It was a great honor to write an exclusive story for the LifeWay audience that is not included in the book. So come check it out.
Here, I’ll get you started…
I love stories. Maybe it’s how I learn, or maybe it’s just my dramatic belief that I could be a kindred spirit with the likes of Anne of Green Gables, but whatever it is, stories speak to me and often come closest to defining the otherwise inexplicable in life. So, I wrote you a story.
This story is exclusive because it isn’t in the book and I it put into words just for you. But this story is also a communal experience with aspects like fear, pain, love, and the unknown.
I invite you to see yourself in me. Learn from my broken story, and then go and tell your own beautifully broken story – because God is who He says He is.
The IV pumps clicked comfortingly in the eerie glow of monitors and the clock on the wall read 11:30 p.m. – late for even the children’s hospital emergency room…
It was a long weekend and we spent too much time feeling blind in a lot of different ways.
And surgery can take the cataracts out of him, but never the “boy“.
We took a walk in the bright and sun on Sunday and he kept a blanket, hood, hat and sunglasses all over his swollen, ultra light-sensitive face, but he hopped out of the stroller for one minute to do this…
Because, you know, it’s Chase.
And after a while, you learn to expect the unexpected.
This week was meant to be filled with book launch celebration (and so it shall be too because as you will see here, we need to keep talking about children with cancer), and yet, in an ultimate and awful picture into the heartbreak of pediatric cancer and the broken messiness of life, I come to you with news that defies words.
Chase’s friend Lucas is out of curative options.
Here are some words from his parents…
“With a very heavy heart and tears in our eyes, we must write this post. This morning Mama and Papa Bear, along with his oncology team, sat down to discuss the situation. After a long discussion, it has been decided that there are no further curative options. In simplest terms, there is nothing more we can do to fight this.
We have started palliative chemo to attempt to slow the growth of the tumor. The tumor is wrapped around the pulmonary artery and is pressing on Lucas’ heart.
Right now Lucas is still playing with Legos and video games and yelling at everyone. His breathing is labored and he is swollen.
A palliative/ hospice team will be meeting us at our home tomorrow after we get discharged to work on the next steps.”
Lucas was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia only about two months after Chase was diagnosed and the boys were often admitted at the same time and would play together in the playroom or race up and down the halls. After year upon year of grueling treatment (leukemia treatments last 2-3 years at best for littles!), Lucas finished only to be readmitted with a tumor in his lungs last July. After months in the PICU, he has barely been home before this, now…another tumor…and on his heart. An endless fight.
Oh my heart…and I hope yours too. For this should not be. Dear ones, please pray for this sweet family. For Lucas’ parents, Anthony and Rina, for Lucas’ older brother, Franco – please pray.
If you’d like a very practical way to minister to this family, Lucas’ birthday is May 7th and his parents have encouraged friends and supporters to send cards. You can show love in this way by mailing cards to: Lucas Bear Heroes, 40 E. Chicago Ave., #162, Chicago, IL. 60611
There may be other words, but not today. Today, I stand in silence with this…
I can tell you many things, but there is one thing I absolutely cannot even begin to describe.
There is a road I’ve thought I might see from a distance just a few times, but it is one I’ve never yet been asked to walk. However, one of the dear “cancer mama sisters of my heart”, Christina – she was asked to walk this road as her darling Noah went from her arms into Jesus’ on September 27, 2015 at 5:46PM. Just over six months ago now, and if you were to ask her, she might be able to tell you the days and maybe even the hours that have passed too. For Noah was just three when he stopped suffering and his family started anew.
Throughout this time, I have so admired Christina’s strength and faith and so when she opened up her hurting heart just recently, I asked her permission to share her gorgeous, raw words with you. Take a minute and hold her up in prayer as you hold up her honest, heartbroken words, and please, oh, please, let them change you as we live and move among the grieving.
Time sucks.
I am struggling with the fact that as it passes I am moving farther from the time I last held my son. Last held his hand, kissed his cheek, felt him breathe, fed him, heard his voice, and the list goes on. I know with each day that passes I am technically getting closer to the time we are reunited. But being in this middle is hard. It kind of feels like I am swimming away from an island where life wasn’t perfect but was good, towards a ship that I cannot see but know will be coming to rescue me. The island is moving farther away as I keep swimming forward, but I don’t know when I’ll reach the ship. And in the mean time I’m struggling just to keep my head above water. I know how to swim. And I know I’ll be rescued. But this period of time in the middle is so hard.
I’ve been given little rafts along the way, breaks in the pain, but eventually have to keep swimming. I’m trying to see the blessings God is providing. And there are many. Some days I see them more clearly. And other days it gets clouded. As life moves forward I have moments of feeling so alone. Around here it’s not commonplace to have a child die. We don’t see it happen on a regular basis in our neighborhoods, schools, groups of friends… I know it is in many other parts of the world. But our friends, family, coworkers, and classmates get to look forward to celebrating their kids/friends/siblings next birthday. Or look forward to summer with bike rides, pool passes, vacations. We do too, but with one member of our family missing. It’s raw, and devastatingly hard. Winter has been a way to hide from a lot of what I’m scared to face. The sandbox that’s not being played in, Noahs truck sitting in the garage, his bike that he never really got the chance to ride, other little brothers running around outside with their big sisters.
Tonight has been a lot of hard. Really since we came to the year of diagnosis it’s been hard. A lot of emotion and grief overflows. Life is moving forward and I feel like I’m ready for another raft to be thrown. In the beginning there are many, and now I feel like they’re farther apart. Mostly because I’m getting better at swimming. But when I tire it comes out of nowhere and I struggle.
Noah feels farther away, I don’t see a ship, and tonight I’m tired of trying to see the positive in everything. So I’m going to allow myself to feel, to be a little angry, and pray for some relief.
The year I turned eight was the year my mom was pregnant with my last little sister. I was old enough to understand and be excited and each new and frosty December morning, I would run to my bedroom window to see if Miss Becky’s car was in the driveway. If her car was there, it meant my parents had gone to the hospital and my new baby sister had arrived.
Miss Becky went to church with us. I remember that her husband -Mr. Tim- was very, very tall to us, that one time, we went over to her apartment to help her get a cake in the shape of lamb for a baby shower, and that she had a huge smile and an infectious laugh. She also loved to talk about Jesus. But not how most people I knew talked about Jesus. She talked about him as if he was a precious friend, someone she really knew and loved and interacted with – much the same way I would talk about the friends I played with after school.
It was around the same time that I first have memories of her that Miss Becky got sick. She had something I had never heard of before, but I knew it must have been serious because I could see great concern on the faces of the adults when they spoke about it. They said my Miss Becky had something called cancer.
I remember that her hair looked different for a while but nobody ever told me that it was a wig. Kids don’t always get told those kind of things. And of course, I had no knowledge of things like procedures or chemotherapies, but almost every night, during our family times, we’d pray for Miss Becky to be healed from this strange thing called cancer.
Our precious Miss Becky won her battle with what I now know was breast cancer while I was still very young. The years passed and she had children of her own and our families ended up at different churches. It would be years before I’d see her again.
When Chase was diagnosed with cancer, Becky was on the front lines of those who prayed for us and encouraged us. Cancer can make things very personal and re-knit friendships just in the shared experience. She knew what it was like for my Chasey to have the chemo taste in his mouth, the chemo-induced neuropathy that made his hands and feet tingle like they were asleep, and the hard, long days in the hospital. She knew and she prayed for us.
When Chase finished treatment, we saw each other at a party and I watched her watch Chase as he ran up and down the length of the gymnasium. Her, with the beautiful, big smile and marvel of his energy and life. And we talked about how she’d been free herself for twenty-six years.
We saw each other again last summer at the ball park and we picked up right where we’d left off. She always encouraged Chase in such a beautiful way, making a big deal about his battle even though she’d fought her own. And her smile was as big as ever and her love for Jesus was as real as ever.
But not so very long ago, after twenty-eight full years, there were tests, and confirmation, and then a quiet picture of a beloved and dog-eared page of her bible –
“…that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many.” 2 Corinthians 1:9-11
Next to these words were written two dates – “11/87” and “10/15”. The implication was clear: the reprieve was over and Becky’s cancer was back.
Even as I write, she is in the middle of this second fight, but as it has unfolded and she’s let us have a glimpse into this second journey with her, it’s been an amazing honor to witness. She’s honest about the tears and weakness, but she’s also honest about her joys and her love for Jesus is clear throughout her words. After I posted a picture of Chase going to his hospital dressed as pirate last week, she sent me this picture in return…
Inspired by Chase’s fun, she’d found a fun way to show her courage and strength as well. And this beautiful woman clearly rocks a head scarf like none other.
All these seemingly flailing string ends, pieces of lives and stories so senselessly hit with diseases like cancer; I believe they’re being braided and woven into a tapestry we just can’t see or understand yet and it includes tiny bits like pirate costumes.
Because sometimes, it takes an eye patch to get just a hinted glimpse of the goodness of God in weaving our lives together – even in the pain.
Becky’s twice-proved courage, Chase’s strength, and God’s grace . . . moment by moment.
“That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave.” Ann Voskamp
** For more on Becky’s life and faith, visit: https://byfaithbecky.wordpress.com/ **