What Matters Most
musings on the mundane and magnificent from a Christian perspective
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Joy Harris
“Do you have kids?”
It’s a simple enough question, one asked occasionally and innocuously. But my answer is not so simple.
The answer is yes and no.
Yes, I became a parent the day I got married, but no, I’m not a mom. I wasn’t able to have kids of my own because I didn’t get married until I was nearly 35 – the critical number that marks a decline in fertility – and once married, I was diagnosed with cancer. And my husband didn’t want adoption.
So, my response when asked this question is to smile and nod and give the most straightforward answer I can: “I have a teenage stepson.”
But that’s the end of that sentence. I don’t elaborate by listing other kids. No other names are mentioned. My answer is short and to the painful point. But the obvious omission is there.
I always feel bad for the other person. In these conversations, I’m always more focused on their feelings than on mine. I don’t want them to feel bad about what they had no way of knowing. I don’t want them to feel like they’re pouring lemon juice on the wound of infertility.
And I always feel an explanation is warranted, but I never know how much to share. They were just making conversation, not asking for my life story! But I can just see the wheels turning, the unspoken question in their eyes when my answer ends abruptly at one. And I want to preempt the dreaded “well, there’s still time,” a wholly inaccurate assessment in my case. Even though people tend to think I’m a good ten years younger than I am, my biological clock knows the truth: there is not still time.
The motherhood ship has sailed, and I’m not on board. I’m on the shore watching it from a distance as it gets farther and farther away.
I watch happy mothers all around me without being one myself. I listen to the constant stories of, “When I was pregnant with…” without being able to contribute my own. And sometimes I can’t help but feel like the odd one out, like I did recently when I volunteered with my church’s Vacation Bible School.
It seemed like a good idea. We just joined this church, and I wanted to get to know people. They needed help, and I had the time.
So, I decided to take a chance even though this was the exact situation I have carefully avoided for the past few years. Once I realized motherhood was not going to happen for me, I took a break from volunteering in nursery and Children’s Church, a place I’ve served for years. And I’ve quietly opted out of going to church on Mother’s Day.
This was my first time doing something like this after taking time to grieve and to heal. This was my first time rubbing up against motherhood so closely.
And it was… okay. The sight of the mom with the infant strapped to her chest didn’t send me to the bathroom in tears, like it would have a few years ago. The sight of a mom wheeling in her stroller dropping off her toddler didn’t make me wince.
Instead, I just handled it. I was able to do it, and I got through the week in one piece.
What was challenging were the conversations with the other volunteers, all of whom were moms. Being asked if I have kids and not being able to answer as I would have liked. Being in a room full of moms and not being one myself. Feeling a spotlight on my situation, feeling like I must stick out like a sore thumb.
But somehow I managed. I prayed and processed it in the car driving home, and I showed up the next day. I got through those conversations, and I got through the week. Overall, I was glad I signed up, and I enjoyed talking with the other volunteers. They were all great! But the week was not without its moments.
This showed me two things:
- I’ve come a long way in the process of healing. Having a toddler sit in my lap didn’t make me ache for the toddler I never had. Things that used to be triggers for me are no longer an issue. I can handle them now.
- Infertility’s effects are long reaching. I shouldn’t be surprised if it hits me differently in different seasons, if new triggers arise. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not processing it well or that I’m not as far along as I should be. It just means that the situation is hard. It just means I’m human.
“Do you have kids?”
In my answer, the words not spoken speak volumes. They speak of a fierce, lifelong desire for children, a desire that did not come to fruition as I had hoped. They speak of a miscarriage, of fertility expired. They speak of pain. But they also speak of healing. They speak of the faithfulness of the God who comforts me, provides for me, loves me. The words not spoken are as much a part of my story as the ones that are.
I will continue to be asked this question, and I will get better at it. And the next time I’m surrounded by moms, I will be ready. I will be okay. I can watch motherhood as a supportive spectator and not an active participant. I can cheer my new friends on, and during next summer’s VBS, I can watch their kids again.
I will be okay. Because healing happens. It may be slow and incremental, it may be messy – but it does happen.
I’m living proof.
My cancer story has finally, thankfully come to an end, for the most part. It’s not something I think about or deal with day to day. My morning pill is a rote ritual, as mechanical as breathing or brushing my teeth. My yearly check-up with my endocrinologist at Mayo is something that is built into my calendar; it falls in the summer, so we plan vacation around it. It’s just something that happens every year, and then we move on.
And the visit is the same every year, a routine that feels familiar and easy: bloodwork in the morning, followed by an ultrasound of my neck, then lunch at one of our favorite restaurants near the hospital, then a meeting with the doctor in the afternoon.
We make a trip out of it. I have family in town we look forward to seeing when we go. We may plan a trip to the beach or a fun dinner out. We may get some good time in at the pool. Or we may laze around doing not much at all but enjoying being together. My annual Mayo visit doesn’t feel like a chore; it feels like the precursor to a mini vacation.
Which is a good thing! I’ll be having these annual check-ups for most of my life, I understand. My endocrinologist explained to me that this type of cancer, mild as it may be, requires a lengthy follow-up. So, these visits will continue indefinitely. Thankfully, we don’t live too far, and thankfully, the care at Mayo is worth the drive.
In the beginning, we were making that drive every three months. After I had surgery there and things started to settle down, it was every six months. When I graduated to once a year, I thought I had conquered Mount Everest. It felt like a huge accomplishment!
And that’s where we’ve been for the past few years – making our yearly trip to Mayo, not concerned about what may happen, just taking it in stride. And for the past few years, my ultrasounds have been clean and my bloodwork stable. I remain cancer-free.
But I don’t remain unchanged. I don’t think it’s possible to go through cancer and not learn something, feel something, or change something.
My takeaways:
There’s something so poignant about the first sounds of birdsong in spring. Their clear notes are almost piercing at first, louder after a long absence. It makes you realize that you’ve missed the sweet sound, that the passing winter was silent, void of the music now filling the air.
I wonder if Mary Magdalene’s Easter morning walk to the garden was accompanied by birdsong. Did nature sense something big was happening?
I love imaging this scene in John 20 and picturing myself in Mary’s shoes. What was that morning like? How far did she have to walk? Was it light by the time she got to the garden? What did she see – her 360-degree view of the scene that changed everything?
I like to imagine that she heard birdsong as she entered the garden. Maybe the smell of wet earth rose to meet her. Maybe the morning mist was starting to clear as she neared the tomb.
I don’t know the specifics of that Easter morning, but I do know Jesus cast seven demons out of her (Mark 16:9 and Luke 8:2). I know He was her only hope. If He didn’t rise from the dead, then there would be nothing to keep her from going back to her old life, no power to maintain her freedom. So, she would not leave Jesus. She could not. He was her only hope – and while that hope may have been dwindling in His followers, it was not extinguished.
With an ember of hope flickering in her eyes and undying love in her heart, she went to the tomb, to the last place she had seen Him. She went to minister to Him one last time. She could not bear to be separated from Him, even from His dead body. She had to see it through to the end. Her devotion demanded it.
And devotion she had in spades. Let’s continue our deep dive into John 20 and consider the ways in which Mary’s devotion to Jesus was expressed.
Spring has sprung, and as Easter approaches, my thoughts turn toward the very first Easter morning so many years ago. It’s a moment I think about often, a moment I can’t wait to ask about when I get to Heaven.
Because this is the moment that makes us, the moment that defines our faith as Christians.
My favorite account of this is in John 20, which is my probably my favorite passage in all of Scripture. The context of this passage is this:
- Jesus was crucified, and he is now dead. Physical death was verified by more than one witness.
- His body was placed in a new tomb close to the crucifixion site.
- Mary Magdalene, one of the followers of Jesus, witnessed the crucifixion and witnessed His body being placed in the tomb.
- After seeing this, she went home to prepare spices. The next day was the Jewish Sabbath day, so she rested in observance of this.
- The day after the Sabbath, while it was still dark, the first moment she could, she grabbed her spices and headed to the tomb. She was planning to anoint Jesus’ body with her spices according to Jewish burial customs, but, thankfully, her plans didn’t go the way she thought.
I love tracing Jesus’s steps in all four gospels, and I love encountering Jesus along with Mary. I’m next to her at the foot of the cross. I go home with her and prepare spices to anoint his body. I walk with her into the garden in the cool of the morning.
And I picture this moment as it unfolds, the moment all the Gospels have been leading up to, the moment all of history hangs on, the crucial, indisputable moment around which everything else revolves – Jesus alive and offering Himself to us in intimate relationship. This is the very crux of Christianity, and it’s worth exploring.
The essence of the Christian faith is not simply being a good person, doing good deeds, filling a seat in church week in and week out, or even believing that God exists. Even demons believe that (James 2:19). The essence of Christianity is knowledge of God – not just knowing about Him but knowing Him. John 17:3 tells us the definition of eternal life is knowing God.
The essence of Christianity is God calling us by name, just like He did with Mary (John 20:16), and us responding to Him. The first step in this is accepting the sacrifice Jesus made on the cross for us, and responding in full surrender of ourselves. And then it’s living out that knowledge every day of our lives in service to God and others. It’s the defining relationship of our life.
This is not about sentiment, and it’s not merely an intellectual exercise. It’s not about an experience. It’s about the substance and reality of the risen Lord – the one who still calls us to Himself.
This is why John 20 and the similar accounts in the other Gospels are so important. It’s why I love imagining that moment. And I love seeing it from Mary’s perspective.
Can you imagine what she must have felt the night He died? As a close follower of Jesus, she must have felt wholly overwhelmed and dismayed. There must have been such shock and grief. But there was also love – love for the Lord, remembrance of all He had done in His time on earth, gratitude for His salvation and deliverance. And I think Mary poured all that love and remembrance into her spices – a beautiful gift for the Lord. I can just see her at work, pouring her spice mixture into jars, with tears in her eyes but resolve in her heart.
So, come what may, she was not leaving that tomb until she had anointed His body. She was going to pour out her love and devotion on to Him one last time.
But thankfully, her spices weren’t needed. The tomb – borrowed for a few days – was no longer needed. There was no longer a dead body, no longer a reason for her to despair.
There was only life.
And the moment Mary encountered Jesus alive is a moment available to us all. I don’t know the specifics of that first Easter morning, but I know the life and love that are only found in Jesus. They are there for the taking. The reality Mary experienced in that precious moment is a reality we can experience every day. We can encounter Jesus in the best, most intimate relationship we’ll ever know. We can encounter Jesus alive and be made alive ourselves – alive in our very souls, alive always.
And that is a reason to celebrate – every day.
I may be the only person in the world who loves hospitals. I just like the mix of people – all walks of life congregating in a place devoted to wellness, to making us better. It’s where professionalism meets compassion. I thoroughly enjoyed all the volunteer work I’ve done in hospitals, so maybe that’s one reason why I feel at home here. Or maybe it’s because hospitals are where I’ve come to spend so much time.
So. Much. Time.
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After weeks of diagnostic procedures culminating in a diagnosis of metastatic papillary thyroid cancer, my attention turned to treatment. The first step: goodbye, thyroid!
In August 2013, I underwent a six-hour surgery to remove my entire thyroid and several lymph nodes. Of the 31 lymph nodes removed and sent to pathology, 21 tested positive for cancer.
Surgery was later followed by radiation. The radiation used to treat thyroid cancer is in the form of a pill, a huge horse pill that is brought to you in a metal canister and administered in a very specific way. You can’t touch the pill, and the technician can’t touch it. The whole thing was like something out a science fiction movie. I half expected smoke to seep out of the canister when it was opened.
Treatment Plan: Netflix
After the patient swallows the pill, they give off radiation. So, when my science experiment was over, I was given very specific instructions on what to do next: go straight home and begin my quarantine. Yes, I was quarantining even before the pandemic hit!
My quarantine was three days holed up in our guest room with books, magazines, and Netflix. I had a stash of food and a dedicated bathroom. My stepson was at his mom’s, and my husband knew he was on his own. It was only for three days, and we knew about it ahead of time, so we were able to prepare. And for an introvert like me, it was kind of nice!
After the first three days were up, I still had strict guidelines to follow. For the first seven days from ingesting the pill, I had to sleep alone. I had to maintain a distance of three feet from children and pregnant women. I had to avoid situations where I was close to people for more than five minutes, such as movie theaters and most everything else in life. So… staycation continued!
Better Than a Horse Pill
After radiation and quarantine, I went back to the hospital for a full body scan. After this, I was cleared to start the next step in my treatment: medication. Every day since that day in 2013, and every day for the rest of my life, I start my morning with a pill – Synthroid. This replaces the hormones that my thyroid produced.
I once had a pharmacist tell me that there are over 200 different doses of this medication. 200! Since getting the right dose is critical, bloodwork is a staple for thyroid patients. Through simple lab tests about every three months, our hormone levels can be monitored, and our medication adjusted as needed. I have been on about five different doses over the years, but my current dose seems to be my sweet spot since I’ve been on it the longest. I now only have to get bloodwork done once a year.
Fast forward about six months from the last scan. I’m going to work, I’m taking care of my family, I’m taking care of me. I’m taking my pill faithfully every day. And I’m cancer-free, or so I thought. I started experiencing some swelling and tenderness in my neck, so I went back to the doctor.
In May 2014, I had a CT scan which showed enlarged lymph nodes on the right side of my neck. I remember that follow-up appointment well. I remember asking the doctor what enlarged lymph nodes meant. “Does this mean the cancer is back?” I asked. I still remember the sinking feeling when he answered yes.
Here We Go Again
For me, that was harder than hearing it the first time, way harder. When this all started, I knew my sister had been successfully treated for the same cancer, and I knew, in the world of cancer, it was fairly mild. So, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and went through the initial surgery, radiation, and medication – all with a view to beat this. But now, here I was having to go through it all again.
We had not beaten it.
That summer, I went through radiation again – therapeutic I-131 radioiodine at a dose of 154 mCi. Another horse pill, another quarantine. In the fall, I was referred to the Cancer Center at my hospital. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking into the Cancer Center for the first time – as a patient. It was sad, overwhelming, and exhausting all at the same time. I was so ready to be done with it all, but at that point, the end was nowhere in sight.
The result of my appointment with the oncologist was a PET/CT scan, which showed “intense activity consistent with metastatic thyroid cancer.” Something about seeing it in black and white just broke my heart. If thyroid cancer is the “easy cancer” then why was I still dealing with it? When would my cancer story come to an end?
The Next Step
At that time, we were preparing to relocate for my husband to start a new job. Since we would be having to change doctors anyway, and since we would be closer to my hometown of Jacksonville, Florida, we switched my care to Mayo Clinic, where I have been seen ever since.
In October 2014, we met with an oncologist and an endocrinologist there. My endocrinologist, who is my main doctor, is a past president of the American Thyroid Association. His resume is as lengthy as it is impressive. We felt relieved to be in such good hands since we wanted to tackle this aggressively.
A few more months, a few more ultrasounds, a CT scan, and a biopsy by fine needle aspiration all led to a second surgery. In February 2015, I had a subsequent neck dissection to remove more lymph nodes. (I don’t have any more thyroid tissue left to take out!) The second surgeon cut along the incision from the first surgery, using my long scar as a guide. Of the 25 lymph nodes that were removed, this time only five were cancerous.
The next few years unfolded in a pattern of Mayo visits. I had ultrasounds to check for enlarged lymph nodes. I had bloodwork done regularly both there and at my local lab. My Synthroid dose was adjusted as needed. I had another fine needle aspiration biopsy. And I waited. I waited for the all-clear, the words I wanted so long to hear – cancer-free.
It’s been said that ignorance is bliss. This has certainly proved true in my life, and the evidence is staring back at me in old photographs of myself. Below my smile, beneath my then unlined neck, cancer was lurking – a tumor concealed, undetected, yet steadily growing. What I was ignorant of would later come crashing into reality at the most inopportune time.
Almost everyone has a cancer story or knows someone who has a cancer story.
This is mine.
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In January 2013, I was a bride of all of six months. I was 35 years old and adjusting to a new home in a new city, a new job, a new last name, and new roles as a wife and stepmom. Or rather, trying to adjust. To say I was overwhelmed was an understatement. Even little things were exhausting, like dealing with an extremely stubborn cold. The common cold is, well, common, but the cold I had that winter was uncommonly persistent. It left me with swollen lymph nodes and a desire never to get sick again.
Fast forward a few months. My lymph nodes were still swollen. I thought that was strange but wrote it off as prolonged effects of the cold.
A Lingering Lump
Fast forward a few more months. I had a routine doctor’s appointment with my gynecologist, and I told her my husband and I were ready to try for a baby. We discussed this at length, and as she was preparing to leave the room, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned the lingering lump on my neck. She looked at it, felt it, and told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t even think about getting pregnant until we got it looked at. I can still hear the gravity in her voice.
What followed next is a blur. I had so many doctor’s appointments and procedures that I had to start a binder to keep it all straight. Bloodwork, CT scans, ultrasounds, follow ups with the doctor – it was a rapid succession of diagnostic procedures and information. The hospital became my home away from home that summer. I knew the floor plan by heart! I was on a first-name basis with my nurse in my doctor’s office. It was a lot, and it all led to the stunning revelation of what had been there all along but what I had been blissfully ignorant of.
Cancer Concealed
In July 2013, within just days of my one-year wedding anniversary, I was diagnosed with metastatic papillary thyroid cancer. I was stage T3 N1 B since the cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes. What I had so carelessly disregarded as swollen lymph nodes from a cold was actually a tumor sitting on top of my thyroid gland, a slow-growing tumor that had been steadily increasing over the years. While I was going to work every day, when I met my husband and stepson, even on our wedding day, cancer was there – we just didn’t know it yet.
My husband was the one who broke it to me. The final diagnostic procedure was an outpatient surgical biopsy, and I remember it like it was yesterday. For weeks, I thought everything was much ado about nothing, that there would surely be some easy explanation for whatever was in my neck. I felt fine! I had no other symptoms. And quite frankly, I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. I just wanted it all to be over, and I wanted to enjoy what was left of the summer. It took lying on a hospital bed and being prepped for surgery to finally get my attention, to acknowledge that maybe there could be something to this after all.
Eventually, I was wheeled away – to my first surgery ever, but not the last. The surgeon cut a small incision in my neck and removed a lymph node that was sent to pathology for testing. When I awoke in the recovery room, my husband told me the result: cancer.
A Jarring Revelation
I was shocked. I bolted up right away; the anesthesia had already worn off because the surgery was so short. With my mouth agape, I struggled to take in what he was telling me. Surely it would have been something else, something minor – anything but this. This is what happens to other people, never what you expect to have to deal with yourself.
I had the same reaction earlier that year when my sister called to tell me she had cancer, the same cancer I was now diagnosed with. I remember being so utterly shocked when she told me her news, so completely blind-sided. It was a lot to digest, and now here I was having to digest it all over again. What are the chances we would both be diagnosed with the exact same cancer within a few months of each other?
But we were. It was a reality we were forced to accept, and the quicker we could do so, the quicker we could begin dealing with it. My sister was by then treated and doing very well. To this day, she has had no relapses. Walking with her through her process helped me when I went through mine, once the shock wore off.
Sadness Sets In
Besides feeling shocked, I remember feeling sad – sad for my mom that she had another sick daughter, and sad for my husband. He had barely gotten settled in the waiting room after going for a quick bite to eat before the surgeon came looking for him after the biopsy. He told me how serious the surgeon was when he told him, and now here he was having to tell me, having to say “cancer” to his wife.
I felt bad that he was the one who had to do that, that he was so quickly having to live out his vow of “in sickness and in health.” But he did, faithfully. Throughout that summer and everything that came after, he was there for me. And I believe we’re stronger now for having faced cancer together.
Cancer. The one word you never want to hear. And for me, especially not at that time in my life. I was about to celebrate my first wedding anniversary and, hopefully, about to become pregnant. Cancer is never convenient. We did celebrate our anniversary, but we had to put pregnancy on hold – for longer than we thought.
My New Normal
The way I processed it all was to ask questions, lots of questions. I did my own research, wrote down questions in advance, and took my binder to every appointment. I processed it step by step, with each appointment, with each new piece of information.
What I learned is that papillary thyroid cancer is a very slow-growing, non-aggressive cancer. It’s typically not treated with chemotherapy, and its patients usually have a good prognosis. It is treatable.
Treatable. That was the word I clung to once I digested the word “cancer.” As I adjusted to my new normal, a game plan presented itself, a course of action to tackle this unexpected and unwelcome development. I’ll save my treatment for another blog post because it was filled with its own challenges – stops and starts, highs and lows, a meandering journey that continues.
I had just wanted it all to be over, but it was far from over.
It was just getting started.
I’m supposed to be at a birthday party today.
Four years ago, I was pregnant for the first and only time, and December 30 was my due date. Today, of all days, I feel my lack so keenly.
I never got to experience what it’s like to feel a baby move inside me. There will never be a little human running around who looks like me. We didn’t even know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I think she was a girl. Or at least, that’s how I’ve come to think of her. My feelings are all I have to go on. All I have are a few black and white ultrasound pictures and memories.
These are the thoughts swirling in my mind as I sit on the couch with my dog. Since I work from home, he is my constant companion. He sits in my lap when I read my Bible in the morning, he tries to do Pilates with me, he follows me all around the house. He’s my buddy! I’ve even prayed for him a time or two. Yes, I know he’s only a dog, but I said a quick prayer for him when we dropped him off at the kennel for the first time. I couldn’t stand it if he got loose or hit by a car because I just love him so much.
If this is how I feel for a dog, how much more would I feel for my child?
Love’s Long Ripening
I can imagine that love – a love I had for my children before I even got married, a love accumulating inside me over time. It was a love I poured out in prayers, journals, letters to my children. It was a love expressed in preparation; I stretched myself, worked on issues, and grew so I would be the best mom I could be for them.
And that love for my baby didn’t end when the pregnancy ended. Only now I don’t have anywhere to bestow it. It’s just hanging in the balance. A love years in the making not come to fruition.
I think of how great that love could be if it had been able to be fully expressed. If it had a recipient – a living, breathing child of my own. How amazing would it be if the love that had incubated in my heart could have been finally released?
I’ll never know what it’s like to love someone as a mother. And in the four years since the due date that never was, I’ve come to terms with that. I have grieved the loss of motherhood in general, and I’ve also grieved the loss of that individual life. I have mourned, and I have healed.
A few years ago, when the pain of miscarriage was still raw, when motherhood was a dream I was still hoping to attain, and when I was in counseling, my therapist suggested an activity to aid in healing. This was my journal entry from that time:
It came out of nowhere. A moment in between sight-seeing and movie-watching, after morning walks but before the turkey was carved, a brief moment last week where all I could think of was you – the daughter I miscarried.
It was a busy Thanksgiving week, busy in a good way. We did a lot. We saw a lot in our nation’s capital. And we enjoyed being together. We had so many memorable moments, but one moment in particular stands out to me – the moment where I couldn’t help but think of you.
I was sitting on the sofa, and almost everyone had left the room. We were getting ready to go somewhere or do something; I can’t quite remember what. I just remember gazing out of the window, looking at the trees, and having such a strong impression of you. Just you. Just the fact that you once existed. And the fact that you’re not here with us now, enjoying this full week with your relatives. Nothing specific triggered this feeling. It was just a quick, quiet moment where my thoughts drifted to you.
This doesn’t happen as often as it once did, but it still happens. Sometimes, I just can’t help but think of you. Sometimes, the feeling of your absence is palpable. My arms ache to hold you. I long to feel your head on my shoulder and stroke your hair. And I want so badly to share you with this family I love so much.
The Family You Never Met
Your aunt and uncle are both such naturals when it comes to children. They would have opened their lives to you, opened their home to you, opened their hearts to you and swallowed you up in love.
Your cousins would have adored you! I think they would have relished the role of your protector, your teacher, someone to show you the ropes. And I can think of no better role models than them. They are each so gifted in many ways, but they all share a sense of compassion, a sweetness that gives breath to all their other virtues. I would have loved for you to be the recipient of their sweet love.
Your grandma believed in you, waited for you along with me, even prayed you into existence. I had planned on having her in the delivery room with me because I wanted you and her to meet as soon as possible. I wanted the two of you to make the most of all the time you had together. And I know you would have. Her love would have been a staple in your life, her presence and constant encouragement a rock you could have relied on without fail.
They would’ve loved to love you.
And I would’ve loved to have seen it.
Looking Back
I was just missing you and imagining, for a brief moment, what it would have been like if you were here.
But you aren’t. Our memories don’t include you. Our family photos are void of your face. And our hearts miss the love we would have shared with you. And while I don’t think about this all the time, sometimes I can’t help it, even though it’s been a few years.
It’s not healthy to think along these lines every day, and it’s equally not healthy to never think about it at all. It’s therapeutic for me to remember you, to remember that you existed, even just briefly. I would rather remember than forget it ever happened, even if that means remembering and feeling the pain also.
Because remembering you also means remembering love – the love I felt for you instantly, a love I still have. I love the memory of you. And that’s why I think of you from time to time, like I did last week surrounded by the family you never knew. We would’ve loved to share you with your dad’s family as well. The people we love who would’ve loved you are many.
Looking Ahead
The one consolation in all this hit me in the most unexpected place. Since we were all together in Virginia, we took the short drive down to Arlington National Cemetery. Under the cover of fall leaves, with the backdrop of the D. C. skyline, we passed name after name, until we came to one – the name of your grandfather who died five years before you did.
Maybe there is a family member you’ve met. Maybe when I think of you, I can imagine the two of you together – the father I’ll always remember and the daughter I can’t forget.
It’s like waking up and realizing you’ve been asleep at the wheel – for miles. You find yourself on a one-way road, a road you’re only now beginning to see clearly. Maybe you missed a turn somewhere. Maybe, if you’d been paying attention, you’d be headed in a different direction, on a different road, in a different car even.
Since you can’t do a U-turn on a one-way road, all you can do now is drive. The only way is forward. The turns not taken are irrelevant now. Now, all that matters is making the rest of the journey count.
So, you blink, rub the sleep from your eyes, and grip the wheel with renewed purpose. Since the past is in your rearview mirror – and you can’t alter it – the right road is now the one you’re on, the one that’s leading you forward. The right destination is waiting for you ahead – so you drive. You learn the lessons you need to learn, you grow, and you keep going. Grief mingles with hope. Regret gives way to resolve. And peace settles in place of despair. And you drive on.
You drive on – through storms, under stars, past detours and distractions, in the gentle waking light of a new day.
And you drive on.
Why is it that my house is always cleanest right before a trip? While I’m doing loads of laundry to pack and making sure the dishes are done, I figure I might as well hit the floors and clean out the fridge. Then, I put fresh sheets on the bed and finish with Febreze on the couches, and before I know it, my house is squeaky clean and smelling good – just in time for me to leave it.
This week is no different. I’m flying to DC and then headed to Virginia for Thanksgiving week at my sister’s house. So, I’ll have to wait a week to enjoy my cleared off counters and my clean bathrooms. And that’s fine by me. I’m ready for a getaway. I’m ready to see my family.
The last getaway I had was in the opposite direction. Earlier this year, we flew to south Florida and then drove down to the Keys for a week of exploring and eating under the summer sun. This is an excerpt from my journal in June.
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In Islamorada
I traveled today to a part of Florida I have never known – a place where poincianas bloom and roosters roam, a place that owes so much to the aquamarine water surrounding it. As we drove from our resort, across the seven-mile bridge, to Key West – to the very edge of America – I noticed a subtle shift. Mangroves replaced live oak trees. Traffic and strip malls gave way to water. And peace settled in place of preoccupation.
Vacation is a good thing, especially in a place as beautiful as this. The water is unlike anything I’ve ever seen! It’s as green as it is blue. And it’s everywhere you look, this vast, fluorescent water that’s waiting to be waded into. Water like that is worth the drive, and it refreshes my soul to see it.
Refreshing. If I could describe what I want from this trip in one word, that would be it. And isn’t that what vacation is all about?
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I will fully satisfy the needs of those who are weary and fully refresh the souls of those who are faint.
Jeremiah 31:25 NASB
A Soul Refresh
I love that we read “fully” twice in this verse, as if to really drive home the point that God is able to fully meet our needs. Fully, completely, perfectly. Not partially. He is able to meet our needs when they need to be met and exactly how they need to be met.
Also, the footnote for Jeremiah 31:25 in the New English Translation (NET) explains that the verb tense used is the “prophetic perfect,” meaning “the actions are as good as done.” The emphasis is on the surety of God meeting our needs. Since we have this promise, we don’t need to doubt if our needs will be met. It’s as good as done. He will fully satisfy our needs and fully refresh those who are faint.
And it doesn’t take a vacation to do it.
So, as we enter the holiday season and the hustle and bustle it can bring, I hope we remember to pause and rest in the midst of the busyness, to come to Him with our needs, and to tap into His ever-flowing stream of refreshing.
“The Lord will guide you always; He will satisfy your needs… You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” Isaiah 58:11 NIV
Happy holidays to you!