is what most needed to be said as this year winds down to a close. We are overwhelmingly grateful. Thank you all.<br />
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-19298350649773189932012-11-21T23:11:00.001-08:002013-01-09T09:55:28.893-08:00Giving Thanks for the Fleas<br />
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<a href="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/bf3adc44344a11e28ad722000a9f1498_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/bf3adc44344a11e28ad722000a9f1498_7.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Three whole weeks somehow managed to slide quietly past without my producing so much as a <i>howdy</i> on this blog. So I suppose it's time to make an appearance and assure you that we are all, in fact, still alive. And that, in case it sounds like a small thing, is truly a remarkable gift. <br />
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<a href="http://distilleryimage7.instagram.com/a67d1f72340f11e28e5722000a9f195f_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage7.instagram.com/a67d1f72340f11e28e5722000a9f195f_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>In fact, if you stop long enough to think about it, there really are no "small" things. Even the mundane becomes marvelous when seen in the right light. Every square inch of creation should make your jaw drop simply for the mere fact that it <i>is</i>. And, as if merely <i>being</i> isn't enough to stagger the mind, then think about <i>what</i> it is. From wet grass to whirling galaxies, from subatomic particles to glowing supergiants, we are completely surrounded with reasons to go positively weak-kneed with gratitude. I forget it sometimes. And when circumstances get difficult, it can be easy to lose sight of even the most obvious blessings. But when I'm tempted to start griping, the best—and perhaps the <i>only</i>—way to keep from slowly transforming into a bipedal Eeyore is to start looking franticly around for reasons to be thankful. It always sounds impossible at first. But once I start, I never have to look very hard or very long. One glance at the five fingers on my hand or the solid roof over my head, and I'm off to a good start. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage10.s3.amazonaws.com/7f14c368310311e2bbaa22000a1de653_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage10.s3.amazonaws.com/7f14c368310311e2bbaa22000a1de653_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>And on several occasions when my situation has seemed particularly devoid of reasons to be grateful, this passage from a book called <i>The Hiding Place</i> creeps into my consciousness and smacks me right between the eyebrows. In it two young Dutch sisters, Corrie (the author) and Betsie, are imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp and wondering what the best answer is to their latest difficulty—an infestation of fleas in their bunk house:<br />
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"That's it, Corrie! That's [God's] answer. 'Give thanks in all circumstances!' That's what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks!" I stared at her; then around me at the dark, foul-aired room.<br />
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"Such as?" I said.<br />
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"Such as being assigned here together."<br />
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I bit my lip. "Oh yes, Lord Jesus!" </blockquote>
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"Such as what you're holding in your hands." I looked down at the Bible.<br />
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"Yes! Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all these women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages."<br />
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"Yes," said Betsie, "Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we're packed so close, that many more will hear!" She looked at me expectantly. "<i>Corrie!</i>" she prodded.<br />
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"Oh, all right. Thank You for the jammed, crammed, stuffed, packed suffocating crowds."<br />
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"Thank You," Betsie went on serenely, "for the fleas and for—" </blockquote>
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The fleas! This was too much. "Betsie, there's no way even God can make me grateful for a flea."<br />
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"Give thanks in <i>all</i> circumstances," she quoted. "It doesn't say, 'in pleasant circumstances.' Fleas are part of this place where God has put us."<br />
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And so we stood between tiers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas. But this time I was sure Betsie was wrong.</blockquote>
<a href="http://distilleryimage7.s3.amazonaws.com/548770bc329511e2b0f022000a9f1369_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage7.s3.amazonaws.com/548770bc329511e2b0f022000a9f1369_7.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://distilleryimage0.s3.amazonaws.com/b985a1c029c911e2996e22000a1f98fe_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage0.s3.amazonaws.com/b985a1c029c911e2996e22000a1f98fe_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>Seriously? There they are—starved, miserable, and trapped in some of the worst living conditions imaginable—and yet they start giving thanks? For the <i>fleas</i>? Now that, folks, is just plain Bible-weirdo crazy. Sometimes Betsie is the kind of pious church girl that might drive any normal person nuts. She certainly drove her sister Corrie nuts at times. And in all honesty, I'm not entirely sure whether the Bible passage they were reading means that we must give thanks <i>for</i> the fleas or to give thanks in the <i>midst</i> of the fleas—or even in <i>spite</i> of the fleas. But in any case, they give thanks <i>for</i> the fleas. And, as it turns out, they later learn that the only reason they had been left alone and been allowed to talk openly with the other women in their barracks was because their merciless guards refused to enter their flea-infested quarters. The <i>fleas</i> had been the reason for their only moments of freedom to develop friendships and practice their faith. <br />
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So, well, thank God for the fleas. We've all got 'em, in some form or other.<br />
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• • • • • • </div>
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage3.s3.amazonaws.com/2af141042c7f11e29cc822000a1f96e3_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage3.s3.amazonaws.com/2af141042c7f11e29cc822000a1f96e3_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>With Thanksgiving just a few hours over the horizon, it's a perfect time to remember that even in our direst circumstances, even when you're a ten-year-old with cancer, there is always <i>something</i> to be thankful for. Always. Betsie understood that. And she and Corrie learned that sometimes the dire circumstances themselves turn into unexpected blessings—not just in the distant future or in the hereafter, but in the here and now. It's a hard lesson, but even we, stiff-necked and thick-headed as we sometimes are, are beginning to learn it, too.<br />
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For example, Jonah was scheduled to spend Monday through Wednesday or Thursday of this week in the hospital, beginning the next two-month phase of his treatment for leukemia. But on Monday morning his white blood cell counts were still too low for him to safely receive his chemo, so the oncologist sent him back home. Yes, <i>home</i>. Ordinarily this would be a disappointing setback, but when the setback means that he gets to stay home with his brothers all week while they are on Thanksgiving break, we are grateful for the delay. Three cheers for untimely immunosuppression! Today I am grateful for a <i>low</i> ANC. Today, we are thanking God for the fleas.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage1.s3.amazonaws.com/1f4f6f7431ed11e282e022000a1fbc68_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage1.s3.amazonaws.com/1f4f6f7431ed11e282e022000a1fbc68_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>In truth, we have a lot to be grateful for, even without the fleas. Plenty has happened since my last post, but you know what they say about "no news." And in this case, <i>they</i> are mostly right.<br />
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During the last few weeks, Jonah's nausea has remained much milder, and he has been able to gain back some of the weight he lost. Although he sometimes struggles to work up an appetite, he has, for the most part, been able to keep his food down. Sudden waves of nausea do still take him off guard from time to time, but they are far less frequent, which is a very welcome change. Having a kid on chemo is remarkably like having a pregnant woman around the house—badly timed cravings for bizarre foods that suddenly become unappetizing to him the minute we return, rain soaked and freezing, with the takeout boxes in tow. It's a good thing leftover curry tastes even better the next day.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage1.s3.amazonaws.com/b23c58e4310011e29f8e22000a1de28d_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage1.s3.amazonaws.com/b23c58e4310011e29f8e22000a1de28d_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>Jonah just completed phase two of his treatment, so we were able to move out of our friends' lake house last Tuesday, and Jonah has been here at home since then. He even felt well enough to attend his first full day of school this year, to go fishing with his dad and brothers, and to spend part of the day at a friend's house. We should be able to spend Thanksgiving Day at my parents' house as well and to enjoy the remainder of the break together as a family.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage8.instagram.com/d281be32312311e2a77722000a1fbc49_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage8.instagram.com/d281be32312311e2a77722000a1fbc49_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>Then, probably next Monday— or as soon as his white cell counts recover—Jonah will begin phase three of his treatment. This stage will last about two months and should consist of a three-day hospital stay every two weeks. The drugs they will give him are strong and require monitoring and "rescue medication" afterward. But between those hospital stays, his doctors expect him to be able to come all the way home. That this easier phase of his treatment falls right smack in the middle of the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays is a blessing that, as you can imagine, isn't lost on us. Our prayer is that Jonah will feel well during this phase and be able to participate in as many of the Christmas festivities as possible.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage2.s3.amazonaws.com/1581af6c2f4411e2ba9922000a1f9c9a_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage2.s3.amazonaws.com/1581af6c2f4411e2ba9922000a1f9c9a_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>After this next two-month phase of treatment is complete, Jonah will begin <i>another</i> two-month phase called "delayed intensification," which should be just about as pleasant as it sounds. For those two months, we will need to live in or around Spokane to be near to the hospital in case of emergency. But the good news is that this will be the final difficult stretch before entering the much milder "maintenance" phase that will continue for roughly three years but be spent almost entirely at home. At that time we expect that he will be able to return to a relatively normal routine of school and sports and piano lessons. <br />
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I can hardly express how inviting the phrase "normal routine" sounds. At about this time two years ago, I wrote a post called "The Glorious Status Quo" in which I was, ironically, rejoicing in the discovery that I didn't have cancer. I was delighting in the fact that normal life could go on as planned. Even then, I was learning to recognize the joy of just being allowed to live a common, unremarkable sort of life. But now? Nothing in the world sounds sweeter than a boring ol' month of laundry and school and diapers and mop water. <br />
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<a href="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/1217cc2031d911e2822f22000a9f09ca_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/1217cc2031d911e2822f22000a9f09ca_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>Many of my friends have been posting an item or two each day for the month of November of things for which they are thankful. It's a terrific exercise. I have never done it myself, but I imagine I'll give it a whirl at some point. But one thing these last few months <i>have</i> taught me is that there is far more that is joyous and lovely in this world than I have tended to recognize. So I am making more of an effort to keep my eyes open. I have taken hundreds of photos in recent weeks of whatever I find that strikes me as true, good, and beautiful, and it's been a helpful activity for cultivating gratitude. I am by no means an expert photographer, and most of my photos have been snapped on my cell phone camera. But that doesn't really matter. The point is to not allow the blessings of life, both great and small, to go by unnoticed. Taking pictures lately has been a simple way of tuning my senses to the goodness of all that God has given us—from cabbages to crayons, from ice formations to eyelashes. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s52b7RFEjZY/UK3GW6l_AeI/AAAAAAAAAvI/hxsIYe0KoIQ/s1600/portaccess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s52b7RFEjZY/UK3GW6l_AeI/AAAAAAAAAvI/hxsIYe0KoIQ/s200/portaccess.jpg" width="200" /></a>And Jonah has also begun to know, deep down in his bones, that just to fall asleep in your own bed each night is a gift without parallel. He recognizes, better than any ten-year-old I've met, that there is glory in the little things because for him the "little" things are anything but. Think about it: When was the last time you thanked God for the privilege of setting foot in a grocery store or a classroom or a church? When have you ever thought to be grateful for the simple fact that you have an appetite? For blood cells that function properly? For seeing your messy, noisy family everyday at breakfast?<br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage1.instagram.com/3244aee62f8611e2af6f22000a1f9a09_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage1.instagram.com/3244aee62f8611e2af6f22000a1f9a09_7.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://distilleryimage10.instagram.com/7ea41160310111e2b3af22000a1fb856_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage10.instagram.com/7ea41160310111e2b3af22000a1fb856_7.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/cb86a99a337f11e28e7522000a1fc33e_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage11.instagram.com/cb86a99a337f11e28e7522000a1fc33e_7.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://distilleryimage5.s3.amazonaws.com/1eff2db82dea11e29cc822000a1f96e3_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://distilleryimage5.s3.amazonaws.com/1eff2db82dea11e29cc822000a1f96e3_7.jpg" width="200" /></a>Open your eyes to what you have. These are gifts. These are reasons to give thanks. Take the time to notice, and you will always have cause to be grateful—even, perhaps, for the fleas.<br />
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<br />Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-63308049179934806882012-10-26T14:04:00.001-07:002012-10-26T14:10:38.501-07:00Cirque du Today<div style="text-align: left;">
If there's one skill that our whole family has been honing lately it is flexibility. Every time Jonah's situation changes—and it changes frequently—we have to be ready on a moment's notice to swivel and twist and turn our plans upside-down. Some days I feel like I belong to a troupe of those gravity-defying Chinese acrobats, dangling precariously from a wildly swaying trapeze, my limbs looped all around like a human pretzel. How did I end up here? Why did I agree to this? It feels like madness. It probably looks like madness, too. But in reality it's the only sane thing to do. If I were to remain stiff and still—if I stubbornly refused to take part in this swirling circus act—I would simply be knocked flat on my back by the force of the action around me. We all must either bend or break. The show must go on, whether I participate willingly or not.</div>
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I <i>am</i> willing. I truly am. But I am awfully sore.
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Before Jonah's diagnosis, we tended to be creatures of ossified habit, who usually made plans that required little elasticity, little variation from our comfortable, predictable routines. But on one startling day in August, all of our carefully constructed plans were spontaneously gutted and remodeled, and now our days consist more of vague expectations than of well-marked schedules.
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDbaI0JzfM8/UInbHJao6II/AAAAAAAAAuA/oZKXef0vS5A/s1600/birthdaybreakfast-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDbaI0JzfM8/UInbHJao6II/AAAAAAAAAuA/oZKXef0vS5A/s320/birthdaybreakfast-web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday surprises from my favorite people.</td></tr>
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We avoid making time-sensitive promises. We RSVP with a caveat. When we celebrated my birthday last week, we were uncertain how Jonah would be doing over the weekend, so we waited until the last minute to make a decision about where to go. I was supposed to sign up for a specific date and time for parent-teacher conferences, but I didn't because, well, I have no idea what I'll be doing two hours from now let alone next Thursday afternoon. With the help of my mother-in-law and many friends, we do try to stick to a schedule for the rest of the family, and our other kids are adjusting to the “new normal,” but Jonah's situation is a constant question mark looming over each day's activities, and we all sometimes feel stretched a little thin.<br />
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I have grown a little weary of answering the seemingly simple question, “So, what are your plans for today/tomorrow/this week?” I just never know. I have been reminded over and over of what the apostle James says: “You do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, ‘If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.’” This has always been true, but it's never seemed more obvious. More times than I can count, as soon I tell someone our “plans” some unforeseen situation arises to change them. If I inform you that Jonah's going to get a blood transfusion today, he doesn't. If I tell you that Jonah is likely to have a good week, then he spends the whole week in bed sleeping or puking. And if I tell you that I expect him to feel terrible after his chemo, then sure enough, he'll be cheerfully sitting up, enthusiastically watching the World Series and eating heaps of spicy Thai curry. So who am I to tell anybody my <i>plans</i>? I am not writing this story. I am simply living it. And living it well means living it in faith. Living it flexibly.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TEZlcNl_4BM/UInUo4UGM4I/AAAAAAAAAto/M2trN2bmxqs/s1600/SpokaneSunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TEZlcNl_4BM/UInUo4UGM4I/AAAAAAAAAto/M2trN2bmxqs/s320/SpokaneSunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our hospital room after Tuesday's storm.</td></tr>
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Just writing these updates can be a difficult exercise. I delete more than I publish, wondering what tone to take, what details to share. Dwell too long on the struggles and heartaches, and it sounds like an ungrateful pity party. Spend too long giving glowing reports of happy moments, and it reads—at least to me—like a cheap veneer. The fact is, both sides of this story exist simultaneously. Dark clouds and sunshine share the same sky.<br />
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On the one hand, Jonah appears to be moving steadily toward recovery, God is helping us to grow and mature, and we have a small army of friends and loved ones praying for us, holding us up, catching us when we're falling, and helping us to untangle from these acrobatic knots we're tied in. We are blessed beyond measure. But on the other hand, we have a child missing his friends, missing his routine, missing his health, missing out on school, and fighting a life-threatening disease. We exist in a state of constant flux and sudden change, perpetually living out of suitcases in a no-man's land between hospital, lake house, and home. We have to stay on our toes as much as any prima ballerina, and we are being stretched far beyond our comfort zones. I can definitely feel the burn.
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Right now, we are in the hospital with Jonah, hoping we can discover a solution to his ongoing malaise. He's been tired and dizzy and prone to random fevers and daily bouts of nausea. And now he is also receiving four consecutive days of IV chemo—the variety that usually makes him feel intensely sick. While we did arrive here with a loose set of expectations, we were hardly surprised when the plans changed.
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2cGbPdXaOhQ/UIn1mzMjurI/AAAAAAAAAuw/z2Ti2TUPU_4/s1600/hospital-latin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2cGbPdXaOhQ/UIn1mzMjurI/AAAAAAAAAuw/z2Ti2TUPU_4/s320/hospital-latin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonah working on a little Latin in the hospital.</td></tr>
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First, Jonah was dehydrated after a weekend of illness, so he couldn't receive his chemo until he was fully hydrated, which took many hours longer than we had expected. He was also supposed to receive blood after his first dose of chemo, but he ran a fever again, and the transfusion had to be postponed nearly twenty-four hours. And yet, so far Jonah has tolerated the chemo far better than we anticipated. He was able to eat a real breakfast even after his chemo, and then ate a big, spicy lunch and dinner. This, too, was unexpected—and very welcome. But then the nausea medication started to make him so dizzy he could hardly walk and so loopy he couldn't finish a coherent sentence or remember what he'd done five minutes earlier. Then he started having abdominal pains. Or bladder spasms. Or both. He can't face the sight of a muffin, and yet he craves Panang curry. One minute he's smiling and doing craft projects, and the next he's flat on his back moaning and clutching his belly. I never know whether it's best to make him nap or eat or study Latin or take a walk.<br />
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Yesterday the oncologist was expected to check in with us first thing in morning, but she got so busy that we didn't see her until early in the evening. We are hoping that Jonah will be discharged this afternoon, but we know that this is also subject to numerous factors outside our control. We wanted the family to spend the weekend together, but when Asaph started throwing up last night, we realized that, in order to protect Jonah, a family gathering is not going to happen. Plans may change and change and change again. And if so, we must remain flexible; we must be ready to spin and bend.
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I like to think that in years to come we will spend a lot of time laughing over some of the crazy contortions we found ourselves performing during this three-ring circus. With a little distance, a series of mishaps that once seemed like a miserable crisis may seem more like a well-timed comedy sketch, and we will be able to appreciate the intricate series of plot twists that formed this chapter of our story.
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What makes these moments tolerable is knowing that while <i>we</i> may have lost control of a particular scene, our God hasn't. He is writing this story, and He writes well. He writes well even during the suspenseful chapters. <i>Especially</i> during the suspenseful chapters. This particular chapter has been a real nail-biter, and I confess that I am one of those folks who prefers to inhabit the tamer plot lines—more Austen and less Tolkien for me, thanks. When I reach the tense, frightening chapters of a novel I almost always skip to the last page, just to make sure that everything turns out all right in the end before I want to keep reading. Weak, perhaps, but it's the spoilers that keep me going. And it's no different in this real-life cliffhanger.
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While I may not know many of the intervening details, I can take courage because I already know that this story ultimately ends well. I can step out from the wings to grab hold of the swaying trapeze, to bend with every plot twist in this particular suspense story, because I know the Author; because I know the Author is good; because I know His promises are true; because I know with a deep, unswerving confidence that, although I might not yet see how, all things—<i>all</i> things—are working together for good.<br />
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<i>“In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” —Romans 8:37-39</i> </blockquote>
Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-12685897837640386432012-10-12T22:55:00.002-07:002012-10-12T22:55:53.042-07:00Joys and Trials, Tears and Smiles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMspg0efv94/UHjy_PPDsLI/AAAAAAAAAs0/FQVvijRMHMA/s1600/canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMspg0efv94/UHjy_PPDsLI/AAAAAAAAAs0/FQVvijRMHMA/s320/canoe.jpg" width="320" /></a>I know, I know, I know. It's been too long since I gave you an update on this here blog. I had grand plans to try writing some kind of profound and meditative post this week, but after scrapping a few false starts, I gave up and decided that you'd probably prefer to just read a newsy update anyway. So here goes:<br />
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Jonah got out of the hospital for a couple of days after his long week of nausea, and his doctor surprised us by saying his ANC was high enough for him to come all the way home again. So we let it be a surprise for everyone at home, too, when he walked in the door. Such a happy moment! Jonah was able to stay with us for Sunday and Monday, and we enjoyed a restful time as a family, although he was still feeling quite weak after so many days of being unable to eat more than a Cheerio or two.<br />
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Then Tuesday he was back in the hospital for his weekly spinal tap and the start of his next round of daily chemo. This time, at least, I came prepared with packed bags in case his nausea kept him in the hospital. Accessing his new port went beautifully, and the spinal tap went smoothly as well. Then he went down the hall for his dose of chemo, and seemed to tolerate it well enough afterward to leave the hospital and return to Coeur d'Alene.<br />
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Well, within five minutes of reaching the car, Jonah was turning green, and by the time I merged onto the freeway, he was vomiting into his pink standard-issue hospital bucket. Every two minutes. All the way to Coeur d'Alene. Then it continued every two minutes for more than an hour at the house there, after which the doctor told us to return to the hospital. And then it went on every two minutes all the way back to the hospital and for a good half hour after we arrived. Four straight hours of unrelenting misery. Sorry for the unpleasant details, but I have never seen anybody that wretchedly sick in my life. Quite honestly I didn't think the human body was capable of heaving so many times and for so long without a reprieve. Perfectly horrid. <br />
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Jonah finally wore himself out and fell asleep in his hospital bed—even before receiving any nausea meds, and managed to sleep straight through the night. (Thank you to all who were praying for that!) To help Jonah's nausea, the doctor decided to try placing a motion sickness patch behind his ear, and he woke up feeling much better. Although Jonah was not able to bring himself to eat more than a few bites for the next four days, he was still significantly more comfortable than he had been the week before without the patch, so we will keep those handy for when he receives this same nasty chemo drug (Ara-C) next time around, two weeks from now.<br />
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By Friday afternoon, most of the chemo was working its way out of his system, and Jonah was feeling well enough to eat again. The best news was that Jonah was released from the hospital just in time for the family to come up for the weekend—the first time that has worked out since Jonah's treatments began. And what made it even more delightful was that Jonah's uncle Brandon and cousin Branson arrived from Arizona the following day. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o1HrhyUizrM/UHjzIwE2ELI/AAAAAAAAAtE/XMo-k-MV2-s/s1600/hottubbing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o1HrhyUizrM/UHjzIwE2ELI/AAAAAAAAAtE/XMo-k-MV2-s/s200/hottubbing.jpg" width="200" /></a>My mother-in-law commented a couple of times that it almost felt like Christmas being there together. Having all that family around boosted Jonah's morale more than anything that's happened yet, so we let the other boys skip a day of school on Monday in order to be together a little longer. It was definitely worth the extra homework. We had beautiful weather for the weekend, Jonah felt energized and ready to play (and eat!), and we were able to go to church, spend time at the park, hit some wiffle balls, dig in the sand, paddle in the canoe, splash in the hot tub, and eat some terrific homemade meals. Branson and Jonah cooked an outstanding chicken dinner together on Sunday, and then Jayson and Brandon took over the next night, grilling some spectacular hamburgers for all of us.<br />
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On Monday night Jayson's mom and I drove back home with the rest of the boys while Jayson, Jonah, Brandon, and Branson stayed in Coeur d'Alene. Jonah had his weekly spinal tap again on Tuesday morning, but this time Branson, who hopes to become a brain surgeon, was able to go with Jonah to watch the procedure. Not many high school students would choose to do something like that on their four-day weekend! <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHh79z--vYc/UHjzKf7_rgI/AAAAAAAAAtM/x_pZHo7t62A/s1600/panoramalake.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHh79z--vYc/UHjzKf7_rgI/AAAAAAAAAtM/x_pZHo7t62A/s640/panoramalake.jpg" width="640" /></a>Jonah's nausea threatened to return in the car on the way back from the hospital, so the guys pulled over on the side of the road to pray for him before they reached the house. Once they arrived, Jayson also gave him his new patch and some of his nausea meds, and Jonah's appetite gradually improved as the evening wore on. By Wednesday Jonah had no nausea at all and was able to enjoy an outing in the canoe on his last morning together with Branson and Brandon before their return to Arizona. <br />
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That Jonah is feeling so well so soon after Tuesday's chemo and spinal tap is a huge blessing. It means that we can fairly accurately attribute Jonah's severe nausea to that one specific chemo drug, which in turn means that we can expect him to be free from nausea for the next two weeks until he starts receiving that drug again. <br />
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Jonah is now home for the weekend. He is tired and anemic, and his ANC is on the low side, so he isn't allowed to go out in public because of his weak immune system. But we are grateful to have him home whenever we can, even if he's just lying in bed reading a book or watching baseball on his iPad. We are also grateful to have a couple of weeks of relief from the extreme queasiness. Jonah does have a cold right now, so please pray that he would get over that and that his body would remain free from any serious infections, and that the rest of us would stay healthy throughout this cold and flu season so that our family can be together without putting Jonah at risk. Please pray as well that Jonah's nausea would be less severe during his upcoming rounds of chemo and that any other side effects would be minimal. Chemo is vicious stuff, so pray with us that it's doing the job it's meant to do, namely to cure Jonah of cancer—for good. <br />
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<i><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-71-19"></span></span><span class="indent-1"></span></i>
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<i><span class="text Ps-71-20" id="en-ESV-14997">You who have made me see many troubles and calamities</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-71-20">will revive me again;</span></span><br /><span class="text Ps-71-20">from the depths of the earth</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-71-20">you will bring me up again.</span></span><span class="text Ps-71-21" id="en-ESV-14998"></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="text Ps-71-21" id="en-ESV-14998">You will increase my greatness</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-71-21">and comfort me again.</span></span></i> </div>
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<i><span class="text Ps-71-22" id="en-ESV-14999">I will also praise you with the harp</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-71-22">for your faithfulness, O my God.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-71-22">—Psalm 71:20-22 </span></span></i></div>
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-38136368453268385152012-09-29T00:03:00.001-07:002012-09-29T00:03:26.081-07:00Back in the Thick of It<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dGYIh_9abbs/UGZ19tTzRPI/AAAAAAAAAr8/-3VvZa0GAHQ/s1600/thefam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dGYIh_9abbs/UGZ19tTzRPI/AAAAAAAAAr8/-3VvZa0GAHQ/s320/thefam.jpg" width="320" /></a>As a much-needed respite during these months of difficult cancer treatments, Jonah was able to spend nearly a week at home. He was grateful just to be back among his people again, seeing his brothers everyday, sleeping in his own bed, and sharing meals with the family.<br />
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He joined his class for a half day at school last Wednesday, which, while it may not have been the "first day of school" we had anticipated, was still a welcome opportunity to catch up with his friends and feel a little bit normal, if only for a while. Jonah also got to see his class play on Friday morning. We look forward to the day when he'll be up there on the stage performing with them again. <br />
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He also spent some time outdoors swinging his new bat and trying out his new batting gloves. We even went out for dinner one night, to church on Sunday, and to my parents' house for Sunday dinner. But all his activities had to be brief and bookended with rest. His body is still quite weak, and going off the massive doses of steroids he's been on was rather painful. In spite of a handful of little outings, Jonah spent most of the week in bed with a splitting headache and lots of body aches. </div>
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Steroid withdrawals by themselve are no fun, but we now think that he was also suffering from anemia at the same time, because after a blood transfusion on Monday he felt much, much better. Some kids are more sensitive to anemia than others, and we think that may have been behind the severity and duration of his headaches. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">One more thing to keep an eye on in the future.</span></div>
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The good news is that Jonah's bone marrow test revealed excellent results. His MRD numbers are right where his doctors had hoped—in remission. This sounds fabulous, which it is, but what it means is that here were no <i>detectible </i>cancer cells, not that he is cured. The doctors know from decades of treating kids with leukemia that the cancer will almost certainly return unless chemotherapy treatment continues. However, these good results do mean that Jonah's prognosis is as good as it could be and that we can stay on his present course of treatment instead of requiring an additional eight-week round of intensive chemotherapy. But now begins the first of three eight-week-long phases of chemo, two of which will require Jonah to be away from home. If all goes well, he will likely be able to come home periodically for about eight weeks in between the first and third rounds. Please pray that everything goes as well as—or even better than—his oncologist anticipates it will. </div>
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Now we are back at the hospital, and for longer than we had expected. Jonah had surgery Tuesday morning to remove the PICC line from his arm and install a subcutaneous <a href="http://www.curesearch.org/Central-Lines/" target="_blank">port</a> in his chest. Since the port is under the skin, it will allow Jonah to enjoy more normal activities when he's feeling well, and we won't have to keep flushing the lines or protecting them from water. It will improve his quality of life once the incision heals. The recovery, however, is not going as smoothly as we had hoped. We anticipated that he would be able to leave the hospital on Wednesday, but he has not been well enough yet to leave because of side effects from a new chemo drug.</div>
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While he was sedated for surgery, Jonah also received yet another spinal tap, plus three additional kinds of chemo throughout the afternoon. Nothing like a quad-shot of toxic chemicals to brighten your day. Jonah has been suffering from fevers, headaches, soreness, and nausea ever since he came out of surgery, and the meds he's taking to combat the side effects make him feel punch drunk and spacey. He's mostly miserable, in a zombie-like trance, or asleep. For a few hours a day he's lucid enough for TV. And we got a few smiles out of him today. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GNfk6kR1e5s/UGaYYRy6elI/AAAAAAAAAsc/zccCqpsfv_Q/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GNfk6kR1e5s/UGaYYRy6elI/AAAAAAAAAsc/zccCqpsfv_Q/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a>We are working with his oncologist and the nurses to try to find some solution to the multiple side effects, but so far there's been no magic remedy. Tylenol, oxycodone, and morphine have kept his pain somewhat under control. But even after seven different nausea medications—including one marijuana derivative—acupressure wrist bands, ginger gum, a ginger supplement, and some pleasantly fruity aromatherapy, he is still living with a constant malaise and no appetite at all. It's all I can do to force him to take a sip from a juice box or eat a single Cheerio. <br />
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Sometimes it's hard to believe that all this pain and
poison is designed to help and heal. In the last fifty years the survival rate for leukemia patients has gone from nearly zero to close to 90%. Huge strides have been made in this field of medicine. But still. If these pills are so toxic that the nurses have to wear nylon gloves just to <i>touch </i>them, how can I bring myself to watch him <i>swallow </i>them? <i>Every day</i>? <i>For months</i>? It takes a tremendous amount of
trust, both in God and in our doctors, to believe that all these things are working together for Jonah's ultimate good.<br />
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Sitting here far away from my family helplessly watching Jonah go through this trauma has certainly put both my joy and patience to the test. It can be tempting to sit here staring at my pale, miserable son and throw myself a little pity party to the soundtrack of the beeping IV pump. But spending a week or two on the Pediatric Oncology floor does provide an eye-opening change in perspective.<br />
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We are surrounded here by children who are suffering much greater trials than Jonah is. Walking down the hall to the ice machine, I alternate between feelings of horror and gratitude when I come face-to-face with examples of how much worse off Jonah's situation could be.<br />
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I've seen kids with feeding tubes and oxygen masks and missing limbs and massive head scars from brain surgery. I have met mothers who have lost their kids to cancer, and I have met others whose kids are facing multiple surgeries and dangerous radiation and developmental delays and very bleak prognoses. So who are we to complain? Jonah's in remission, for pity's sake. His prognosis is good. We're facing more than three years of chemotherapy to keep those undetectable rogue cancer cells from rearing their ugly heads again, but we have good reason to expect that we will not have to see Jonah crippled, maimed, or, God forbid, buried. Among the folks on this floor of the hospital, we're the ones who got a break. We have it easy. Our kid just has high risk acute lymphoblastic leukemia, that's all. Others may envy us.<br />
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A good friend of mine who is an oncology nurse told me that when she heard Jonah had leukemia, she prayed, "Please God, let it be ALL." I would never have known to pray for such a thing, but she did. And after talking to a mom a few doors down the hall whose 13-year-old son has AML, I find myself praying, "Thank you, Lord, for letting my son have ALL instead." ALL. What a relief. Thank God.<br />
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No, really. Thank God. And please keep praying for Jonah and for all of us. We are on a long road, and we will need your prayers the whole way.<br />
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Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-26743896421484400742012-09-18T19:50:00.001-07:002012-09-18T20:02:33.687-07:00Guess Who's Home!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CN4Hq5Jhzng/UFj3A3BqaMI/AAAAAAAAAqk/gmBUlu_JY6I/s1600/homesweethome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CN4Hq5Jhzng/UFj3A3BqaMI/AAAAAAAAAqk/gmBUlu_JY6I/s320/homesweethome.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's no place like home!</td></tr>
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After a very long month away from his home, his friends, and his family, Jonah is finally going to be sleeping in his own bed tonight.<span style="color: black;"> </span>God has certainly been keeping us on our toes and teaching us to hold our plans very loosely, but after all of the unexpected changes during these past several weeks, we are praying that this week at home will be refreshingly mundane. Jonah is incredibly happy just to have the privilege of setting his feet on familiar ground, and we are so thankful to simply be together as a family again.<br />
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Look at Liam's face in that picture. A happy reunion, if there ever was one. Liam and Jonah have seen each other for a grand total of about thirty minutes during the last four weeks. We tried—twice—to get the whole family together at the lake house, but both times our two littlest got sick and couldn't be around Jonah, so tonight was our first family meal since August 19th. It's a joyous occasion, but still bittersweet, since we know that he
has to leave again on Monday. However, we hope to make these six days as sweet
as possible for him—and for all of us.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Bg2O3KFYgo/UFkTU0Q1eOI/AAAAAAAAArc/qBPljyqtpws/s1600/parrotpickup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Bg2O3KFYgo/UFkTU0Q1eOI/AAAAAAAAArc/qBPljyqtpws/s200/parrotpickup.jpg" width="133" /></a>Jayson and his mom and I have been driving back and forth between
home and the hospital and the lake house, sharing the load of caring
for a household divided by distance. This has made our schedule rather
hectic, but it has also allowed each of us to have time with kids in
both places. It's been difficult, but it's been livable. However,
there's nothing that compares to being all together in our own home. So
wonderful. Never underestimate the value of normalcy.<br />
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But then again, never underestimate the value of trials. Sometimes the deepest, richest grace comes wrapped in the most unappealing packages. I have discovered flashes of glory in the most unlikely settings. I was loading groceries into my car after a little shopping trip in Coeur d'Alene last week, and, noticing something moving out of the corner of my eye, looked up to see this bright bird of paradise hopping around inside the weathered cab of a dilapidated yellow pickup truck. Sometimes grace is like that: beautiful, glorious, and surprising—and all the more so because we find it within the ugliest situations.<br />
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These weeks have been a wild and unpredictable ride. I have tried multiple times this week to sit down and document it, but blogging without a proper computer has been more difficult than I thought. I hope to get a laptop soon so that I can keep you updated more easily. Now that I'm home, I'll try to fill you in on what we've been up to these last several days:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tga0p01DfJI/UFkRPhq4ZzI/AAAAAAAAArU/GS1zZVTOxn4/s1600/countyfair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tga0p01DfJI/UFkRPhq4ZzI/AAAAAAAAArU/GS1zZVTOxn4/s200/countyfair.jpg" width="133" /></a>While I was home last week, I was able to do a few fun things with my other boys, including joining Paul's and Asaph's classes at the county fair. But most of my week was spent away from home with Jonah. <br />
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The Friday before last was quite the preposterous series of events. After a long day at the hospital for a clinic appointment, Jonah and I returned to the lake house only to discover that we had locked ourselves out. My keys were on the kitchen counter, and the other set of keys was ninety miles away. Thankfully Jayson and the family were already planning to come up to see us that evening, so they hurried to the van and got there as soon as they could. In the meantime we met a few of our sweet neighbors—including another ten-year-old boy who has been on cancer drugs himself for a kidney disorder—and enjoyed a lovely afternoon by the water, eating grapes and reading aloud while we waited.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nHgusJKvJk8/UFkNv8TfOoI/AAAAAAAAAq8/HmgYMuoNTUk/s1600/boating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nHgusJKvJk8/UFkNv8TfOoI/AAAAAAAAAq8/HmgYMuoNTUk/s320/boating.jpg" width="213" /></a>Once Jayson arrived, we breathed a brief sigh of relief. And then chaos ensued. We were halfway through unloading the van while the big boys ran through the house shouting excitedly to each other as they discovered each new room, when Liam threw up on the hearth, Asaph started coughing, Jayson and I scrambled to quarantine and disinfect, and Grannie M buckled both little boys back into the car and drove them the whole 90 miles back home for the weekend. The remaining boys tore into a huge box of gifts from Jonah's baseball team, I followed them around picking up bits of wrapping paper, and then the spaghetti boiled over. Surprisingly (no doubt because so many people have been praying for us) we all managed to keep our sanity and sense of humor through the whole ridiculous scene. And we were still able to enjoy a beautiful Saturday on the lake the next day with my brother's family and both my parents. My dad rented a boat, and we all—even Jonah—spent several pleasant hours enjoying the water and the warm weather to celebrate my dad's 60th. <span style="color: red;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lSDLsL-i29s/UFkTskGxS2I/AAAAAAAAArk/02T5I-CFqv4/s1600/ERvisit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lSDLsL-i29s/UFkTskGxS2I/AAAAAAAAArk/02T5I-CFqv4/s200/ERvisit.jpg" width="133" /></a>In addition to a few regularly scheduled visits to the hospital, Jonah also managed to visit the Emergency Room. Twice. Last Wednesday morning I took him in after he couldn't stop vomiting, and then on Friday evening, right after Paul and Jude came to stay the weekend, I had to take him back to the ER for severe abdominal pain. That night was particularly rough; I've never seen him in such agony. The pain turned out to be simply the result of a slowed digestive system on account of the drugs he's on, but that didn't make it any less miserable. After a few doses of morphine, an X-ray, and a CT scan to rule out more serious problems, he was admitted, and we spent the rest of night in the hospital—by which I mean, we got to bed at 5:30 in the morning and slept until 9:00. Yaaaawn. But later that day, after a good nap, Jonah was back on his feet and doing this:<br />
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We've had our difficult moments, to be sure, but Jonah has been remarkably brave and has maintained good spirits and steadfast faith during some very challenging times. Please pray that he continues to pass this monumental test. We are thankful to know that Jonah is done with the first phase ("induction") of his 3 1/2-year treatment. Jonah's hair is just now starting to fall out slowly, but today he was able to quit taking his steroid, which means the puffiness in his face should start to subside over the next few weeks. This morning he also had a spinal tap and a bone marrow aspirate. The results of his bone marrow sample will determine how aggressive the next phase of treatment must be, so please pray for the tests to come back negative, with no cancer cells.<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
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Thank you all for praying for us and for providing us with meals, cards, gifts, rides, donations, and encouragement throughout this first difficult month. We know that the grace of God has upheld us and met our many needs, and we know that much of that grace has come through your hands. Thank you. Please rejoice with us in Jonah's homecoming, and please continue to remember us all in your prayers as we move on to the next phases of Jonah's battle with leukemia. We sure do love that boy.Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-70381806969152425852012-09-05T22:18:00.000-07:002012-09-10T21:37:11.371-07:00Out of the hospital!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ToYh_O6uCCI/UE6t0Z0PURI/AAAAAAAAAqI/8uaS4UksiUU/s1600/bestpartofwakingup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ToYh_O6uCCI/UE6t0Z0PURI/AAAAAAAAAqI/8uaS4UksiUU/s320/bestpartofwakingup.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
So, the big news is that Jonah was released from the hospital yesterday evening. His doctor was not terribly concerned about his ANC so long as he stays away from public places and sick people for the time being. He has an appointment with his oncologist on Friday, so we will find out then if he is safe to go out a bit. We are enjoying Jonah's first day out of the hospital at a beautiful home on Lake Couer d'Alene owned by some friends from our church. What a huge blessing this place is. It will be hard to go home after being spoiled like this! The view and the house are both lovely. Jonah was nervous about leaving the reassuring safety of the hospital, but as soon as we arrived here he forgot all about his fears and started excitedly exploring every room.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
Jonah <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">was able to walk down to the dock this morning and dangle his feet in the lake. No swimming for him until his PICC line is replaced by a port at the end of the month, but the fresh air and the proximity to the water have had him smiling. And, as some wise man once said, "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." From where I am sitting I can see the lights of Coeur d'Alene and the resort in the distance, and we are sharing the neighborhood with deer and and red winged blackbirds and blue herons. </span><br />
<br />
Jonah, who loves to spend time in the kitchen, got to help me make some beef stir fry for dinner tonight--another big boost to his spirits. While we are stuck so far from home, he might as well hone his culinary skills, right? By the end of this ordeal, I hope to have a fully fledged sous-chef around the house.<br />
<br />
Next, we will need to bring our piano keyboard up here so that he can start practicing again, and I need to learn a thing or two about being a homeschool mom. In a place like this it will be all too easy to feel like we're on vacation and to forget that this boy has some work to do!<br />
<br />
So far Jonah has felt fine today in spite of yesterday's dose of chemo. This is great news, since I have not had to give him any anti-nausea or pain medications at all since we left the hospital. I am more than happy to eliminate any unnecessary drugs from his medication-saturated body, so I would be grateful for your prayers that this will continue. And please keep praying for his ANC to recover. My dad is turning 60 next week, so, although some of our other kids have had colds, we'd love to be able to have the whole family together to celebrate. We have much to celebrate already.<br />
<br />
Some of you have asked how you can help from a distance. We have had countless immediate needs already met by many of you, so thank you. But if you are looking for addtional info, a friend of ours has created a web site for us that should have all the pertinent news about Jonah and links to additional ways to help: <a href="http://www.helpjonah.com/">www.helpjonah.com</a>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">We are grateful for all your ongoing prayers and support. </span>Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-58526127118466399732012-09-04T10:55:00.000-07:002012-09-04T10:55:33.428-07:00Jonah, 9/4/12I am sitting here by the window at Sacred Heart Children's Hospital wondering what today will bring. Last week Jonah's oncologist said she expected him to be released from the hospital on Tuesday. That would be today, for those of you who are keeping track. But so far it looks like Jonah's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absolute_neutrophil_count" target="_blank">ANC</a> is still too low (55. Normal is around 2-3000.) for him to leave the safe and sanitary environment of the hospital without serious risk of infection. The slower his ANC is to recover after a dose of chemo, the more time he will have to spend away from home, so please continue to pray that his numbers will climb back quickly each time.<br />
<br />
Two of Jonah's good friends came to visit this weekend which boosted his spirits and helped the time pass much more pleasantly. He really misses being at school and church and seeing his friends regularly, so these short visits are a very welcome change to the hospital routine.<br />
<br />
Jonah has been feeling fairly good, but he is now starting to get some mouth sores, a common side effect of the chemo drugs. They are designed to kill fast growing cells, which includes cancer cells but also includes the cells of the mouth/GI lining and hair follicles, so mouth sores and hair loss are almost inevitable. No hair has fallen out yet, but we expect it to happen sometime this week or next. And the steroids he is on are also making him look a little puffy in the face--also a common side effect.<br />
<br />
Just to make life a little more exciting, I woke up yesterday with abdominal pain that was so severe I thought it might be appendicitis. But thankfully that gradually subsided, although it took all day. I suspect that it had a lot to do with stress and my less than optimal eating habits lately. Anyway, thanks to those of you who were praying for that. I would hate to put the rest of my family through having two of us in the hospital right now--although it would no doubt make for some funny stories to tell later. (My grandma had her appendix out at the same time that she was supposed to be taking care of things at home while her mom was in the hospital, so they both ended up in recovery together. Crazy times. It's an anecdote that makes us laugh when she tells it now.)<br />
<br />
We would, in fact, love to have <i>none</i> of us in the hospital soon. Jonah has always enjoyed being outdoors, and the closest he can get right now is a third floor hospital balcony overlooking the city. The view is fun, but it isn't <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">the same as having his feet in the grass. So please keep praying for his immune system to bounce back rapidly so that he can leave sometime in the next couple days. He will have to be back here again every so often, but we would love to maximize his time away from the pediatric oncology ward. I will keep you all updated when we find out when Jonah can be released. Thanks for praying.</span>Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-58083662068362956692012-09-01T20:29:00.002-07:002012-09-01T22:30:03.577-07:00The latest on Jonah, 9/1/12September? Wow. August 20 seems like an age ago. Did finding missing socks and paying library late fees ever seem remotely important to me? Two weeks ago would I have believed that I would now know how to flush a PICC line with saline and would have words like "<span class="st"><span class="f"></span>Daunorubicin" and "lymphoblastic" rolling off the tip of my tongue</span>? I cannot imagine living through such a sudden and spectacular transformation without knowing that we are upheld by the God who does not change. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbVznrIUk7k/UEKqYEytHHI/AAAAAAAAAps/5eFLhKNYVwI/s1600/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbVznrIUk7k/UEKqYEytHHI/AAAAAAAAAps/5eFLhKNYVwI/s320/pizza.jpg" width="320" /></a>After he endured a very long week full of nausea and weakness, Jonah's doctor adjusted some of his medications, and he seems to have finally turned a corner. His appetite, thanks to the steroids he's been on, is now back with a vengeance. He wakes up in the night wanting a snack, and he called me on Friday asking me to bring him some popcorn, two homemade two-egg omelets (because the hospital ones taste like damp dish sponges), and a bag of Buffalo Bleu Kettle Chips, all of which he ate in short order. Since then he's managed to consume remarkable amounts of food—strawberries, peaches, yogurt, bacon, sausage, pepperoni pizza, cheeseburgers, chicken couscous, root beer, cranberry juice, and so on. After he lost several pounds, we are thankful that he's eating again and keeping it all down. And at this rate he looks like he's going to gain that weight back sooner than later.<br />
<br />
Jonah is also the most cheery and talkative we have seen him in weeks. This weekend of seeing him acting more like himself again has been an emotional boost for all of us. We know he will continue to have ups and downs over the course of his treatment, but it is such a joy to have Jonah up and about, smiling, cracking jokes, and with some pink color back in his cheeks after a month of looking pale and tired all the time. <br />
<br />
We were able to meet with Jonah's oncologist yesterday, and, as long as he continues on his present course, she is planning to release Jonah from the hospital as early as next week. His blood count is near its nadir, meaning that his immune system is at rock bottom, leaving him at high risk for infections, but as long as his numbers start to come back up as anticipated and he stays free of infection, they would allow him to leave the hospital on Tuesday. This does <i>not</i> mean that he can come home yet; we live too far away for that, but it would still be a welcome change. Thank you for your continued prayers to that end.<br />
<br />
We also learned that Jonah will probably be allowed to come all the way home (and sleep in his own bunk bed!) for short intervals much sooner than we thought. This is also a huge relief, since earlier this week another oncologist told us she thought he might not be able to come home at all for six to nine months. That is still a possibility if his blood count is slow to recover after each dose of chemo. But over the next nine months Jonah will very likely be able to come home for varying periods of time in between his stays in the Spokane area. He may even be able to join his class at school for part of that time. So please pray for his body to recover quickly from his treatments and that he (and the rest of us) will remain infection-free so that we can be together in Moscow as much as possible. We would all—obviously—love to have Jonah home again. <br />
<br />
In the meantime, we have found a place to stay, at least for the next couple of months before snow comes, that is within the one-hour allowable driving distance from the hospital. Some church friends have offered the use of their vacation home on Lake Coeur d'Alene, and who could say no to that? This is a huge blessing which is going to make the prospect of living away from home much sweeter for Jonah. The boys may even get to enjoy some autumn fishing together before the weather turns. <br />
<br />
We continue to be humbled and astonished by the kindness and love shown us by our Christian brothers and sisters both here and around the world. Hopkins was right: "Christ plays in ten thousand places, / Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the Father through the features of men's faces." Every time we turn around, Christ is there, and He is unspeakably lovely. Every hot meal, every generous gift, every kind note, every offer of help, every hug, every prayer on our behalf has been Christ to us during these long two weeks. And we are grateful.<br />
<br />
<u>UPDATE:</u> Just in the time since I sat down to write this, Jonah's nausea already started to return, and his temperature is now slightly elevated. Please pray that the nausea and fever would subside quickly and that he would still be able to leave on Tuesday.<br />
<br />
This gives you some idea of how each day goes for Jonah right now. By the time I start to write one update, the situation changes so that my "update" is already out of date before I hit "publish". We are certainly being kept on our toes, so thank you for praying, even when we don't know what to ask for from moment to moment. God knows our needs even before we do.Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-58725282930464442852012-08-28T19:42:00.000-07:002012-08-28T20:42:31.084-07:00Quick update: 8/28/12Jonah's procedure went well this morning, so thank you again for your prayers. He was able to eat a little for lunch, but couldn't keep it down, so please pray for the nausea to subside from this recent dose of chemo. He had a good nap and is eating a little right now--and watching the Mariners play the Twins. (He's probably going to go through TV withdrawals when he comes home!)<br />
<br />
Folks from Christ Church Spokane have been caring for us here at the hospital and have been bringing us some lovely meals. It's been a blessing to see friendly and familiar faces here--and the home cooked food is a dramatic improvement over the hospital cafeteria fare.<br />
<br />
Jayson's brother, Brandon, flew home today, and we are extremely thankful for his willingness to be here; it was just what we all needed. Jonah's words: "I have the two best uncles in the world." Yes, buddy, you do.<br />
<br />
Jayson's mom is currently home with the rest of our boys. What would we do without Grannie M?What a saint she is.<br />
<br />
Thanks to all of you who are making these days livable for all of us. I have had the hymn "Great is Thy Faithfulness" playing on repeat in my head all day: "All I have needed thy hand hath provided." True words. Never have all those psalms and hymns we've memorized over the years been more precious to me than they have been this week. Even when I've been too weary to form words of my own to pray, those verses are there when I have needed them most.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="22" cellspacing="0" class="mainbk" style="background-color: #b9e3ff; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr valign="top"><td class="bluebk3" style="background-color: #f9fdff; background-image: url(http://bible.cc/lline.gif); background-repeat: no-repeat repeat;" width="98%"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%px;"><tbody>
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</span>Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-50391597190948606882012-08-27T20:56:00.000-07:002012-08-27T20:56:00.800-07:00More news on Jonah: 8/27/12<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oJIqdFiifCY/UDwTCZRHNPI/AAAAAAAAApY/O1bv6V1G5LM/s1600/photo2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oJIqdFiifCY/UDwTCZRHNPI/AAAAAAAAApY/O1bv6V1G5LM/s320/photo2.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Today was the first day of school for Jude and Paul, so Jayson and I were grateful for the opportunity to be home for the big day. Asaph will start pre-school tomorrow, so we plan to be here for his first morning as well, but we will head back to Spokane to spend Tuesday with Jonah at the hospital, as it is likely to be a rough day for him. <br />
<br />
Jonah's fever subsided on Saturday afternoon, and he seemed to have improved on Sunday and was able to eat a little and to rest. He continued to be tired and dizzy throughout the day, however. Jayson's mom and brother went to stay with him last night so that we could come home. This morning Jonah was able to get out of bed and walk around for the first time in three days, but after a short stroll around the floor he was exhausted, and his nausea and vomiting returned for a while this afternoon. <br />
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Tomorrow around noon, Jonah is scheduled for another round of chemo and another lumbar puncture and spinal tap requiring him to go under anesthesia. We are also likely to find out the results of his bone marrow analysis tomorrow or Wednesday. <br />
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In addition, we are in the process of registering a second car (an extraordinary gift from our church family) so that we will have transportation both here and in Spokane. We will also be getting another cell phone soon—another thing we had never really needed living in our little town. We are also still hoping to find a housing arrangement for the next few months that will allow Jonah to live near the hospital and where the whole family can be together on weekends.<br />
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Thank you again for everything you have blessed us with—the meals, the rides, the housework, the cards, the gifts, and everything else that has helped carry us through this most difficult week of our lives. And thank you, always and especially, for your prayers. <br />
<br />
Here are the specific prayer requests we have right now; please pray for<br />
<ul>
<li>Skill and wisdom for the doctors and nurses entrusted with Jonah's care.</li>
<li>Relief from Jonah's nausea, discomfort, and fatigue.</li>
<li>Quick and thorough effectiveness from the chemo and other treatments.</li>
<li>Favorable results from his bone marrow sample and other tests.</li>
<li>Jonah to be spared from any infections or complications.</li>
<li>Good health for the rest of our family, especially while Jonah's immune system is wiped out.</li>
<li>Safe travels as we go back and forth between home and Spokane.</li>
<li>Patience, peace, and joy throughout this trial.</li>
<li>A place to stay in Spokane that would meet the various needs of our family over the next few months.</li>
<li>Wisdom for the numerous decisions we must make. </li>
<li>Complete healing so that Jonah has a long, fruitful, and healthy life. </li>
<li>Jonah's faith to remain steadfast. </li>
</ul>
And, just for fun, here's a video of Jonah at age four, pretending to be Pastor Dale (our pastor in Texas), complete with "robe". A few days before Jonah's diagnosis, we watched this together and had a good laugh. Watching it again today made me smile.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxVkt_YWW8yiwmOH7F4ApDQDjYEFTPbw9Zah86-StM7afO_lnhTUM_D2T9ZMQ3rLn75EtopMkrWY4PM-4AL8Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span id="goog_936357945"></span><span id="goog_936357946"></span><br />Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-42140371419882721122012-08-25T13:48:00.000-07:002012-08-25T13:49:02.693-07:00Update on Jonah: August 25, 2012Thank you all again for praying for Jonah and for providing us with so much help in our hour of need. Jonah had his second dose of chemo yesterday and his nausea has been pretty severe since last night<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">. This morning he spiked a fever as well and has not been able to bring himself to eat today. He is sleeping right now, so please pray that he will wake up feeling better and regain his appetite. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Jayson and I are both staying with him in Spokane together for the first time which has been good for us, but watching Jonah suffer is tough. And knowing how fragile is life is right now is the hardest thought of all. We will probably be riding this emotional roller coaster for a long time, so please pray for continued peace for the whole family. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">We could also use prayer for good sleep, good appetites, and good health for all of us. If any of us gets sick, we need to stay clear of Jonah on account of his weak immune system.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Jonah's prognosis seems fairly good so far, but even in the best scenario, the treatment will not be easy for him or for us. We are still awaiting the results of Jonah's bone marrow analysis, so please pray for a favorable outcome to that, since that could change things substantially. And throughout the weeks, months, and years ahead, we of course ask for you to join us in praying that God would spare him from severe side effects of his treatment, but especially that God would spare Jonah's life and cure him completely. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Gratefully, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Hannah</span>Hannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706240380870682600.post-20005964696064509252012-08-22T15:54:00.000-07:002012-08-22T16:56:38.512-07:00Update on JonahTo all our friends and family,<br />
<br />
Thank you again for your overwhelming demonstration of love and support since we found out on Monday night that Jonah has High Risk (because he is older than 9) B-Cell A.L.L (Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia). I know many of you have been waiting for an update on Jonah, so I'll start with that. <br />
<br />
Jonah's first night in the hospital was rough—lots of needles and tests and interrupted sleep. But yesterday morning, Jonah was able to watch a little baseball and visit with Uncle Ethan (my brother) who has a great gift for keeping Jonah laughing. In the afternoon, my dad and I got to spend several hours at the hospital, and Jude (our 8-year-old) was able to come with us. This was a good opportunity set Jude's mind at ease and allow him to see what Jonah's going to be doing for the next several weeks. Jude decided to stay the night in the hospital last night. He'd much rather be there sleeping in a recliner next to Jonah than sleeping in his bunk bed all alone. <br />
<br />
Yesterday was a difficult day for Jonah in some respects, however. Jonah had to be sedated to have a PICC line inserted (like an IV but it delivers medication much deeper in the body and will stay in for this whole first month). While he was under he also had a spinal tap and a bone marrow sample taken. He also has received blood at least twice now, and it's amazing how his color has improved as a result. (Donate blood!)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EWo27Xjehpc/UDVh3V0f42I/AAAAAAAAApI/ocpIOQQElBE/s1600/jonah1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EWo27Xjehpc/UDVh3V0f42I/AAAAAAAAApI/ocpIOQQElBE/s1600/jonah1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonah's second day in the hospital</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Jonah had a lot of pain at the insertion site of the PICC line at first, but that has subsided. Removing the IV was also near the list of his least favorite experiences, but he was relaxed and smiling again by the time I went home. He had an EKG done just before we left, and he was very relieved that it didn't involve any needles. Jonah also received his first of many doses of chemo. Because Jonah's spinal fluid was clear of any cancer cells, he is not likely to need radiation in addition to the chemo. That in itself is an answer to prayer.<br />
<br />
We have had to absorb a lot of information during these last two days, so we're in for a steep learning curve, but we're also grateful for the highly trained staff that have been ready to answer our questions. There are four pediatric oncologists just at this one hospital, and we are thankful for their expertise in this one field of medicine. Jonah is in good hands—both human and divine.<br />
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The first four weeks of Jonah's treatment will be the most intense, and he will need to stay in the hospital throughout the first month, during which time he is likely to go through some of the worst side-effects of the chemo. Because Spokane is more than an hour away from our home, Jonah will not be allowed to return home for at least another 8 weeks after that. Then, if everything goes according to plan, he will continue to receive treatment periodically for the next 3 years. In between treatments, Jonah should be able to return to most of his normal activities, including sports (which is a huge deal for him). <br />
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Jonah, Jayson, and Jude were all able to rest soundly last night, and we're thankful that Jonah has had a bit of a break today from being a human pincushion. One particular highlight of the day was a visit from a good friend from our church in Dallas. Luis Ortiz has been a profession baseball player (formerly with the Rangers) and is now a batting coach. He happened to be in Spokane this week for an annual scouting visit with the Spokane Indians (one of the Rangers' farm teams), so he was able to come to the hospital this morning and talk baseball with Jonah—probably Jonah's favorite topic of conversation in the world lately. Luis told Jonah that when he comes back next year he'd love to take Jonah to a game and bring him to batting practice with the team. Talk about something to look forward to! Jonah is also looking forward to a little visit from his friend Rory today, and Jayson's mom and brother will be flying from Phoenix tonight. Jayson's mom is planning to stay for as long as we need her, which will be a tremendous blessing for all of us.<br />
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I have cried more than I can remember during these last two days. But half the time the tears have come when I see how well God has cared for our family and how many people love us with the love of Christ and are ready to sacrifice their time and resources on our behalf. I have also seen God's provision in ways we could never have foreseen. <br />
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My brother's family just moved back to town a few weeks ago, and because he was here, my brother was able to drop everything and take Jayson and Jonah to Spokane as soon as we got the news. He is also staying with Jonah tonight to allow Jayson and me to give some time to our other boys. <br />
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My dad was also scheduled to fly to Canada the night of Jonah's diagnosis, so he had already taken the week off of work and was able to cancel his travel plans to stay here for us. Jayson could not work for a better college during a time like this; his colleagues have already lined up to take over teaching classes for him and help cover his other work responsibilities while he's away. <br />
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One of Jaysons' colleagues who is an elder at our church has a daughter who had childhood cancer, and she was already scheduled for her annual routine scan today at the same hospital where Jonah is. Because of this, they were able to come and visit Jonah and Jayson and offer helpful advice and encouragement—and bring a heap of cards for Jonah.<br />
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And one of my oldest and dearest friends, Annie, has taken charge of organizing all kinds of help for us and was here just this morning to bring groceries and clean. <br />
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These unexpected blessings seem to be raining down on us in ways we could never have anticipated. Our church family has surrounded us with more help than I can possibly list here. We have people ready to take care of carpooling, garden watering, meals, cleaning, grocery shopping, and much more. I opened the mailbox this morning to find an envelope containing an anonymous gift of several hundred dollars. Another friend who owns a local coffee shop (Thank you, Bucer's!) e-mailed me to let me know that an extremely generous account was set up there in our name so that we can grab lunch or lattes on busy days. We have other friends who live in Spokane and have offered to help—one of whom is letting Jayson borrow a car today so that he can get home to have dinner with us tonight. <br />
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We are grateful for so many things, but we are especially grateful for your prayers. They do not fall on deaf ears. In addition to Jonah's healing, our most immediate need for prayer is for the planning stages of this situation. Jonah will need to keep up with his schooling as much as possible, so we have details to sort out on that front. We are also going to try to keep life as normal as we can for the other four boys, so that they can continue at school and maintain their own friendships there. At the same time, we need to figure out a place to stay in Spokane for the next three months and decide how, where, and when we might be able to continue to function as a family during Jonah's time in the hospital. We don't yet know how to divide our time and our family for three months between two cities that are 90 miles apart. We will be spending more time in the car during these months than we've ever spent before, so we also need to find worthwhile ways to spend that commute time.<br />
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Thank you for your love, your kind words, your generosity, and your prayers. God bless you all. <i>He is our rock, our fortress and our deliverer; our God is a rock, in whom we take refuge, our shield and the horn of our salvation. He is our stronghold, our refuge and our savior.</i><br />
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HannahHannah Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17563744029043032827noreply@blogger.com19