I have a feeling...

I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that I am holding seeds that need to be scattered.

But, there is only problem...

... the seeds are sticking to my hand!

Just kidding. But all joking aside, it is slightly frustrating to know that I am holding the seeds to plant in the garden, the sun is shining, the weather people are forcasting rain (although we all know that they don't always know everything), the soil is tilled, and everything seems as it should.

Why then, can I not cast them?

I know with all my heart that I can talk about leaving discouragement behind and finding a new hope, and I totally know that I can write about my trip with cancer, and Christians in community... well, I'm a Christian and I definitely know about communities - being totally uplifted by them and all. And having prayed about two of three, I am confident that I am not alone and like Jeremiah (not the fish, the prophet) the Lord will work through my words, but I just can't seem to start.

The deadline for the "trip with cancer" is Monday and so in an attempt to write it, I began floating through old blogs and re-living the experiences that seem like forever ago. It's hard to imagine the first experience of hair loss now as I have been without for ages and the fear that ate me up each night when I am on the highway driving straight for the turn-off that reads "Remission"...

It's hard. Typically my creative juices flow during a run - that's how I have written all my best papers, class projects, youth reflections, talks or articles.

Hmmmm.... how else can I dry my hand off so that the seeds will no longer stick? Perhaps I need not worry about casting them in the right rows or places, not be concerned with how many I throw each time but rather, just begin to cast them and leave the rest to God.

I have a feeling that's how all great gardens are made, not because of the planter but because of the maker.

Lil' One

It was like having a twin growing up, but instead of dressing alike, mirroring each others personalities and joining to the others hip everywhere we went, we did the exact opposite. Only a year apart in school (because of how her birthday fell... not because I failed a grade!!! - just for clarification), we honestly had everyone convinced in high school that we were cousins. Yes, really tight - but cousins.

It was until our Biology teacher was walking down the hall and heard Kristin laugh that she finally clued in, after we both missed the same classes throughout the term for family stuff and we spoke of 'mom an dad' in class... it was the laugh that gave us away.

She was sitting on the bed this evening, after having left her own birthday celebrations, when she said, "hey Ang... do you remember how we used to fight until we made mom and dad go crazy?"

Exhausted, all I could do was smile and nod. "You bet I do, but I finally figured out the cause of all those fights..."

"Really? What was it? That your shelf was messier than mine? That you always got to play the left hand in our piano duets? Or do you think it was just because we fed off one another so well?"

"No Kristin... the problem was that mom and dad couldn't stop at one. They just had to go ahead and have at least two kids." Unable to contain my smile, I quickly added, "they should have stopped while the going was good!"

That was it. We spent a solid chunk of time reminding each other of all the times that one of us stepped in to save the other. There were so many... we truly have had each others backs over the last 20 years.

When I was in grade one and Kristin was kindergarten, our parents went to Hawaii for a week and brought back with them a box of chocolates. Chantelle was just a baby - maybe a year - and the chocolates had been hidden in my parents closet. Kristin had a nack for causing trouble and one day, when trying to find some new dress up clothes, came across this box of hidden chocolates. I don't think it would have been so bad if she could have stopped at one... but like someone else I know (hi chocolate loving friend at the end of the hall!), she ate the WHOLE BOX!! As sneaky as she was, she managed to eat it all without getting caught red handed. However, it didn't take my mom long to discover that someone had been in her closet and so she came storming into our bedroom and said, "Kristin, do you know what happened to Mommy and Daddy's closet?" And Kristin, with her face covered in chocolate, shook her head. Trying to be the good big sister, jumped in and tried to cover by saying, "No Mom, but Kristin saw Chantelle going in there and tried to stop her mom. She tried to pull her away from your chocolates mom, but Chantelle took a chocolate and just wiped it all over Kristin. Yup, it was Chantelle!"

Memo to self... never have three kids because two always seem to find a way to team up on the third one!
Second memo to self... never try and cover for your sister who is seriously, covered in chocolate and deserves discipline. Lying is bad!

Then Kristin reminded me of the time that she jumped to my rescue... when my mom was working part time, rather than going home to an empty house we would walk through the trees and hang out at Grandma's house until mom got home. One Thursday, my Grandma heard our dog barking and sent my Grandpa to find out what was going on. Yup - our house was definitely being broken into. Grandpa came running back and told my Grandma to call the police and so she did, but as soon as she called... she went back to help my Grandpa catch the robbers. A few minutes after she left, the phone rang. Kristin, Chantelle, and Katie all looked at me and said, "you're the oldest... you answer." So, taking a deep breath, I answered the phone. The nice lady on the other end was very sweet and understanding. "Is your mom there?" "No. My mom is at work, but this is my Grandma's house but is at my house trying to catch the bad guys with my Grandpa."

"Oh, so that is your house being broken into?"

For whatever reason, when she asked our address, I just started crying. I didn't handle crisis situations very well at that point in time. Kristin grabbed the phone from my hands as I sat there in shock, being consoled by my 5 year old and 7 year old sisters. A little embarrasing now, but then... nah... my world had stopped. What if they took my Cabbage doll?? Or worse... my books!! Kristin explained where we lived, apologized for my behavior and said that she would have my Grandma call back as soon as she got in but that this lady better send her cop men out to our house soon because my Grandpa took the shot gun to our house with him. (Which he totally had... my family is a farm family... what else can I say). Kristin continued to say, "and if I go back over to my house and have to clean up some bad guys blood and stuff that would be very disgusting. And I wouldn't like it one bit. So I suggest you send your cop men before I hear the gun go off! Good-bye." Then she casually hung up the phone.

A conversation like that today would have social services at the door waiting to interview everyone...

Good times.

Anyway, tonight we celebrated "Boke's" 20th birthday and while she doesn't read the blog or even know it exists... I hope she knows just how proud of her I really am. Studying buisness and following her dream to walk in my dad's footsteps, she is awesome!! My best friend and partner in crime...

Happy Birthday lil' one!

The Greatest Lesson of all

I think that the greatest gift (or perhaps the second greatest gift because a man named JC is already THE greatest gift...) for anyone, any time of the year, through the most challenging parts of life or when beginning a new (and somewhat) scary journey is not the gift that costs the most or even stands out as the most pretty... it is a rosebud.

I don't know where she got it from or who taught it to her; I don't know why my dream was re-living this particular childhood memory or why I find the lesson in it so very profound... but I am blaming it on the Massively-Insane-large-sitting in my stomach milkshake from last night.

I love my grandmother. She has taught me how to knit, cross stitch, boil potatos without them boiling over, how to camp, the song, You are my Sunshine, bake, and follow my heart - wherever it shall lead. But more than that, she taught me a lesson about life that I dare say is the greatest lesson of all. A lesson of trust and submission, a lesson I will carry with me on this road in life, through seminary and God willing - ordained ministry of some form or another.

I was really young and we had gone camping with my grandparents. It was normally tradition to either go for a bike ride or "nature walk" at some point every day and looking back, I have a feeling that the long bike rides my grandad took us on were to leave my grandma a few moments of silence and sanity. She never came for the bike rides, but she was totally there for the walks.

She understood, I think better than anyone, my "I'm the oldest and I can do it by myself" attitude and so on one of the walks, she plucked a tiny wild rosebud off the plant as we sauntered by. Handing it to me she said, "I bet you that you can't open this flower without breaking a single petal," and the challenge was on.

Much to my childhood disappointment, my wise and all knowing grandmother was right and the more I saw defeat approaching, the harder I tried. I think I must have broken every petal at least twice before I threw it in the bush and mumbled, "I bet you that you are right."

She smiled, embraced me in a sideways sort of hug and spoke a poem that went something like this:

It is only a tiny rosebud: a flower of God's design; But I cannot unfold its petals with these clumsy hands of mine. For the secret of unfolding flowers is not known to such as I. It is GOD who opens this flower so sweetly, when in my hands it fades and will die. If I cannot unfold a rosebud, this flower of God's design, then how on earth can I think I have wisdom to unfold this life of mine? So, I'll trust in Him for His leading each moment of every day. I will always look to him for His guidance each step of the pilgrim way. This pathway that lies before me, only my Heavenly Father knows. So I'll trust in Him to unfold the life moments, just as He unfolds the rose.

Now that I remember it, I just need to work on the "trust" part of it. Oh Boy!!

A tiny serving of God's grace...

Perhaps it was the fact that my family sat in the same pew every Sunday from the time I was 5 or maybe it had something to do with altar serving almost every Sunday from the day I turned 7... or, who knows... maybe I was just born a church nerd. Whatever it is, intrinsic or learned, I have a deep love and admiration for churches and stained glass windows. I'm not at all shocked to admit that it was through this burning love, I received a tiny portion of God's grace this evening.

I was able to fall asleep but it only took rolling over once to realize that Milkshake the Insanely Massive was still sitting in my stomach and he didn't care much for movement. And so flipping through library books most sanitized, there she be.

Much to my tearful eyes did appear, a picture of the Holy Family illuminated by God's perfect light and radiating God's unexplainable love.

I tried to get up - I needed to tell the world, the entire Alexander clan of this gift of grace and peace that had come over me. Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't because I am still shaking with so much excitement, and bursting at the lips with chocolate milkshake, I probably would have fallen down the stairs. A piece of the broken puzzle has been found! And that piece is me!!

Truth be told, of all the people that could be illuminated the most from the picture, the person I least suspected was Mary, but there she was... full of grace and one with the Lord; holy and blessed and praying over none other... but the Son of God. I sit here and wonder, did Mary know how very special this babe would be? Was she aware of the pain and suffering he would one day face? Did she kiss him good night, and if so, was she really that close with God in heaven? What were her prayers for this child? When she looked down in awe, did she ever wonder, how can I do this? or I'm much to young or what if...? Did she know then just how hard it would be to let go and let God at Calvary? Did she understand the rollarcoaster of emotions that Jesus would carry her through from a panic striken mother to a devout follower and disciple?

I can speculate, but until I meet her in heaven, I will never know. But it doesn't matter because ultimately, at the end of day, whether these questions have known answers or not, Jesus Christ is our Saviour - the one and only... healer and physician of all.

But do you know what is more important than that?

That even taken over by fear, hundreds (I'm sure) of questions, doubt, speculation, hesitancy, frustration and being completely overwhelmed, she said yes to God.

She understood one simple fact and that was that God loved her so much and knew (like really truly knew her) her and... wait for it... amoung all the women God could have chosen, he chose Mary.

The greatest part is that Mary was never alone. Gabriel walked the first stretch with Mary and then it was her cousin Elizabeth. Along came Joseph and then later, Jesus, and at his death - the disciples. Although it probably seemed tough at the time, Mary was truly - never alone. She had support, a mission, and the love of God... that's all she needed.

God could have chosen a million other people to walk in the shoes I am stumbling in now, but he didn't. He chose me, and by golly - I can't let him down. So, with Mary as my guide - with all my Gabriel's, Elizabeth's, Joseph's, JC's, and disciples, I continue forward... embracing each step with as much strength as I can muster.
I have been chosen, I have support, a mission, and the love of God. What more can I ask for?

Rules? Nah... who are you kiddin'?

"There are some people who feel that the rules do not apply to them..." and "no one is having trouble with the rules but you..." When she says them in her sweet, supa Nanny way with a certain aire of authority, she almost sounds as though she could be the Queen getting after one of her subjects for stepping out of line. She says it with such grace, I was rather flabbergasted to finally understand that she was talking about me and to me.

Perhaps that is why to this point in life, I have been drawn so strongly to youth ministry... a ministry where you can make up the rules as you go. This picture still makes me laugh until my sides hurt. Brittney (the gal featured in the photo looking like a drenched sailor) and I (who may or may not be the life size bunny) decided that the RC Church did not celebrate All Saints Day as much as they could and thought it would be valuable for that to change. So, dressed in a full (yes FULL) bunny suit (from head to toe - with little bunny booties taking the place of my regular shoes) I hopped from the back of the Church to the front when everyone had sat down after communion - wiggling my nose and shaking my little tail - to make the announcement that there would be an All Saints Day party the following weekend after all the services. Going without my glasses as to not see anyone's reaction, I did fine until I got close enough to the front to see Fr. Andrzej, our polish priest, almost crying from laughing so hard.

(That's right - Catholics know how to party... Anglican's may get a visit from St. Nicholas but the congregation at St. Albert Parish got a visit from the Easter Bunny... who we actually tried to pass as "St. Bunny" because of course the Easter Bunny has no Church significance what so ever, but "St. Bunny" was the patron saint of all bunnies who lived in bunny land!).

However, it didn't seem to matter what I tried in youth ministry, whether trying to claim to be "St. Bunny" or take youth on a ski trip in which we spend the night in the Emergency room of both Canmore and the Foothills Hospital in Calgary for a slight overdose of alcohol for a certain individual (not me!) who snuck off... not once did I get in trouble for breaking the rules. I followed the general protocol, but did completely outrageous things like a Halloween/All Saints party without a single mention of "rules". (Granted, I would never try this in the position I have now because I think my employer might have a slight heart attack...)

With knowing this, does it surprise you in the least that when rules are put in place to eventually make me better, I still have no desire to follow them?

Let's go over some of them...

1) I am to wear a mask at all times - sleeping or awake (unless eating) to prevent any germ from floating into my body. Apparently my body is in overdrive and a small bug could turn out to be fatal.

2) The number of people (total) I am to interact with over the remaining 5ish weeks of chemo... is 5. The same 5 people the entire time. HA! I am breaking that one by simply living where I am. And this means I need to receive permission from my oncologist tomorrow to go home on Sunday for my sisters birthday supper. (They better say yes because otherwise they are setting me up to break yet another rule!)

3) There is sanitizer by my bed and is to be used before I get in bed, while in bed, and before I get out.

4) Anything I touch is to be regularily washed (clothing, bedding, blankets), and anything touching my mouth (like eating utensils) are to be sanitized or boiled before I use them. Books, pens, my glasses, handles of doors, my computer keyboard, the shower... you name it - supposed to be sanitized or disinfected regularily because I simply can't afford to have any bug.

5) Avoid live animals (they are apparently prone to carrying germs in their fur or saliva) and refrain from going in public (and by refrain, they really mean - don't try it unless you want us to admit you!)

6) Anyone that I do come in contact with is to be sanitized (kind of funny if you think about it) before coming in contact - ie insane hand washing followed by disinfectant hand sanitizer and should be wearing a mask to contain their germs - whether they are aware they have them or not.

7) Stay warm! Apparently when your body gets cold, it suppresses your immune system? I think that's the reason they gave. Regardless, staying warm is now a rule - not just a good idea.

8) On off days of chemo I am to use a saline solution, while wearing a mask, to clean around the PIC line site.

9) I have one week from today (Thursday) to put back at least half the weight I have lost. One week. (And no, I don't wish to discuss the consequence of what might happen if I don't)

10) Stay hydrated. The hydration via iv that I receive at the Cross (while it feels very strange) is to only partially replace the unhydrated cells that dried up from the drugs of chemo. Rather stupid, but so be it.

Any-who, there you have it - the top 10 rules to getting my life back. Slightly stupid or a lot stupid?? Hmmm... wouldn't you feel a little odd if you had a mask on and anyone and everyone around you had a mask on? If beating cancer is largely mental, I don't know about anyone else but some of these rules make it pretty obvious as to who is sick and who is not, who has an immune system and who has none...

So here I lay - wearing two pairs of pants, a hoodie, my coat and covered with an electric blanket, a quilt and a fleecy... wishing it were all finished, whatever the outcome will be. Waking up in the darkness and asking the question, "where am I" for the millionith time since the end of November, crying as silently as I can into my blanket - which I can still smell through the mask, thinking and debating which rules are bendable and which are not, and pleading for the achey pain to cease and ever so softly uttering the words, "My God, my God, why have you foresaken me?" until I once again fall asleep, awaiting the next awakening and sweet Canadian-British sound of my name, carrying with her the next dose of required medication.

An Ode to the waterfront

The details of the picture do not matter, for the hero in disguise who took it knows exactly who they are... (I hope!).

Let me tell you a story... (yay, I like stories!)

There once was this person... augh - forget it. I am not in a story telling mood tonight. Let me just jump to the moral of the story. If I blogged about each and every wonderful moment in this journey, the blog would be pages upon pages upon... well, more pages. But the individual of whom I speak... well, you'll see.

Have you ever heard that quote that says..."if you are really lucky in life you will meet those kinds of people who touch your heart in such a way, their footprints are left right across your heart so that you will never forget them - nor what they've done." Well, the quote doesn't exactly go like that... but close enough. Anyway, she is one of those people - who has forever changed my life by just being a part of it.

She is the kind of person whom I feel blessed to know. She is real, she is genuine, she is funny, and she is truly, "one of a kind." She is one of the only (there are a few, but not many) people who will send a small one or two line email with a joke, following up to see how my first day back on campus was, with an encouraging word (or two or three) or will go to the place she hates the most (the mall) in order to just "hang out". Her knowledge of ETS is profound, she hates being around pathetic numbers of people, and she loves the outdoors. Her artwork and writing is inspiring and her "this is the way it is" attitude is so refreshing. But do you know the greatest thing about it is? She is someone who allows you (or in this case... me) to "be."

She doesn't ask a million questions about parts of my life I wish weren't there and she seems to understand that I am still me - hair or not - better than anyone. Our conversations as we crossed all over the city yesterday were not deep nor profound in any way. They were not religious (technically not religious, certain elements of religion may have come up though) nor probing.

They were interesting, but more importantly... life giving.

I can't describe it really... maybe it was the venting about Church or the serious lack of plan. It could have been the plans put in place for the spring of 2008 or talking of funeral homes and how they brand their water. Whatever it was, it worked. And so, an ode to the waterfront.

Ms. Talented Photographer, I hope you not only recognize your ability for capturing the bigger picture, but the gratitude from those for whom you help to see the bigger picture. While there is beauty in the fence and grass, you have a God given ability to somehow move people to the front row seat of the waterfront... taking control of the boat in which resides the dreams of the future.

And so, with an ode to the waterfront at VanEs, my bus riding companion - an ode to you. May you one day know the grace you bestow.

This too, my child, shall pass

I attended Christ Church this morning for what I fear, will be the last time for a long time. Starting the second round of "punch-u-in-the-gut" treatment, I am heading in with a full awareness of teh "guidelines" that will be put in place. Unfortunately, while all for my own well being, 5 is a very small number. And, call it instinct or an irrational fear, but I have this horrible feeling that the times of isolation and desperation will not disappear any time soon.

I am in favor of beating Albert once and for all and while the odds for six weeks of fun are next to nothing, should this be the last battle, I wish to go down fighting for what I believe in: faith, hope, love, justice, and life; Winnipeg in the Spring, Spain and Taize in 2008 and seminary somewhere by 2009.

As I sat and cried for what seemed like the millionth time since the middle of November this afternoon with one of those people I can always be myself with - tears, fears and all - I squeaked the words, "but I'm scared."

Ah! I just said them again.

I am scared of being here, in what seems to be the most dense and closed in forest of all time, wondering if I will again feel the sun on my face and hear the songs of the animals the same way I once did; I am scared of being alone and lost, not knowing enough to get myself to the open valley or field. I am scared that while I hold my breath, exhausted and following where the more knowledgeable lead, this could be where the journey finishes; I am scared of the words from the most knowledgeable that just continue to echo off each leaf, branch, and stone: 'if six weeks of the chemotherapy that you would receive does not bring a period of remission, then at least we know that we have done our best in fighting the cancer and can then focus our energy on making you as comfortable as we can... before you agree, you need to understand that the cancer cells have multiplied and migrated. This is a whole new ballgame Angela, in which without treatment, could only reach the top of the second inning, but that even with treatment, may very well not reach the bottom of the ninth.' I am scared.

Then again, how could I not be?

At 21, hearing the word "death" and my own name in the same sentence, I have a right to be scared, don't I? After a long day of being out and about in the morning at a meeting and then meeting up with my scrap-booking goddess friend planning a trip to visit some friends in Toronto March and setting plans for the Camino in 2008... my body aches beyond comfort. It feels as though certain cells have already taken over parts of me, so how can I possibly be brave and not scared? When unable to stand or even sit through an entire service of Holy Communion without seeing white patches and feeling faint, for a Church marathoner, how could the fear not be rising? Cringing at the very thought of stairs or long distances, lying awake in the darkness of the night when I no longer need to be strong for everyone else, how can I stop myself from being scared? The fear of hearing the fire alarms go off and panicking insanely for the leg to stop cramping so that I can move it and rely on it to get me to safety, is a fear like no other, even when the alarms manage to stop before my leg does.

I can not pretend to know the answers or even that the answers are to be had, but I shall clutch (ever so tightly) to the words I heard this afternoon from that one person whom I trust so very much, "this too shall pass."

I have been fortunate enough to be reminded numerous times, both in my RC upbringing and my beloved Anglican family that my love of God, my desire to serve, and my innocent yet joyful faith... set me apart. And in some backward sort of functioning, as faulted as I am, have brought inspiration or spunk to one or two along my journey thus far.

And so, even though I am "do-er" and am scared out of my wits, there are a few things that I need to remember and if I forget, am counting on someone to remind me that I have said this and make me re-read or simply stand behind it. Ready?

I am, first and foremost, a child of God. A well loved, supported, guided, very dear child of God and what an honor that is... like in the gospels when Jesus meets up with the rich young man and we read, "and Jesus loved him"... God loves me. That's right... I am loved and God is always there in that love.

Secondly, although I can not feel that warm blanket embrace right now, God (and God's love) are not always tangible - but that doesn't make them any less there.

Thirdly, God communicates in so many different ways. Sometimes in dreams (Joseph), words (Jeremiah), experiences (Paul), silent-sitting-under-the-fig-tree moments (Nathanial), and sometimes, if we are truly blessed, through others: angels (Mary). Through those people who (each in their own way) lift us on their wings when we can not lift ourselves, who carry us when we can not bear to walk and who comfort us when we can not dry our own tears.

And finally, this too shall pass. In God's timing (not mine), the very wings of the Spirit shall come along and we will together, soar out of the forest - however that shall play out or look like for onlookers.

Until then, even if only moving my lips to the words or allowing my prayer to be two single words of "Lord Jesus" because that is all I can muster up the courage to say, I will remain faithful for that is all that God is asking. God will do the rest. And leaning (literally!) on "what God hath provided" I shall crawl into the heart and shelter of the Holy Mother Mary and her infant son (as described best by P-M type) and rest there awhile.

A place where I don't have to worry about "doing" but that place where I can just "be."

(Hopefully....)

Prayer and the dark night of the soul

Before I post and make my confession about prayer I just have to say that blogs are funny things. Some blogs come in the middle of the night when the world is its darkest, some people use them as annonymous places to leave their thoughts while never saying who they are. Some use blogs to keep in touch with friends or relatives and others don't even publish or announce the address of their blog to anyone. Some read the blog and tell you about it or comment on it while others have never acknowledged that they read it but seem to know how to answer the questions that I raise, the concerns that I share. In fact, rumor has it, people start blogging because they become addicted through the blog of someone else. Not that reading Campus-Priest's blog, chocolate-friend's blog, Fox-trot-priest's blog, inspiring-friend's blog, music-man's blog, or scrapbooking-goddess' blog got me into blogging or anything... but it is interesting to notice, that's all.

Now about this prayer thing...

I don't know how Anglicans feel about a wonderful man from centuries ago by the name of St. Juan de la Cruz (St. John of the Cross), but growing up in the RC Church this man was looked upon as not only a saint of the Church, but a Doctor of the Church. A great and highly respected mystic, if you have ever read any of his writing it would be no surprise as to why people place him on the pedestal in the realm of theology and a relationship with the Divine.

As I get more and more into the reading of theology and writers such as this, it becomes apparent quite quickly that these "highly regarded people of our day" were normal people in their own day. They lived, breathed, struggled, suffered, prayed, danced, and ate... everything that we could do without batting an eye. St. Teresa of Avila, St. Terese of Lisseux, St. John of the Cross... saints are saints because they shone extravagantly throughout their life - which begins the discussion of how each and every one of us are saints - but that is a discussion for later.

The point of the matter is this: St. John of the Cross has verbalized "the dark night of the soul" which we all experience at some point in our lives. That point which we all wish and pray with such conviction, to avoid.

I remember saying a number of weeks back that after a particular service at Christ Church I was left in a temporary state of shock and felt that I didn’t know where to go, what to do, or worse… what to pray. And I recall the Holy Mitred One specifically asking the question, “how is your prayer” the first time she came to visit.

Well I am pleased to say that the concern of what to pray has now ceased however I am ashamed to admit that it is no longer a problem because, in answering the Holy-Mitred’s question, there is no prayer.

I attended evening prayer at the “home-base” yesterday evening but may not return for a little while. For the first time at contemplative prayer in months (literally), my mouth moved to the shape of the words and a quiet, somewhat squeaky voice generated the words I was attempting… but there was nothing. In the time of silence and contemplative part of the evening, again… nothing. Normally I can picture myself sitting cross legged on the Church floor in front a flame or candle of some sort and sense my homey, JC, parking down on the floor beside me – neither one of us saying anything, but simply “being.” And then being wrapped in the arms of God, the two of us together as if covered by a light but warm blanket. Not “doing” anything other than sitting in one another’s company. Occasionally some words are spoken, but never out loud… they are spoken through the embrace, through the company, through the heart.

It’s hard to describe really… I guess unless you have ever had a similar experience you would think I have lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Yesterday there was even a candle as we celebrated the Service of Light at evening prayer, but believe me when I say that there was no candle. There was no flame, no company, no feeling of that warm embrace. (Not that I am doubting it was there, I just couldn’t feel it anymore!) In fact, as horrible as this sounds, the thoughts of wishing for the priest to wrap it up – actually crossed my mind. Or the feeling of speaking the words of the Lord’s Prayer or Hear, O Israel or the Apostle’s Creed but having them as nothing more than words. It is the oddest feeling in the world.

And unfortunately, I am upset to say that I actually understand the void and feeling of darkness in the soul that St. John of the Cross seemed to so clearly articulate. I am not defeated, I really am not… but prayer and Church is what has gotten me through every other rough spot or climb in my life thus far.

So why can’t I pray now when it matters the most?

I spent more than an hour at the “home-base” on Monday, missing out on that all important interview, but couldn’t verbalize anything – and even then, meant nothing more than sitting in an empty church with the lights off, staring blankly at the stained glass windows.

Hmmm… maybe just don’t tell the Holy-Mitred one or any of the Priestly types that although we may embark the discernment process at some point in the future, I have come to a log jam in prayer.

PEANUTBUTTER-SHMAKLE!

Taking up knitting? Are you joking??

Until the time when I finally graduated to having my own room in the basement, I had the honor of sharing with my next youngest sister and best friend Kristin, aka "Boke."

Whenever one of us couldn't sleep, we would read the other one our favorite stories. I always chose the Velveteen Rabbit or the Princess and the Pea. If that didn't work or she didn't feel like reading, she would start to sing or hum the all time favorite song, "You are my Sunshine" as we learned from my grandma as soon as we could talk, I'm sure. We took pride in memorizing all the verses and singing it when we were camping in the pouring rain.

Well, I have a confession to make. Adjustments had to be made when I moved into residence life and my sister was not on the other side of the bed or right next door but 45 minutes away... in a car! Laying there, if the thumb sucking and blanket suffocating the face while twirling the hair didn't work, my next option was going for a walk or run... yes, even at completely horrid hours of the night! (Just ask Sister-in-Japan about late night walks!). When both of these methods failed in sleep aid, there was always cleaning. Sweeping, scrubing, dishes, vacuuming, anything that I could do that would completely and utterly exhaust me.

Well, we have a slight complication to all this and I fear that if I don't do something soon, the energy and strength to put my socks on in the morning or tuck Booker the Bear in at night will soon cease to exist.

Last night I returned to classes... it was nightclass - nice and small with only 8 people (the prof included) and got home shortly after 9pm. Completely (and I truly mean there was little to nothing left) I crawled up to bed, and shivering... slid under the electric blanket the Holy Mitred One lent me. With my coat and scarf still on I dosed off.

BUT, as soon as my thumb went to my lips, I woke up in tears.

Apparently one of the side-effects to chemotherapy is that the patient "may develop mouth sores". May?? Really?? The really stupid, annoying, painful thing though is that they have progressed from small little sores to being swollen and excruciating. The entire one side of my mouth is swollen from my teeth to the roof of my mouth. There is absolutely no thumb sucking because as soon as something (and something is really anything) touches any of these burning areas of my mouth, I can't help but cry. It is the same sort of feeling that comes when you put rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer onto an open cut - even as small as a paper cut.

It hurts and it hurts horribly.

And, there is nothing you can do but "wait it out" JOY!

This is the same reason that food has absolutely no appeal, drinking juice, anything cold, anything hot... anything. I can get past the sore throat, I can get past the complete lack of energy and painful coughs and sneezes, the sore muscles, the horrid bruises, and the lack of hair to not twirl.

This is another can of worms.

The last two nights have been long, tear filled and painful. Especially when one starts to dose off and forgets the "don't you put it in your mouth" rule that is now in place. Maybe I should take up knitting... although those needles are pretty sharp - knowing me, I would wake up after falling asleep while knitting - with two needles jabbed deep into the flesh.

Amoungst the other ailments, perhaps this would go un-noticed though...
Hmmm....

"Take up Your cross and follow me?"

These are the words that we so often hear when the going gets tough... we need to take up our cross and follow Jesus. However, I dare to bet that no one ever really realizes how heavy, burdonsome, and un-fun that cross can really be.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about this in light of the Leukemia and everything that has come with that.

Not too long ago I had a friend tell me that I needed to own the Leukemia - I needed to somehow make it my own. Besides naming him Albert and having fun games in which we destroyed another part of Albert each day, I never really had a burning passion to own something so destructive and horrible - how could I?

But, after spending some serious time thinking about this, perhaps my scrapbooking adoring friend had a point. Perhaps there really is something to picking up your cross.

In doing some research I have discovered the fact that there is not a single picture that I could find where Jesus was smiling or overflowing with joy and found it quite surprising to discover that the look on his face tells the entire story. He is wearing the look that says, "I really wish I was sitting on my own in a Church somewhere right now" or "I don't deserve this" or even more simple, "URGH!" The pictures depict pain, agony, frustration, hurt, suffering, exhaustion, and betrayal. And somewhere and somehow - in studying these pictures, it clicked. These emotions began to sound really familiar and the crying out of Jesus very quietly started to sound more and more like my own voice.

Just like Jesus didn't have a choice of whether or not to actually pick up a cross and later be crucified upon it, I had no say in whether or not this Leukemia-thing was something I desired. No one asked if it was okay for me to battle this and no one asked if I was ready to fight it or whether or not I had the courage and strength to fight it. No one asked. No one asked how I felt about doing another round or if I would be okay with doing the "intense" three treatments a week for at least the first three of six weeks, whether I could handle missing Church and work, or how I felt about being "home-schooled" while in University. Not a single person... they all assumed that I would just simply take up my cross and follow Christ through this small lil' uphill battle.

With round two's start date looming dangerously near, the answer is no.

I did it... I really did. Ask MJ... Albert was dead and it is hardly fair to say that he rose from the dead just like another fellow we know.

No, I don't desire Leukemia. No, it's not okay to battle again when it didn't kill it the first time. No, I don't have the strength or courage yet to sign up on the dotted line to do it all over again. No, I don't want it to be intense, I don't want three weeks and no, a total of 6 more weeks is out of the question. No, I can't be away from Church any longer - or my job and no, being homeschooled in post secondary is stupid. No, I'm not ready to pick up my cross - I have only just admitted and realized that it is my cross to carry.

That is un-fun enough for right now...

Over and out,
A.