Think Pink!

Pink is the color of breast cancer awareness, and since October is breast cancer awareness month, you’re going to start seeing a lot of pink in support of this important cause. Sports teams play in pink jerseys, yogurt companies top their containers with pink, charities sponsor walks and fundraisers with pink themes.

A woman’s lifetime risk of breast cancer is about 1 in 8, while a man’s is 1 in 1,000. And although breast cancer has one of the highest survival rates among the cancers, nearly 40,000 U.S. women died of breast cancer last year.

Almost fifteen years ago, on a Tuesday evening in May, I found a lump. At my relatively young age, with no family history of breast cancer, the few people who knew about the lump tried to console me that, statistically, it was probably nothing. Except my doctor, who looked me in the eye and said, “I can’t tell you it’s nothing. We need to get you in for tests.”

Those tests all confirmed the worst. About a month later, I had a lumpectomy. My oncological surgeon spoke with me as I was wheeled out of surgery. In my groggy post-op state I missed most of the specifics, but I clearly remember her squeezing my arm and saying, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

My oncologist told me I had no reason to have a mastectomy, but she encouraged aggressive treatment to take every precaution against a recurrence. It made sense to me; do everything possible to nip this in the bud while I was young and healthy and had fantastic support systems in place to get me through chemo. So over twelve weeks I had four rounds of poison pumped into me. The chemo made me sick to a degree that defies description. It also took my hair (I was oddly okay with this at the time, but now, years later, haircuts freak me out) and put my body into menopause. When chemo was done I went in for daily for six weeks of radiation; although it was annoying going to the hospital each day, the treatment itself was a piece of cake.

I still think about my cancer every day, when I notice the scar high on my left breast or when someone else is diagnosed or when the call goes out for organ or blood donors (a cancer history makes me ineligible to donate). Sometimes the full experience floods over me in waves of nausea, but more often it’s like remembering a bad work experience: an unpleasant event that consumed much of your life but that you survived, stronger than before.

Surviving cancer makes me feel both invincible and vulnerable. When I was diagnosed, I prayed for five more years of life so that I could raise my kids, who were very young at the time, to an age when they would remember me. God granted me more than double that, and I am grateful, but I still have moments when I forget to love my life. Sometimes I wonder what I was supposed to learn from the experience, whether there was something special God was expecting me to do with my remaining days, and whether I have honored my second chance.

Now that I understand the path, part of my journey includes walking with others living with cancer. I do what I can, but this is a hard road. The easier part is to advocate for early detection and support for research, for this and all other cancers. So here’s my pitch: even if you think you are too young, have no family history, are feeling great, are really busy—eat right, get the mammogram, get the colonoscopy. Pay attention to your body. Do the self-exams. Early detection saves lives and body parts.

I love the color pink, and I wear at least a touch of it every day in October. I wear it in honor of breast cancer survivors, and in memory of those who could not overcome. I wear it for my daughters (and sons), with a prayer that they will never have to face what I did. I wear it in gratitude for my wonderful doctors, who gave me hope, and in gratitude for all of those who supported me during those difficult days.

But mostly I wear it because it is a happy color that reminds me that each day is a gift, tied up in a pink ribbon. 

Loss

This week, two families in my circle of friends experienced loss through death. One family said goodbye to a mother. Her death was long, slow, and often painful for her family, and at times for her. Alzheimer’s had taken over years ago and had turned her into a truly horrible person. And then gradually the disease loosened its grip on her personality; she wasn’t lucid, but she was loving, and when she finally slipped into the arms of God, she and her family were at peace, and the love remained.

Another family said goodbye to a teenager. The boy had been born with muscular dystrophy, and had never lived a moment when his body wasn’t trapped by the disease.  Yet he was a remarkable kid with a remarkable attitude. He dedicated time to helping others and held no bitterness about his broken body. He loved his life and his family, and made a difference during his sixteen years. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was gone: he took his last breath in this world and was released from his pain forever.  

Suffering and loss are universal in the human experience. I know that the world isn’t fair, but I don’t know why it isn’t fair. The randomness of pain, the infliction of bad things on truly good people: there should be a better system. It seems to me that a God who can create the Amazon ecosystem and our remarkable brains and so many amazing things could come up with a better plan.  

Theologians point to Adam and Eve and the serpent and the fruit and free will—and I say, “Really? These families should suffer because of a slice of papaya at the dawn of time?” This week, that is not a satisfactory explanation.  

Yes, often we grow and learn and develop deeper faith through pain. I’m not sure the gain is worth the price. And I’m not sure who is supposed to be doing the learning here. I am always frustrated by the story of Job. God allows Satan to test Job by killing his children. The children are like props in this story, which is a crazy way to view people. Job’s wife surely also suffers from this loss, but she’s a throw-away character; in fact, she is harshly judged by history for her lack of faith.

And in the end, the Book of Job provides no answers to Job, or to us. We are allowed to ask the questions, but we should expect no answers, at least not yet. God is who he is, and he does as he does. He’s got control, even when we don’t see it, and he has a plan, even if it is not obvious to us.

I envision heaven as a place where this will all make sense, or maybe as a time when our earthly questions will no longer matter. But in the here-and-now I accept that it is not my task to understand or explain the ways of God. It’s my job to walk with those in pain, to pray for them and with them.  That is all that I can offer, and although it does not feel like nearly enough, it’s all that God requires. 

Lucy and Lily

These lyrics are from “Little Known Facts,” from the musical You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown:

Do you see that tree?
It is a fir tree.
It's called a fir tree because it gives us fur,
For coats,
It also gives us wool in the wintertime.

And way up there,
Those fluffy little white things,
Those are clouds,
They make the wind blow.
And way down there,
Those tiny little black things,
Those are bugs,
They make the grass grow.

D'you see that bird?
It's called an eagle,
But since it's little it has another name,
A sparrow,
And on Christmas and Thanksgiving
We eat them.

My sophomore year in high school, the play was You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. I worked on the sets. I loved going to rehearsals and eventually knew the script as well as the actors, especially the girl who played Lucy, who botched this song every single time. Super annoying, especially to those of us who auditioned but didn’t get parts.

I often think of this song when I overhear Lily and Lewi have a (one-sided) conversation. Lily is a self-appointed expert on virtually everything and, being two years older than Lewi, feels compelled to pass her vast wisdom on to baby brother  (“That’s a hawk, Lewi, but sometimes they are called an eagle hawk”).

On our way to church she explains about Moses (I think). In the way of most children, it’s a confusing mix of a variety of Bible stories, cartoons, and dreams: “Then they threw all the babies in the river. And there was a snake, and Moses held it up and turned it into a cobra.”

When she’s talking with Lewi, sometimes I correct her , but usually I tune her out. She’s practicing language, and I don’t want to discourage her. Most of her comments can’t really cause harm, and if Lewi is as attentive to her as he is to me, all of her sage offerings have evaporated long before they get anywhere near his brain.

I’m less inclined to ignore her attempts to educate me, and she gets super grumpy when I tell her that, yes, I know a few things about how the world works, and that her unsolicited advice isn’t helpful to me.  I’m especially prone to jump on her when she tries to speak for Lewi, who is perfectly able to speak for himself.

Tossed into the role of protector at a young age, Lily seems unable to reclaim her role as a child; she thinks she’s an adult. She also listens to every conversation and happily, and often inappropriately, inserts herself into each one. She might be one of those kids who was kind of born older, but a lot of it is adoption behavior, traits that tend to crop up among adopted kids. Plus she joined a family dominated by teenagers. She’s a natural mimic, so it’s likely she copying some of their behaviors, not understanding that what flies at age 18 doesn’t at age eight. It’s been hard to teach her appropriate social skills, and I worry how she does with her peers.

It’s sad that Lily’s childhood was cut short, and it’s sadder still that she seems unable to reclaim it.  That said, it’s really only sad to me. She seems to be a happy kid. Her attitude suits her, I guess. She enjoys being a little adult. And she does have some delightful childlike moments, like when she plays soccer and when she chooses to dress up like a princess for Halloween every year.

She’s like everyone else in this family: a blend of intellect and immaturity that can most graciously be called quirky. She’s her own person, but she fits right in.

I thought I would be better at this parenting stuff by now, but I’m still learning. Instead of trying to change her, I need to accept her, encourage her, correct her (occasionally), and help her find her unique way, not the path that I choose for her. We will grow up together.

Threads

This summer, my husband, who teaches third grade, took a week-long seminar on teaching reading. He came home completely fired up for the method and knew he wanted to implement it in his classroom. It would be a lot of work, but he had a vision for how it could be accomplished, and with enthusiasm like that, there is bound to be success.

The kids would all read books specific to them, and Bill wanted some sacks to hang on the backs of the students’ chairs to hold these reading materials. Earlier in the year I had bought several yards of fun fabric at a great price that turned out to be perfect for this. (And just to be clear: buying eight yards of fabric with no project in mind when I already have a craft room full of stuff does not make me a hoarder.)I put together a prototype, which Bill approved, and I got going on the other 23 sacks.

The multicolored fabric had a jungle pattern/theme, so I threaded my machine with green thread. I almost never buy thread; I seem to have an abundance of it, some of it older than my kids. I inherited a lot from my mom (she wasn’t a hoarder, either) and over the years I’ve used much of it, but some colors are time-specific. I have a ton of green spools, so green must not have been popular over the past couple of decades, at least not with me. That was about to change.

My mom taught me to sew, so I often think of her while at the machine. My mom worked her way through college and graduated with a teaching degree. She taught for several years, but I’m not sure she was a great teacher or that she enjoyed it. In those days no one really talked about doing a job that you loved; work was work. She was in it for the paycheck, and as a woman in that day, it was a career that was open to her. When she began teaching in the early days of the baby boom, she easily found employment in the classroom.

When the job market shifted, she took a job as a social worker for the state of Michigan, working with abused and neglected children. I think she was good at protective services, but it also ate her alive. She saw horrible abuse and neglect and had to testify in court about what she saw. She had to take children away from their parents and was spit on and assaulted because of it. The paperwork was formidable and, as with every job, she had coworkers she loved and others she didn’t. She wanted to help children and society, but her work must have felt like emptying the ocean with a teacup. And she could never speak of these things, since all records were confidential. It was a heavy load.

Mom found outlets for coping with stress, and one of them was sewing, although I’m not sure she ever saw it as a creative outlet but more a method to acquire more clothing (still doesn’t make her a hoarder). Over time mom sewed less and turned her creative efforts to other things, like cooking. By the time she died at the very young age of 51, her machine had sat idle for a few years. I inherited it, along with a box of fabric and over a hundred spools of thread.

I used up three spools of mom’s green thread making the book sacks. It seems fitting that the thread of a former teacher and children’s advocate lives on in my husband’s classroom. Green is the color of life, of renewal, of fresh beginnings. Even old thread can provide a supporting role in a new year full of promise and potential.

Fire in the Attic

My sophomore year at Hope College I lived in the oldest building on campus, Van Vleck Hall. Although it was 100-plus years old, it had been renovated over the summer, and it was both charming and functional. Smaller than the newer dorms, it had a reputation for being the residence of quiet, nerdy girls. Although I won’t deny that was true, it’s also true that you can get away with a lot if people think you are quiet and nerdy. Let’s just say that the residents had plenty of fun.

On a beautiful April day two weeks before the end of school, the dorm caught fire. Painters had been using torches to scrape old paint off the brick building’s wooden trim, and they did not notice when the dry wood of the eaves caught fire. In a bizarre oversight, there were no smoke detectors in the attic, so the fire crept along under the shingles until suddenly the roof burst into flames. No one was hurt, and while a few rooms sustained major damage, most of us lost only a few things to smoke and water. Although I didn’t lose much, it was still a traumatic experience.

Friends Marilyn and Deb offered the floor of their dorm room for the remaining two weeks of school. A week later, while I was sleeping on that floor, Deb woke us from a sound sleep to announce that the college’s administration building had burned to the ground overnight. I thought she must be joking. She was not. Where Van Raalte Hall had once stood was now a pile of smoldering rubble.

I had been nervous about that day; I had a presentation in one class as well as my final performance exam in voice class. I had prepared, but lack of effort was never my problem. Performance jitters always got the best of me; if I was graded down on anything, it was always related to that. So in addition to doing research for the presentation and practicing for the vocal final, I’d been doing exercises to help me to stay calm. I wanted to do my best—or at least not throw up.

When I heard about Van Raalte, I am pretty sure I went into shock; all emotion left me. But being numb actually was a big help in doing my presentations. With no nerves to get in my way, my psych presentation went flawlessly. I was feeling pretty good, maybe a little bit cocky, as I made my way to voice class, but the smell of smoke as I walked past the dampened ash heap that had been the administration building brought the numbness back immediately. I took my turn in voice class and delivered what was probably my best performance to date. Miss Morrison, my instructor, was clearly pleased, even a little awed.

Relieved to be done with it all, I returned to the room I was sharing with Deb and Marilyn. An hour later Marilyn (a music major) arrived, a little breathless. Miss Morrison had told her about my voice exam, and had told Marilyn that I HAD to audition for the college’s premier choir. The choir director had extend auditions by a day—that day—so Marilyn took me to the music building, helped me warm up, took me to the director’s door, and pushed me through.

I don’t remember the audition going particularly well, but when the list came out two days later, I was amazed to see my name on it as a second soprano. I was proud to be part of the choir; I learned a lot, made some friends, and got to travel a bit, but most importantly, it was in that choir that I met the tenor who became my husband.

I suppose it’s possible Bill and I could have gotten together under different circumstances. And it’s likely that if we hadn’t met each other, we would have had happy marriages with other people. I am a romantic, but I also respect the scientists who have proved that compatibility isn’t limited to one person in the universe, and that happiness isn’t linked to a single individual.

I also know this; the trajectory of my life changed with a fire in the attic. Without the fire there would have been no audition, no choir, no Bill, and none of the great things that have come with that relationship.

Sometimes even the worst days can turn into something amazing. Who would have known, standing on the lawn watching my dorm in flames, that that would be the best day of my life?

Happy New Year

For our family, the new year begins at the end of August, not in January. That’s when Bill and the kids start thinking about the new school year, the time when everything changes. Three years ago, late August was when we brought home Lewi and Lily, another big change that took place at the same time of year.

Bill and I have always appreciated and had a great love and respect for our extended families, our church, our schools, and all the other things that supported us as individuals and as a family. We know that we have been blessed with strong support networks. All of that said, our nuclear family is pretty tight (in a way that isn’t cliquey or cloying). We genuinely enjoyed being together, and usually laugh a lot when we are. Together we have endured cancer and car trips, faced great losses and great opportunities. We’ve cut our individual paths in the world, but at the end of the day, we know we belong to each other.

When I wanted to expand our family through adoption, Bill and the kids respected my calling and supported it. As we went through the process, the agency did a lot of training with us on the problems that adopted kids could have. They talked about the adopted child’s potential problems, and they talked about how extended families and society might react to a mixed-race family. They tried to prepare us, and overall they did a good job.

Like every aspect of parenting, it’s a whole different ball game once you take the field, but I think ALL of the kids did remarkably well—or at least behaved predictably. But I think each of us went through a grieving process: grieving the family that we had been.  I should have seen it coming; I remember the moment when, pregnant with Daniel, I suddenly realized that my relationship with Phillip was about to change dramatically. But even if I had anticipated it, the grief would have come, and we’d each have to go through it. Change—even positive change—is hard.

Family is so much more than common DNA. I give my mom and dad, and especially my late stepmother, Mickie, a lot of credit for modeling this for me. When I was a kid, “family” occasions like holiday dinners always included people beyond “us.” And when Dad and Mickie married, they worked hard to merge their six adult kids (and our spouses and offspring) into one family. We weren’t the Brady Bunch, but we learned to love, appreciate, and support each other, a legacy that has continued after Mickie’s death.

My older kids still have a special bond with each other, but they also have developed special bonds with their younger siblings. They have learned to share and care for others in a whole new way. They are a little less egocentric and a little more aware of the world we live in. And having to make room for new family members has paved the way as they have begun bringing home significant others. Our family will continue to expand and grow, and we’re happy for these new additions.

A few years ago, we began a new tradition. In mid- to late August, we gather as a family: the seven of us, plus boyfriends/girlfriends if they are available. We remember all of the good things we have to celebrate: two late-summer birthdays, the anniversary of the kids’ arrival, the coming of a new school year, the impending departure of those going off to college.

Then we raise a glass to us: the family we were, the family we are, and the family we are becoming. We know that change will come, and it should. We also know that, whatever those changes, good or bad, we are rooted, and it is those roots that give us wings.  

Amazing Grace

Westboro Baptist Church was coming to our neighborhood. This “church” opposes homosexuality (their slogan is “God hates fags”), and church members get their message across by picketing high-profile events like military funerals. It’s a sad, sick, legally protected attempt at attention, and no one likes it much.

So when a Marine from nearby Zeeland was killed in Afghanistan during his sixth tour of duty, the hate mongers of Westboro Baptist prepared to show up at the funeral. In response, a peaceful protest began to brew in support of the family of Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Price. The goal was to line the streets with people, creating a human shield that stretched the four-plus miles from the church to the cemetery. If Westboro showed up, they would be invisible behind a wall of flag-waving individuals. The call went out on Facebook and by word of mouth, and momentum grew.

On Saturday morning Bill, Kelsey, and I drove to Holland, my hometown, where the funeral and burial were to take place. We left our car near the park where I used to go for family picnics and walked to the cemetery, where we took a few minutes to visit the graves of family members. Then we took a spot on the funeral route, about halfway between the cemetery and what used to be my Uncle Herb’s house (where we would watch the Memorial Day parade each year). We stood with our flags and waited, watching the crowd gather.

All manner of humanity showed up. People with tattoos and interesting piercings, grandparents with their grandkids, people pushing wheelchairs, parents pushing strollers. Some wore the ugliest red-white-and-blue shirts you’ve ever seen, while others wore military uniforms. Most carried flags, some of them the flags that had draped the coffins of fallen soldiers. Some brought lawn chairs and blankets so they could wait in comfort. Although the area isn’t exactly known for racial diversity, this protest was blessed with a variety of skin tones.

A foul-mouthed family with cigarettes and a pit bull fell in next to us. People distributed bottled water. For a while it felt like a parade rather than a funeral. But as time passed, the crowd grew quiet and anticipatory. Finally, at about 12:30, we saw the flashing lights of the lead police car. Following the cop were the motorcycles of the Patriot Guard Riders. This unlikely grassroots effort began to counter the poison of the Westboro group; bikers will escort the funeral procession so that the noise of their bikes covers up the sound of the protestors. Two by two they rumbled by—men and women, old and young, some obviously vets and military supporters and others who seemed to be pacifists—a line of bikes stretching two miles.

They were followed by a white hearse, and then by car upon car carrying family and friends, many of them in uniform. We stood at attention with our flags for forty minutes as they all filed safely into the cemetery, where the honor guard waited to lay Daniel Price to rest.

The funeral route was over four miles long, and people lined both sides of the streets for the entire route. There were rumors that Westboro members were in the area, but there were no signs of their protests. Word on the street is that the number of human shield participants scared them off.

It was a beautiful thing, to see so many people with nothing in common come together to do a good thing.  Certainly some came to support the military and its people. Some came to oppose the message of Westboro. Some came to protect a family in its time of grief. It was good to stand together, if just for a moment, armed with nothing but love for humanity and a desire for peaceful change. You know that cliché, America at its finest? I think that was it.