Chasing Painted Ponies

Trip to Heritage Museum 149

Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.

Walt Whitman

Carousels.  Growing up, I never liked to pass up a ride on the merry-go-round.  Even now with my own boys, when an opportunity presents itself, I love to join them for a magical journey on the wooden horses.

What I remember most about carousels as a child … more than the mirrors, lights and creepy organ music being played—perhaps even more than the ride itself—was my need to thoughtfully search the carousel to find the perfect horse.  I loved finding unique characteristics … noble features that would make me feel like a princess (on this roundabout to nowhere).  Of course it was always necessary to find a galloping horse that went up in down.  I remember running to my perfect horse when it was time to get on, and as I looked ahead, I’d often see that overlooked stallion— a spectacular horse I hadn’t seen from afar.  Quickly I’d run ahead, eager to jump aboard my newly found beauty, then just as quickly I’d realize with a sigh, that my new friend is a stationary soldier, one that would not “gallop” up and down—a necessity on the merry-go-round.   Turning back to see my “perfect” horse, it was too late … another rider was “saddled” up for a journey on the majestic horse I had originally longed for.

The past several weeks post-surgery have been difficult.  As physical healing continues to flourish, the mental aspect of everything has really begun to seep in and though in some ways it’s been medicinal, in other ways it’s had a withering effect on my spirit.  I’ve had real time to wrap my mind around what has been … what is, and the unknown future that lies ahead.   Facing the unknown realities of the future often bring to light the significance of some forgotten truths from the past.

People in general have a tendency to long for something they don’t have or simply fail to appreciate the unique characteristics and beauty we’ve each been blessed with.  For me, as a little girl, I hated being a redhead. Though I came to appreciate my locks as I grew older, the moment chemo took all my hair, I not only longed for that long, thick ginger hair to return, I felt real conviction for all the times I didn’t appreciate it when I had it.  In a recent conversation with one of my oncologists, we laughed talking about how we always want what we don’t have.   I shared how I’d complain about my larger breasts growing up, always wishing they were smaller.   We then talked about breast reconstruction and the “silver lining” attached to breast cancer patients’ these days in the realm of options available—having “Hollywood” procedures at your finger tips to reconstruct your body/breasts to be fantastic and “perfect.”   Cue the crickets.  As I stood there dazed and confused … I imagined desperately how wonderful it would be to rewind time and take back all the foolish insecurities and longings I carried, and instead be content with what I had been given.  Silent, my only real yearning:  to have myself back completely, in every way.

Yes, many people do want what they don’t have—until they lose everything they thought needed changing.

During recovery, I spent a week’s respite on Cape Cod, visiting family.  I needed quality time with my boys, time with my thoughts (uninterrupted by the guilt of not being able to run a house as effectively), and most definitely time to get away from the big C . . . even though it unavoidably follows me wherever I go.  There, I was thrilled to spend a beautiful day at a historic museum with my Dad and the boys—one that also happened to have a classic carousel from 1908. Physically not quite ready to ride one of the beauties, I smiled, watching the boys pick out their “perfect” horse.   “Come on, mom!” the boys beckoned me to join them.  Logan, my middle son led me to the loof chariot … y’know that lame stationary sleigh ride that I never quite understood how or why someone would actually choose amidst the horses.  But there I sat, chasing the painted ponies … on a magic machine full of life going around and around—on my chariot.  I beamed watching my beautiful children ahead of me and realized there can be contentment in embracing change and the very real beauty that can come with it.

Radiation is starting tomorrow.  My radiation oncologist needed to make a few corrections, but I’m “tattooed” and ready to go—even had my dry run on Thursday.  Tomorrow begins my official 7-week cycle of daily radiation.  I will be doing what they call a “deep inspiration breath holding” technique to help reduce radiation to my heart and lungs, especially useful, as my cancer is on the left side.

I learned that the word carousel comes from the Italian word:  carosello which means “little war.”  How apropos that this thing called cancer has indeed been a “little” war physically, mentally and spiritually.  As I’m frozen, stationary on my chariot, the world continues to go around.  Thank God I love to travel, or I may have jumped off a long time ago.  Instead, I’m trying to embrace this season on the carousel, where though I may not feel like a princess on my chosen stallion, I can ultimately be content in drinking in the beauty set before me.   I long to appreciate this ride that God has orchestrated … and I plan to embrace the carosello as I continue to chase my painted ponies until the music stops.

Nicole

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful.  I know that full well.

~Psalm 139:14

When Life gives You Lemons … Indulge

Lemon

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

~ William Shakespeare

“Easy-Peasy-Lemon-Squeezy” is a tune each of my three boys has declared on more occasions than I can count.  The expression was mastered by the boys in Kindergarten, and has since become a jingle of choice, my little mantra in times of difficulty.   What I never realized, however, was the amazing truth behind the cutesy rhyme—in its very literal sense.   Lemons are truly an easy solution to a multitude of problems.

Many people have asked where I’ve been these days.  The normal “zest” I try to tap into every day in some ways turned sour this past month or so.  I think I’ve been in survival mode since Christmas, and as deep fatigue and malaise set in with the last phase of chemo, I guess the reality of the “big C” has really weighed on my mind much heavier.   I have found it difficult to find inspiration in the things around me that usually bring clarity and joy to my daily life.  Instead, I’ve been “puckering” up to the sour circumstances of this thing called cancer and all the un-pleasantries that come with it.

Chemotherapy is now done.  Finito.

The last few visits to Dana-Farber had me physically ill before arrival.  I guess you’d call it a psychosomatic response to the dreaded poison that was about to make its way into my veins.  Ironically, the last infusion of AC was bittersweet—a real sense of relief that chemo was over coupled with the real fear that chemo is over …. surgery looming on the horizon.  There were tears, hugs, well-wishes and love poured out on me and my heart ached a bit knowing that the very poison I dreaded every week , the very thing that made me so sick and tired was no longer going to be beating me up to make me well.  It sounds sort of warped, but there was a sense of trauma that accompanied me out the door that day.

Lemons.  A while back, my sister, Michelle lured me into a lemon love-fest, leading me on an exploration of this citrus gem and all the wonderful medicinal properties it delivers.  I won’t lie, as a woman, I love learning about hidden beauty secrets that…well, help me look and feel 20 again.  Who doesn’t?  So learning that this citrus fruit full of Vitamin C is also a great source of protection from free radicals, y’know those pesky little things that, theoretically speaking—“age” us … led me to begin my love affair with the savant of the citrus family—limones.

Cancer treatment does a number on your body.  For many, that number is called something like whopper-doozie or as I like to call it:  “le destructeur” to the enth degree.   Chemo is cumulative.  In short, different symptoms present at different times, many worsening as you go.  Completing 20 weeks of chemo—my “le destructeur” wreaked havoc on a few different areas of my body, some worse than others.

First up—Anemia.  This past month, my red blood cells were at a relatively speaking all-time low.  For me that equated to difficulty walking up a flight of stairs without looking like that annoyingly under-exercised person gasping for air at the top of mere 10 steps (no judgment here).  Yup.  I was that chick.  Only as I was gasping for air, chest pain and often severe headaches accompanied it.  It was frustrating.  I’m usually the one racing up six flights of stairs in 4 inch stilettos, with a resting pulse rate at the finish line.  Seriously—BEYOND frustrating.  On the bright side:  I could walk up a flight of stairs.  After all, some struggling with severe anemia can barely get out of bed because they’re just too exhausted to even put their feet on the floor.  Little by little, I am gaining back strength and stamina, but adding the bitter-tasting, yet miraculous power of lemon juice has the added benefit of aiding the body to produce red blood cells, thus speeding along the process.

The beauty of this little yellow fruit knows no bounds as it also helps ease anxiety.  Lemon balm has a calming effect and therefore may be able to help remove fatigue and exhaustion, anxiety, nervousness, and tension—pretty much the very things that sour my spirit.  I’m not saying Valium can be completely tossed to the curb, but hey…I’ll pucker up.   Ironically, I also earned that though I’ve been in a state of brain fog from the chemo, apparently inhaling lemon oil helps to increase concentration and alertness.   (I wish I had remembered this fact during all of my forgetful chemo-brained moments … that still plague me).

In many ways my lemon in life has been the source of much sweetness.  Cancer’s sour taste has become the old adage:  “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”   My lemonade has been tasted in the sweetness of new relationships and the beauty that comes with having people to love and be loved by….so many bringing light and joy to my life.

Last Wednesday I had an MRI to see how the cancer responded to the chemo.  I won’t learn results until this Thursday, but ultimately know the full picture won’t be revealed until I’m opened up.  My prayer is that chemo did its thing … which will help guide the surgeon to a goal of a better outcome.  My surgery date has been set:  June 14.  I felt a pit in my stomach when I got the call confirming the date… but I know it’s time.  The date however does bring special significance—Logan’s birthday (also Flag Day).  I was further inspired by my friend and colleague, Sarah—her Grandmother also sharing that birthday, a precious soul who lived to be 101.

Nothing in life is a coincidence.  His timing is perfect.

My son, Logan recently placed a scripture on my bathroom mirror.  His note brought tears to my eyes as he wrote:  Mom, Isaiah 43:1-4 says it perfect— “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine!”

Thank God, I am His.

Little by little, I’m shaking off my sour to make room for the sweetness and zest that comes from indulging in the lemon that has been sent my way for a season … for a reason … for a greater purpose than I may not be able to grasp just yet.  Though I feel changed, I know that my Father has not changed and will forever be in the business of unfolding His plan and purpose for my life.  That fact alone brings me peace that passes all understanding.

All my love . . . Nicole

You Just Can’t Overstay Hope’s Welcome

spring

Hope (hōp)

Verb:   to cherish a desire with anticipation

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.

~Epicurus

Hope brings significance to each and every moment we encounter.   Without it . . .  there’s no meaning to anything under the sun.

I know it has been a while since my last post.  Truthfully, this month has been a challenge—physically, mentally and spiritually.  Early in the month, I started my new chemo regimen:  dose-dense AC infusions—every other week.   I didn’t realize how emotionally bankrupt I would soon become.  I guess as my blood counts drop, zapping my energy level  like a nuclear missile—my spirit seems to wither too, much like the beautiful,  luxurious flower arrangement my nieces sent my way recently, one I’ve been desperate to keep alive.

Spring.  It’s funny the little things a girl thinks about as Spring emerges:   manis, pedis, new open-toed sassy stilettos  . . . perhaps a new outfit or two.  I covet my yearnings for these things that are simply not to be for me this year.  As I try desperately to hide my hideous nails in public, each one purple and black, lifting from chemo-related blood and infection . . . and my equally hideous, neuropathy-plagued feet, no longer acceptable for open-toed sassy shoes or pedis­­—I indeed feel deprived and sad.  Today, Lance, my 7-year old, in all his sweet honesty, pointed out the other sad fact that my eyebrows are disappearing, the final hair follicles to die.  The simple fact is:  it’s hard for me to have a Spring in my step or outlook these days.

Regardless of my thoughts filled with vain minutiae, Spring continues to unfold and as the crocuses begin to blossom in my yard, it’s impossible not to hear the heralding trumpet of new life spring forth.  With it comes a glimmer of excitement—a hope that day by day the season will continue to blossom, inspiring beauty in its warm welcome.

These days, my life is filled with urgent intention.  In fact, I find myself anxious and depressed when I’m too fatigued to move because I’m afraid I’m going to miss a moment, a great memory I can’t afford to lose . . . a picture that can never be recaptured.  Reflection has become part of my season of change.  Like Spring’s weather, this season of my life is a gentle reminder that I need to be cognizant of the rebirth taking place all around me—those  blossoms that not only take shape in my yard, but in my relationships . . . in my children, in myself.  Just as I need Faith to hold me together, I need hope to push me forward.

Making it a mission to treat hope as a verb, I choose to actively cherish my desires for the future with anticipation.  Spring is here.  It’s the start—a rebirth from seeds of hope.  I must cherish this moment.  This place.  This time.  It knows no bounds . . . you can never overstay Hope’s welcome.

Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.  ~Romans 12:12 

Breaking Through My Shell

chick

When we lose one blessing, another is often, most unexpectedly, given in its place. 

~C.S. Lewis

I cherished every part of today.  The message of Easter is the very heart of Hope.  Redemption . . .  resurrection  . . . rejoice!  The key event surrounding that first Easter over 2,000 years ago is the very event central to my Faith:  the empty tomb.  It never gets old to hear the Easter story, and this morning was no different, only it was extra special to have my parents and sister and her family with me in church and throughout the day.

So many times in life, it is easy to be consumed by disappointment.  Circumstances.  Relationships.  The very things and people that create amazing and beautiful memories can also be the very source of pain and heartache.   Just as I have been astonished at the people in my life who have gone above and beyond to bless my family through this trial, I am equally dumbfounded to see the “friends” in my life who have disappeared since diagnosis.  Deep down my heart longs to give grace to those who are clearly too consumed by their own “discomfort” about my diagnosis to acknowledge me at all, but the honest reality is that it’s quite disappointing and in many ways makes me wonder how they were ever part of my life pre-diagnosis.

Each one of us is in search of a Hope that is everlasting.  It’s impossible for people or things to fulfill that desire.  If we allow the disappointments of events in our life dictate our happiness, we will all eventually be left in a state of discouragement.

On Saturday, my youngest son, Lance learned that after building a wonderful relationship with his piano instructor for several months, she left the music school—disappeared without so much as a note to her students.  My heart sank for Lance.  The situation, however, was the perfect opportunity to reinforce to each of my boys that even in the face of disappointment—a blessing always awaits on the other side.  I’m not denying that those moments aren’t painful or frustrating, but what’s great is that each one can be used as an opportunity to grow in our Faith, the only true source of contentment.   We can take the “dis” in disappointment and turn it into “divine” appointment.

God’s infinite love and mercy was revealed that first Easter morning, and through His resurrection, we can confidently stand with the precious Truth that He is alive and that His hand is upon our lives.  Today, at the root of all the joyous revelry that was celebrated, was the good news—“He is risen!”

Right now I feel like that tiny chick waiting to break through my shell, into the light.  I’m further reminded that the darkest part of night comes just before the break of dawn.  Out of the darkness, emerges new life, a new Hope.

I am excited to take my current DISappointment in life and turn it into a DIVINE appointment.

Nicole

 

The Architect

Boston

(Originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 2/27/13)

The space within becomes the reality of the building.

~ Frank Lloyd Wright

Though perhaps not as magnificent as other larger cityscapes, Boston’s skyline at night is magnetic.  Whether approached from the north or the south, I always find myself drawn to it.  I remember when Logan was really little, he was in awe by this vertical city stretched out before him, and he began a series of questions:   “How does somebody make those buildings so tall?” . . . “How do they not fall down?” . . . “How long does it take to build one?” . . .   Always earnest in his questions, Logan refuses to settle for the vague-vanilla parental answers we often provide.  So each time I tried to give him a somewhat “knowledgeable” answer about tall buildings, architecture and construction, the reality of my lack of knowledge became evident to us both.  Finally I waved my white flag of defeat and explained to him that I didn’t know a lot about these towers in the sky, and maybe it was a good subject for us to learn more about.

We discovered that to build a skyscraper, careful planning is required.   It can take years to build.  A foundation must be dug a few stories deep below the earth, after which cranes are used to raise a steel frame up into the sky to form the superstructure with steel and concrete beams.  Both the foundation and the superstructure are needed to support the weight of the building—so the complete structure of the skyscraper must be finished before the most important insidecan be started.  It’s amazing to think that modern skyscrapers are also designed to hold off strong winds—safely able to swing a bit in each direction without damaging the structure.

Today marked exactly two months since diagnosis.  As far and wide as the road seems to loom dauntingly ahead on this highway to healing, it’s both encouraging and mind-boggling to think that in a mere 62 days since I heard the words Invasive Ductal Carcinoma—the day my world spun off its axis, I’m already on day 49 of chemotherapy, eight weeks into treatment.  It still seems blurry to me . . . an unreal reality wrapped up nicely with a big ‘surreal’ bow.

Yesterday, sitting in a small, narrow exam room watching a DVD on breast reconstruction, my mind wandered instead to architectural design.  This was my first plastics consult, and as I sat there in my Johnny after the video ended, waiting for the plastic surgeon to come in—I suddenly felt completely claustrophobic in the space.  I started sweating and had to really talk myself out of the intense urge to bolt from the room, Johnny gown and all.  I’ll admit I’ve definitely had a few Valium moments since diagnosis, but the sick feeling of sheer panic that confronted me in that room came out of nowhere—an anxiety I haven’t felt before.  I closed my eyes and finally managed to pull it together before the surgeon came in to meet me.

The lengthy appointment was filled with the challenges, possibilities, impossibilities, risks and “rewards” associated with the future rebuild of the imminent teardown that will follow chemotherapy.

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going.  By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise.  For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.  ~ Hebrews 11:8-10

Though I’m overwhelmed by the path laid out before me, I know in my heart of hearts that I need to surrender to God, so that He, the trusted architect of my life might use this “structural” teardown moment to help refill and build up the space within my tower—the most important part, the reality of the building.  Though the structural process takes time and effort, the final inside portion of the architectural plan is the integral part of the finished product.

Please pray that as I sway in the wind, I will remain confident and secure in the plans and purposes my architect and builder has carefully crafted for my life.

He Remains

Ngong Hill

(originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 2/4/13)

Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.

~ Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen)

After Thursday evening, I’ve been thinking a lot about Isak Dinesen and Out of Africa.  It was prompted by a conversation with my dear friend, the precious “Nana” Lynne who I was privileged to have accompany me to Dana-Farber last week.  Without fail, my time spent with Lynne always begins and ends in laughter, fun and a whole lot of love.   Thursday was no exception.

Lynne is no stranger to Dana-Farber, recently completing her chemo sessions for a rare lymphoma, known as Waldenstrom’s Disease that she has been living with (symptom-free) for over 5 years.  Her unshakable Faith and desire to be where God is at work, is like a breath of fresh air on any given day, but gracing me with her presence during my treatment  . . . was an extra-special treat!

I hadn’t realized until we arrived, as we got out of the car in Boston, how very boring my repertoire of comfort must-haves for a potential 10+ hour day at Dana-Farber were.  My chic, (weak) “Big C” tote—as I refer to it, was no match for the swanky “ride” Lynne rolled out of her backseat.  Any and everything you could need resided in her little slice of heaven on wheels . . . from cross-stitch to techno-savvy equipment and everything in between.  I knew, if I was missing anything, it was IN that bag.

The great part of the day came with my little rainbow in the sky during the oncologist appointment.  The clinical research nurse met with me first, who reminded me that though I’d be examined by the oncologist, there would most likely be no change in tumor size until at least 6 weeks of treatment.  When my doctor came in, we discussed lab results etc., then she, too reminded me that typically we can only expect a softening of the tumors at this point, but not much more in the realm of size reduction.  As she started feeling under my arm, she was taken aback by the change . . . noticeably smaller nodes.   Once she started examining my breast, her eyebrows went up and she looked completely puzzled.  These were her words:  “This is a REMARKABLY different breast than our last visit—practically unheard of after only 3 treatments.”  I cried.  My words to her were . . . “That’s the power of Prayer!”   In the waiting room, I celebrated the news with Lynne and we practically ran to the infusion area for chemo . . . “Bring on the juice” was our little anthem!

Lynne’s Mary Poppins’ bag on wheels didn’t disappoint as she got her game on with some fun.   We were going through some conversation cards while waiting to be called in for chemo, and one of the questions had something to do with naming a movie that you can’t forget, one that left a lasting impression somehow.   Though I love movies and could list many favorites . . . the first movie that came immediately to the forefront was Out of Africa—something I haven’t thought about it in a long time, but it hasn’t left my mind since.  I laugh because I seriously woke up Thursday night with the echoing remnants of my dream . . . “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hill.”  Ahhh, Nicole’s movie moment.

I understand the film was rich in every way, enticing the senses with the amazing African scenery and passionate drama . . . but what made it leave such an impression on my heart?  Knowing that the film was loosely based on the real life of Karen Blixen, better known under the pseudonym, Isak Dinesen, added a definite intensity to the story.  Then there’s her brilliance . . . a gifted writer, who had an amazing, earnest craft in storytelling.

The main impression that resonates with me, however,  is that like many of us, Karen Blixen put a lot of value in her “things” . . . she actually had trouble separating herself from them.  Yet, in the end, she was left with nothing.  Everything was stripped away.  I think of how often I’ve based my own joy, even my identity on things.  For some, being without a smart phone for more than an hour may send them into withdrawals.   Then there’s the vanity.  Will I still find joy when my hair is gone?   My breasts permanently altered?

Today, we shaved my head.  It was time.  I’ve been shedding more than Miles and the anticipation of losing it, coupled with the heightened tenderness of my scalp—every strand of hair feeling heavy, tugging on my head, made it an easy decision.  John was my Barber, with additional assistance from the boys—they were thrilled to participate in the process, each having a go with the razor.  I cringed a bit, when they were smelling my hair as it came out, talking about how much they loved the smell of my hair and how they’d miss that.  It was tough, but my head feels much better, and the “anticipation anxiety” is over.

Isak Dinesen wrote:  “But by the time that I had nothing left, I myself was the lightest thing of all for fate to get rid of.”

Are we weighted down so much by the things of this world, that in the end, we are but the lightest? When all is gone, what remains?

Lynne and I had a funny but very real divine appointment as I was being infused.  We got a knock on the door from the interfaith Chaplain.  This sweet girl was blown away by what we shared with her.  We talked about our joy in the midst of our trials, though difficult.  She seemed fascinated, unable to leave . . . even taking little notes.  By the end of chemo, we pretty much had to send her on her way.  We had to laugh as we marveled, knowing without a shadow of doubt, God called us to respond and share with this girl . . . her intent to reach out to us, in turn allowed us to reach out to her.

I pray wholeheartedly that I may be so unshaken in my Faith that I will stand firm . . . ready and willing to lose everything, with the blessed assurance that the very thing that matters most will never leave nor forsake me, on this side of heaven and beyond.  He remains.  In the end, when all is stripped away, He remains.

 

My Treasured Sea Glass

Sea Glass Washed Up

(Originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 1/30/13)

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art … it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that gives value to survival.

C. S. Lewis

I’ve always been intrigued by the powerful allure of sea glass.  Though the shimmering, delicate beauty of the colors is hypnotic, my fascination lies more in the mystery of its origin . . . the story behind each unique piece.  Each frosted gem has been transformed, worn smooth from years of tumbling through the sea’s natural sandblasting action, tides, waves, and currents.  Over a decade ago, I even began a “love affair” with a novel engrained on my heart—sea glass being at the forefront (one of many bucket list adventures I someday hope to check off!)  Finding treasured sea glass along the shore reveals the elaborate, unique characteristics in each piece—all beautiful … whether transparent or opaque, individually carrying with it from its journey….a story.

I think of all the many people who have drifted into my life, whether for a season or a lifetime—amazing pieces of sea glass in the form of relationships I’ve cherished and friendships that stand the test of time.  All have stamped yet another memory, experience . . . adventure to my passport of life.

Moving around quite a bit growing up has always made it hard to answer the question:  “Where did you grow up . . . where were your roots laid down?”  My sister and I have often had conversations about this very thing.  Though we have occasionally coveted those who have only known one home town their entire life, we much more value the depth of experience and relationships that may not have been as rich for us, had familiarity and comfort in one place set the tone of our childhood.  In truth, we’ve always had roots—only instead of being planted in a “location,” they were deeply planted in the love for each other—closely bonded through the changes and challenges new situations and experiences presented.

These days I’ve been in awe, marveling at the beautiful “sea glass” in my life.  Like the best pieces of beach treasure, many of you truly sparkle in the light.

Tonight, I found myself crying (in joy) yet again . . . from my mailbox treasures.  These beautiful, heartfelt cards arriving in the mail—are not only giving me cherished moments of encouragement for today, but future rainbows for tomorrow . . . little reminders of God’s promises for my life.   I am saving each note and card to place in a special, (beautiful) mosaic box I hope to one day soon create with sea glass from a beach-combing adventure.

I am beyond appreciative . . . all the time spent checking in on me, the texts, the notes here on CaringBridge,  e-mails and beyond generous gifts have brought me to tears—allowing me to feel the love of my treasured relationships both new and old, giving value to my survival (thank you C.S. Lewis for your eloquence)!  Words alone can never express what my heart has felt through your thoughtful actions and genuine love.

Let’s face it, we all start out as shards of broken glass . . . wildly tumbling through the sea of life, and only through the refining process of turbulence in the storms, even crashing on rocks and coral—do our edges become smooth—our story become meaningful.

Isaiah spoke of the potter and His clay:  “Yet You, Lord, are our Father.  We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.”    (Isaiah 64:8)

God uses His clay made from dirt . . . his shards of glass tossed at sea, to do an amazing work in each of us.  It is only in the fire . . . or the raging storms where we can truly be refined, edges smoothed out, vessels shining—for His greater purpose.

As for my beautiful sea glass . . . THANK YOU ALL for washing up on my shore . . .