Many years ago, I decided to host a family reunion for my Dad's side of the family. We rarely got together, and I thought it would be a good idea, so I began putting things together. 

I talked with my Mother and Sister, asking for their thoughts on the idea. They both thought it would be nice and so I moved forward. 

After drafting an invitation, I set a date and circled it on my calendar. I was excited to see cousins I hadn't seen in years. 

For days, I cleaned every inch of my house (which was normally very clean anyway.) I made sure to dust the ceiling fans and make sure every bathroom sparkled. I wanted my guests to feel free to roam through my entire house, after all, there would be almost 30 people coming! 

The day before the event, I went shopping and began to prepare the food. There was a lot to do in such a short amount of time, but with the help of my daughters, things began to fall into place. 

My refrigerator was filled with casseroles that I'd just pop into the oven hours before the guests began to arrive. Coolers were filled with ice and canned drinks. Tea had been made; tables had been set up. My home was beginning to look like an event hall, and I was happy. 

Hospitality isn't a gift I've ever claimed to have. It's one I've struggled with. I don't do well with the sitting and visiting part, but since the Bible says to "practice hospitality," I do my best. 

One by one, family members started to arrive. I welcomed them one by one and did my best to make them feel at home. 

Since I had things in the oven, I couldn't stay in the living room long. I had to keep going into the kitchen to make sure nothing was burning. And since several family members were already there, I figured they could talk amongst themselves while I busied myself attending to details. I was in full on "Martha” mode. 

When everyone had arrived, I showed them the varied tables set up for dining. They could choose where they wanted to sit and I had plenty of room. The older relatives, including my parents, chose to sit in the formal dining room. The kids sat at a card table in the living room, while most of the other family members scattered between my kitchen table and a long folding table set up in my formal living room. After everyone had their place, I asked people to take their plates and begin moving through the kitchen buffet style. 

As people filled their plates, I moved among them asking what they'd like to drink and asking if anyone needed anything. There were so many of them and only one of me! 

Soon, pleasant chatter filled my home, and I began the task of going from one room to another asking if anyone needed help. Some needed salt or a drink refill. I happily obliged. 

I don't know how long I served, but time was ticking by. 

On my next round through the formal living room, my cousin, Steve, patted the seat next to him and said, "Come sit down and visit with us." Throwing my head back in laughter, I chortled, "I'd like to, but I've got to keep moving! There's so much to do." He didn't press me, and I continued my busy work. 

The reunion was a huge success and my Daddy enjoyed it so much. That was my main goal, to bless him. 

Today, as I was studying about the the story of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus again, God hit me between the eyes. "Remember the reunion when Steve asked you to sit and visit?" "Yes, Lord, I do." "You didn't. You should have. Why didn't you?" " I was so busy. I didn't have time." "You should have made time. You would have been blessed." "Ouch!" Of course, that's my conversation with the Lord in my mind, and some of the words are very different, but it's the jest of it. That's when I realized, I'd been a Martha. 

I'd always wondered why Jesus chided Martha for her busy-ness and had pointed out that Mary chose the better part. I always thought Martha was doing a good thing, making sure everything was just so, but Jesus knew better. Martha did use her gift of service to please others but in so doing, she missed being able to sit and visit with the guests. Most of all, she missed being in the presence of Jesus and hearing Him speak. 

I missed visiting with my cousins. I missed the conversations that held years of updates, but by the time the reunion was over, it was too late to visit with anyone. 

My kitchen had been a beehive of activity and I'd been the queen bee but during that time, the "hive" had been busy laughing, loving, and lingering. I'd missed it all! 

And just a month ago, I missed another opportunity as my youngest sister and a cousin planned another family reunion. I'd had a scheduling conflict and had to choose between two events. Instead of choosing to reschedule an anniversary/birthday trip, I opted to skip the family reunion thinking there'd be time to do another one in the near future, but that may never happen. 

As God reminded me of those lost opportunities today, I wept bitter tears of remorse. I wanted a do over. But now, many of my family members are no longer here. They've already gone on to heaven. 

One thing I can do though is make time now. 

I won't ever forget the lesson I learned from that big mistake. I've asked God to help me be more Mary-like. Who cares if the dishes are in the sink or on the counter? It's more important to be present with the people I love and care about. Time is short and I won't make that mistake again. 

A valuable object lesson

This morning, while on the phone with my youngest daughter, I decided I'd get a headstart on dinner. During the summer, I like to make use of my crockpot because it's too hot to stand over the stove and cook. As I was digging through our big chest freezer, I pulled out a package of ground beef. Noticing the date on it, September 2021, I asked if she thought it would still be good. I could tell by the silence on the other end of the phone she was busy Googling an answer. A few minutes later, she responded, "If the meat has been kept at zero or below, it will be fine. What temperature is your freezer set to?" I had no idea. She then asked me to look for the thermostat. Assuming it would be near the top back of the freezer, or along one of the sides, I began moving things around. All of a sudden, I had an avalanche of cold meats falling on my head! I picked them up as quickly as possible and put them all back into place on the top shelf, the shelf I'd designated for meats since it was closest to the vents that blow out the cold air. "I don't think it has one," I said to her. "Yes, it does," she said, "all freezers have a thermostat." 

I was so frustrated. I'd looked in the freezer and couldn't find a thermostat. Since I'm so short, I decided to go into the house and get a stepstool. As soon as I had it in hand, I went back to the freezer to look again. 

Since I'd already checked the top shelf, I moved to the second one. Moving frozen fruits and veggies, I found nothing. My daughter was still on the phone with me and encouraged me to check the door, perhaps there was one there. Nope. Nothing. 

It was cold standing in front of the freezer. I was worried about keeping the door open long since the warm air from the garage would put the food at jeopardy. Closing the door again, I went inside and searched through my appliance manuals until I found the one for the freezer. There was nothing helpful in there! 

My sweet girl asked me for the freezer model number. She was going to look up information on line. I couldn't find anything on the paper manual so I went back to the freezer to see if I could find one. That's when I got the brilliant idea to start at the bottom and work my way up. 

Moving frozen breads around, I looked at the very back of the bottom shelf of the freezer. Nothing! Now I was really getting frustrated! This was a name brand appliance, a good quality item, surely there had to be a serial number inside and surely there had to be a thermostat!

I got down on my knees and started moving things from the next shelf. Frozen Chinese entrees and convenience foods began to tumble into my lap. Holding the cold things, I continued to look. When I'd moved the last item on that shelf, way back in the back right hand corner, I could see a dial! Oh, thank the Lord! I quickly flipped on my cellphone light and shone it on the dial. Sure enough, there was a thermostat! My daughter said, "What's it set on, Mom?" I looked and saw that the dial was set on 4. Yikes! The dial only went up to 9 with 8 and 9 being marked as the coldest range. Turning the dial up to 7.5, I felt better. I wondered why I'd never thought to check the thermostat before? We'd had this appliance for 8 years!

After I'd come inside with my ground beef and slipped it into the microwave for defrosting, some verses of Scripture came to mind: "You search the Scriptures, for in them you think you have everlasting life; and these are they that bear witness about Me. “Yet you do not want to come to Me, that you may have life." John 5:39-40. Why did those verses pop into my head? I guess because I'd been searching for something that was in plain sight. 

I kept thinking about the verses and realized in Bible times, the disciples didn't have the New Testament. All they had was the Old Testament so even though they didn't have the writings telling about Jesus' life and miracles, they knew about the prophesied Messiah. Though Jesus spoke to the common people in parables, He had given His disciples the ability to understand His teachings, but often, they still were baffled at times requiring Him to go into a deeper explanation. Jesus was right there among them and still at times they didn't get it! Wow! Just like the freezer thermostat was there all along, I just didn't see it. 

Jesus doesn't hide himself from us. He wants us to know Him. 

Jeremiah 29:13 says, "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." 

The obscure thermostat brought peace of mind when I found it. Knowing I could control the temperature and keep our foods safe for long periods of time was comforting, but even more so was knowing that God used that object lesson to remind me to always keep my eyes fixed on Him. I hope you'll choose to seek Him daily and allow Him to use some of life's little frustrations to remind you that He sees and cares about you, because He really does!

Crucifying the flesh

 

Nailing it to the cross

I once had a Sunday school teacher who taught me a valuable lesson. As we sat in the classroom, a group of about 15 young women listened carefully as our teacher talked about how Jesus took all of our sins to the cross with Him. 

As a visual learner, I did my best to picture Him doing that, but it wasn't easy until Mrs. Woods pulled out a simple wooden cross and laid it on the floor in the middle of our circle. 

Slowly and carefully, she walked around the circle handing each one of us a slip of paper and a big metal nail. She instructed us to think about the sin we wanted to nail to the cross. After we'd thought about it, each of us began scribbling on our slip of paper. With tear filled eyes, we folded our slips in half and waited. Mrs. Woods began to read scripture from Galatians 5. As she reached verse 22, we listened to the various fruits of the Spirit- love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. The teacher explained those were virtues that we should all possess and those were ones that would help others see Christ in us. She continued reading and when she reached verse 24, we listened attentively, "Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires."

I don't remember everything she talked about that day, but I know she worked hard to help us understand that Jesus was and is our sin bearer and although He had already paid our sin debt and had taken all of our sins to the cross, we were probably still hanging on to some of them. She explained that wasn't healthy and it was time to let them go. 

Calling us up one by one, Mrs. Woods instructed each of us to take our burdensome sin and nail it to the cross. She handed the first girl a hammer and all of us watched as that girl pounded her nail into the cross. The sound of each hammer blow inflicted pain and sorrow on all of our hearts. One after another, each girl went forward and repeated the action of nailing a folded slip of paper to the cross. 

When each of us had taken our turn, Mrs. Woods instructed us to look at the cross. There on the floor it lay covered in nails and slips of paper. There was not a dry eye in the room as the reality of what Jesus had done for us was apparent. We'd only nailed one sin to the cross that day but I'm sure the other girls felt the same way I did. Though we were just teens, we'd already committed many sins in our young lives. Though they were "small" sins, jealousy, lying, stealing, etc. Those sins had pounded the horrid nails into our Savior's body. 

That object lesson helped us understand what it meant to crucify the flesh every single day. I'm so grateful to Mrs. Woods for taking time to teach us a valuable truth. 

I'm not sure but I believe Mr. Woods built the wooden cross for Mrs. Woods to bring to class. He was a very godly man and a skilled carpenter. I can just picture his smile as she asked him to help with the lesson. 

Some of the girls in class that day probably forgot the lesson a day or two after we'd participated in it but not me. I've remembered if for almost 50 years and I'm sure I'll remember it until the day I die. Daily I think about the need to crucify my "flesh woman." She rears her ugly head so often, I feel like I need to keep a pail of nails, a hammer, and a stack of notepaper handy. 

"Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires." Galatians 5:24. 

Our fleshly bodies are sinful and prone to fall into temptation. And that's why I keep a wooden cross nailed to my office wall with another verse of Scripture adhered to it - "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now life in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself for me." 

My prayer is that I will never forget to live cruciform daily. I pray you'll receive a blessing from this post and you'll find a need to nail your sins to the cross too, whether figuratively or literally, because Jesus has already taken them there for you but you need to remember your flesh needs to be crucified daily.

"You're an Artist! You're a Real Artist!"

Months ago, I was contacted by a woman I'd met on our trip to Israel. She explained she'd started a tradition of gathering family members together and having them participate in some sort of art project. She'd only done it once before, but thought it would be something worth continuing after last year's success. I thought it was a neat idea and immediately agreed to be the 2020 artist.

After agreeing to lead the class, I asked for details. What did she want me to do? How many people would be in the class? Etc. Etc.

I came up with a lesson plan and purchased supplies.

As the time drew near for teaching the lesson, I became very fearful and felt ill equipped. Satan was doing a number on me and I asked some of my online friends to pray.

The day of the event, my husband I drove to North Georgia, van loaded with easel and boxes of art supplies.

Arriving at the church, we set up in the fellowship hall and watched as her family members began to arrive. I knew the group would be composed of adults and children but was surprised to find we had people from 4 to 86 and the 86 year old woman had Alzheimer's disease.

As the class members took their places at the tables, I passed out supplies and we got started.

I was nervous as I began to paint. As I worked, I explained each step of the process having the people in the room attempt to follow along, but it wasn't that simple. In between painting, answering questions, and resupplying medium, I was also trying to keep my composure and train of thought. I'd never taught a group before. The span of ages was also a challenge as I tried to make the lesson simple for the children and keep the adults on track at the same time. Somehow, I worked from 10:30 until 2:30 and we got our paintings completed.

Rose, 86 with Alzheimer's

I wanted to thank those who prayed for me. Your prayers undergirded me that day and helped me remain calm. I think I held my breath those 4 hours because when we got into the car to leave, I broke down sobbing.

You see, I've never considered myself an artist. In the first place, I've never had an art lesson. I taught myself everything I know by reading, watching, or observing others. But God must have wanted me to do this project because I needed to be taken out of my comfort zone.

I'm not an extrovert but by agreeing to teach the class, I was forced to be one. And, I don't even know why I accepted the offer anyway. Normally, I would have said, "Let me think about it and I'll get back to you," but that day I said yes immediately.

God taught me somethings about myself that day. He made real to me the verse that says "when I am weak, He is strong." He also extended me plenty of grace that day as the woman who asked me to teach and all of her family members sat patiently and willingly as I tried my best to led them in a fun project.

The day turned out to be a success, but boy was I glad when it was over! A professional photographer had been hired to document the day and although I haven't seen any of the photos yet, I'm sure she got some doozies.

Right before I left the building, I decided to make a pit stop. As I was coming out of the restroom, one of the students, a cute, long haired 4 year old girl came skipping toward me saying, "You're an artist! You're a real artist!" I couldn't help but smile at her proclamation over me.

My little encourager

I wonder if God knew I needed to hear those sweet words just before leaving? I think He did and he used that beautiful, inquisitive little one to speak truth into my heart.

Bottom line and lessons learned that day -

1. God had already equipped me to teach the lesson! I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. (Phil. 4:13)

2. There was no reason for me to be afraid! "So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.(Isaiah 41:10)

3. Obedience always brings blessing.

After I'd gotten home and we'd unloaded the car, I had time to revisit the day's events. Although the lesson didn't go as planned, I did have fun and think the students did, too.And just think, if I'd said no to the offer, I wouldn't have received the blessings God had in store for me. The best part of the day was seeing that sweet little girl, with her bright pink headband, skipping down the hall and hearing her words drip with honey as she said, "You're an artist! You're a real artist!" 

 

You know, I think she just might be right. Perhaps I do have a right to claim that title now.

It's the Little Things

 Today I've been super busy getting ready for Christmas and a beach vacation all at once. There's been so much to do and so little time. 

In order to keep myself on track, I started jotting notes yesterday of all the things I wanted to accomplish today. It seems the older I get the more it helps to unload information by writing it down. 

I was making great headway until a family member wanted to FaceTime. When I stopped to enter the call, I looked at the clock and realized it was almost 3:00 p.m.and I hadn't eaten lunch yet, so the timing of the call was perfect. 

After lunch, I crossed off the tasks I'd completed and looked at the next one on the list- making Sugar Cookie dough. I put it on the list so I'd be ready to cut out cookies with my granddaughter tomorrow. 

I pulled out the ingredients to make the dough, flour, sugar, baking soda, eggs, vanilla, and butter. Gathering my mixing bowls and measuring spoons, I got busy. Mixing the ingredients was cathartic. As I was mixing, I didn't think about anything until time to wrap the dough up to refrigerate. 

Ripping off sheets of wax paper, I divided the dough into two equal portions and wrapped it. As soon as I saw the logs of dough, I was reminded of my younger Girl Scouting days. 

I can still see our group of eager scouts dressed in our green uniforms gathered around the counter in Mrs. Stodghill's kitchen. Mrs. Stodghill was the mother of one of my scouting buddies and she'd volunteered to teach the fine art of baking to our group that day. 

Many of us had never had the opportunity to put together cookie dough. We had no idea the time and preparation it took to make it, all we knew was how good it was to devour raw or cooked. 

Each of the girls in the group was assigned a task. One measured the flour, one the sugar, one the baking soda, and salt. When the dry ingredients were measured carefully into the bowl, another girl had the honor of mixing. Mrs. Stodghill gave clear instructions throughout the process then turned to the other small group of girls and helped us combine the wet ingredients into another bowl. 

If memory serves me correctly, I was the one chosen to crack the egg. I'd never cracked one in my life and was petrified of doing it, but Mrs. Stodghill was so sweet and kind. She stood behind me, her hands on mine and helped me gently tap the egg on the counter then quickly raise and open it over the bowl. Tiny bits of eggshell fell in with the egg. I was so embarrassed. I'd failed the task completely, or so I thought. Mrs. Stodghill laughed and said, "Don't worry! It happens to all of the best cooks. All you need to do is take a spoon and get those little pieces out." I was so thankful she showed me how to remove the eggshells and I was happy she hadn't scolded me. 

When the wet and dry ingredients were mixed together into one large bowl, our adult guide helped us divide the dough and wrap it telling us we'd need to chill the dough before baking. As anxious young girls, I think I remember several whines rising from the group. None of us wanted to wait to make and eat the delicacies. 

Placing my own rolls of dough into the fridge, I had to smile. If my granddaughter had been with me while mixing the dough, I'm sure she would have reacted in much the same way. 

It's funny how I can remember days over 50 years ago but I have a hard time remembering what I did yesterday. 

I'm grateful God gives us the opportunity to pull special memories from our memory bank now and then and I'm thankful for the little things that help jog those memories into the forefront our minds, aren't you? 

I'm sure only a small handful of the girls in my group took time to thank Mrs. Stodghill after our baking lesson was over. I sure hope I was one of them! 

There are many wonderful, gracious ladies like Mrs. Stodghill that helped our Girl Scout troop through the years. They gave of their time and talents because they wanted to see us succeed as young women. It's too bad that kind of caring is rare in the generations growing up today, but there are a few of the priceless gems still out there, ones who were part of our group that day, I'm sure. 

We were raised to have strong morals and values. We were raised to honor and respect our elders. We were taught to be Proverbs 31 women. I'm so glad I grew up that way and I hope, my grandchildren will learn some of those life lessons from me.

The Homeschool Lesson

I’ll never forget my eight-grade year of high school. It was such a pivotal year for me. I’d just become a teenager and had entered the world of exploring my independence. It was an amazing school year. Most of my friends and I had known each other since first grade. We’d attended the same elementary school and were so excited to be leaving Indian Creek. We thought we were hot stuff but had no idea what who we were or where we were headed.

My first year of high school was scary. I can still feel those feelings of anxiousness as I wandered down those locker lined hallways. I was a tiny minnow swimming upstream in a sea of hormones. But those scary feelings didn’t last long. Soon I learned my way around the school and began to settle into a comfortable routine.

Not long after I’d memorized my class schedule, I began having strange stomach pains. All through the school year, I struggled with extreme nausea and a feeling of something being not quite right in my belly. My mother thought it was just nerves and encouraged me to push through the pain, which I did for many weeks, but soon the nausea was accompanied by vomiting and the pain grew worse.

Realizing I wasn’t feigning illness to get out of classes, my mother took me to the doctor. After running a battery of tests, it was determined that I had a viral infection. We were sent home and told the infection should clear up in a few days, but it didn’t. Things continually got worse. I think my parents really started to worry when I was unable to keep food down and I’d cry myself to sleep at night as the abdominal pains wracked my body.

Somehow I managed to complete the eighth grade but I was still very ill and we had no idea why. One doctor after another was consulted. My mother was told I had mononucleosis and I was sent home to rest. When nothing seemed to help, I was taken to another doctor who thought I had Hepatitis. That diagnosis involved my entire family who had to endure preventative shots but that diagnosis turned out to be incorrect, too.

I wasn’t getting any better, in fact, I was growing much worse. At that point, my mother decided to take me to see a gastroenterologist. Upon physical examination, he could find nothing wrong. But after several visits to see him, this old country doctor had an idea. He told my mother to take me out a very greasy meal. Both she and I looked at him like he was crazy but he assured us he knew what he was doing and that we needed to trust him.

Mama took me to Matthew’s cafeteria to get a big ol' plate of fried chicken. She’d been told to allow me to eat the food and then bring me right back to Dr. G’s office. Shortly after consuming the chicken, I became deathly ill and was doubled over in pain. In the doctor’s office, I sat on the exam table as he palpated my abdomen. He looked at my mother and said we need to do emergency surgery. Both she and I were dumbfounded.

Dr. G explained that I had gallstones and that my gallbladder was severely inflamed. This was a rare condition for a thirteen year old to be facing, Dr.G said, and that’s one reason it had been so difficult to diagnose.

I was admitted to the hospital the following day and before surgery could be performed, my gallbladder ruptured allowing dangerous gangrene to spread through my body. I didn’t know it at the time, but I almost died. Dr. G told my mother if they hadn’t had a cancellation, which allowed my surgery to be moved up an hour, I would have died.

It was touch and go for many days, but they finally got me stabilized and I was able to go home with a foot long scar and a drainage tube in my belly.

Recovery was tough and I spent the summer recuperating at home.

When it was time for me to start 9^th grade, I was still weak and the doctor felt I needed to continue gaining my strength back before returning to school. That meant I would have to be homeschooled so I could keep up with my classmates. Teachers at the high school were notified and a plan was made. The teachers would write out weekly assignments for me, my mother would go to the school each week to pick them up, and the following week we’d submit my work for grading. This plan worked well with most classes and I was thankful to have the opportunity to recover at home.

One day, my Home Economics teacher, Mrs. Sara Lou Jenkins, decided to make a home visit to see how I was doing. She’d called the house and asked my mother if she could stop by after school that day. I was nervous about the visit because I’d never met Mrs. Jenkins before but I was also looking forward to visiting with one of my 9^th grade teachers.

Mrs. Jenkins rang the doorbell as Mama was getting supper ready. We were going to have fried chicken, something I hadn’t been able to enjoy in quite a long time. Since Mama had flour on her hands from dredging the chicken, she asked me to invite Mrs. Jenkins in.

When I went to the door, I found a slight little bird-like woman standing in front of me. She was in a 1950's style dress with a string of pearls around her neck. I noticed her perfectly coiffed hair and her earrings that matched her necklace. Inviting her into our home, I led Mrs. Jenkins into our living room. She sat on our sofa and began to chat with me. Mama leaned her head toward the living room from the doorway of the kitchen telling Mrs. Jenkins that she’d be available to visit in just a few minutes. She explained she needed to wash her hands first.

Mama joined Mrs. Jenkins and I as we conversed in the living room. Mrs. Jenkins asked about my health and how I was doing with my assignments. We talked for about ten minutes and then we noticed smoke and a loud pop coming from the kitchen. Mama and Mrs. Jenkins rose at the same time as Mama ran into the kitchen. I was right behind them. Flames were licking the cabinet above the stove as the grease Mama had put into the iron skillet on the stove burned. Mrs. Jenkins was frantic and called out to Mama ways to put out the fire. “You can douse it with flour or throw the lid on the pan,” she cried out in a shrill voice. “Mercy, you have to get that fire out fast!” she screamed. Mama was busy grabbing a towel and trying to get the iron skillet off the gas flame so she could put out the fire and I was afraid she was going to be burned, but somehow she managed to get to it and contain the fire.

My face was blood red with embarrassment as Mrs. Jenkins hurried to leave our smoke filled home. I don’t think it would have been so bad if she hadn’t been my Home Economics teacher. After she left, Mama started to laugh hysterically and as I asked her why she was laughing when our house could have burned down, she said, “Well, at least you learned how to put out a grease fire today and you learned never to leave an iron skillet on a hot stove eye unattended.” I didn’t think it was very funny but I guess Mama was thankful she hadn’t added the chicken just yet. If she’d done that, we wouldn’t have had supper that night.

When we sat down to eat, Mama was telling Daddy all about Mrs. Jenkins visit and as she got to the end of the story, she said, “You should have seen that lady fly out of the house! She must have been so frustrated. I bet she’s never seen a grease fire in all her life and yet she has to teach her students what to do in case they ever have one. I think she got a big ol’ homeschool lesson herself today.”

At that, we all had a good laugh but it took weeks for the smell of smoke to leave our kitchen. I’ll never forget how Mama remained calm that day and how she took care of the fire like it was nothing unusual. That was the day I learned my Mama could teach Mrs. Jenkins a thing or two.

Finding Gratitude and Other Lessons Cancer Taught Me

It wasn’t yesterday that I was diagnosed with stage 2B Invasive Ductal Carcinoma breast cancer, but it feels that way. I’m still adversely affected by that life-altering event. On a daily basis, I have to make a choice. I can wallow in the self-pity of what if, or I can choose to be grateful I’m alive.  

Cancer is a wonderful teacher. If you let her, she’ll teach lessons you never dreamed you needed to learn. Often, in the beginning, it’s hard to see and learn the lessons. As the days go by, it’s easier to become more aware of the important things cancer has to tell. But not everyone wants to discover the lessons. Not everyone chooses to look for the good in a hard situation. This is part of the lesson.

One of the first lessons cancer taught me was to give myself permission to grieve. I didn’t receive this lesson at first, although cancer tried several times to teach it to me. I refused to receive it. I didn’t think I was grieving. I thought I was okay. Losing my breasts had been extremely difficult. I didn’t understand why I’d been chosen to go through the trial of breast cancer. A deep sadness wrapped itself around me. I carried it with me everywhere I went. I didn’t understand anything other than cancer was robbing me of my femininity. One evening, as I sat alone in my room, I heard a whisper. That whisper said, “It’s okay to give yourself permission to grieve.” I internalized that statement and after mulling it over, tears began to fall. And then the dam burst. I was not only weeping, I was mourning. Deep guttural sobs poured forth and I was frightened by the raw power unleashed. I didn’t realize I had so much emotion pent up inside. As I allowed myself time to grieve, the tears began to subside. This did not happen suddenly. It took days and weeks and months, but gradually, the sadness grew less heavy.

The next lesson cancer taught me was how to process my anger. At first, I didn’t realize I was angry. I’m not normally an angry person. But as I thought about all I’d endured, I realized I was angry. I was bitter. I was hurt. I didn’t want to have cancer. I didn’t choose to have cancer. I didn’t deserve to have cancer! And, I didn’t want to have surgery. I didn’t want to go through treatment. I just wanted my old life back, the life I had before cancer came in like a wrecking ball to shatter my life into little pieces. Like a child in the throes of a full-blown temper tantrum, I pushed, kicked, and screamed until I’d worn myself out. But cancer told me it was okay. It was okay to be angry.

And then cancer did the unexpected. She taught me how to find gratitude. She said it could have been worse. I could have died. I was grateful I hadn’t died. That would have been terrible! Or maybe not. But cancer’s next lesson taught me gratitude can replace grief and anger. I realized that I’d taken a lot for granted before cancer. I hadn’t realized that every day is a precious gift. Cancer taught me to start looking for gratitude. She taught me to choose joy. This lesson, she said, would teach me not only to find gratitude but to remember I had a choice. It was my choice how I’d live each day. I could choose to grieve, to be angry, bitter or hurt, or I could choose to live and be happy.

My next lesson came as I completed radiation. After enduring 28 rounds, my body weak and tired, cancer said, “Push through. You’re stronger than you think.” And I did. I made myself get through each day. Little by little, I was determined to get better. I worked hard, even when I didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t easy but I’m glad I kept going. I could have given up.

Cancer is a good teacher. I can’t say I like her, but I do appreciate her. I’m grateful for the valuable lessons she’s taught and yes, I might have learned those lessons without her, but with her, I think I learned them a little better than most.

I still don’t understand why I got cancer and I don’t know what caused it. I probably never will. But, I can say, finding gratitude has been a blessing and cancer helped me discover I have so much for which to be grateful.

If you let her, cancer will teach you important and valuable lessons. Your lessons may be vastly different than mine, but I guarantee, they will be life-altering lessons. You may not be ready to learn the lessons right away, but give her time, and she will teach.

Many of my loved ones and friends have died from cancer. Many of them died in excruciating agony and pain. Not all of them would have appreciated the viewpoint I’ve shared but I certainly mean no disrespect to anyone past, present, or future struggling with cancer. It is by far, the most challenging and difficult thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, but I’ve chosen to take this awful trial and learn from it. So I hope you’ll understand my heart. My feeling is that cancer, even with all of its horrible ugliness, can be kind in the lessons we learn from it. But we have to be willing to look for the lessons. They’re not always apparent but they do have a purpose.

Lessons from the homeless

I almost missed her. There among the shadows, she sat quietly waiting. Her voice was soft as she spoke the words, "Help me, lady?" I almost dismissed her, thinking she was speaking to someone else, but she was speaking directly to me. That's when I realized she was homeless.

One step further and I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned to my husband and whispered, "Give me your wallet." He knows me well enough by now not to argue with me. Obediently, he fished in his pants and pulled out his wallet. Handing it over to me, I opened it and grabbed a twenty. I told him I'd be back in a few minutes and asked if he could wait there. He nodded.

I backtracked to the seated lady and squatted down until we were at eye level with one another. Gently I spoke. "What's your name?" I said. She replied, "Regina." I could only see one eye because the other was hidden by her long, unkempt hair, but that one eye held such pain. I sensed she'd had a very difficult life, one she didn't care to discuss, especially with a complete stranger. With eyes locked, I spoke to this woman. "Regina, I want you to know, I saw you." She acknowledged my words and then I continued, "I saw you, but someone else saw you, too. Jesus saw you. He sees you, Regina." As I said those words, I took her hand and placed the money into her open palm. I closed her fingers around the bill and reminded her, "He sees you." She smiled and nodded drawing her hand from mine and placing it gently into her lap. I rose to my feet, smiled, and began walking back to my husband.

Within those few feet, I felt the weight of Regina's problems on my shoulders. Although I had no idea who she really was or what her history, I felt her pain. The pain of rejection. The pain of longing. The pain of want.

My husband and I walked on hand in hand. He whispered, "Is everything okay?" I assured him it was. I told him her name and told him we needed to pray for her.

We slipped into a corner restaurant to celebrate my youngest daughter's 30th birthday. After we'd eaten our meal, we took a short jaunt across the street. A local bakery was there and their specialty, according to the sign, was cupcakes. We entered and made our selections. It was a tiny place and it was quite crowded so we took our cakes outside. Several metal tables and chairs were there for customers. We pulled two tables together and rounded up enough chairs. Each of us enjoyed the sweet taste of sugar as we sang to the birthday girl.

I'd just finished my key lime cupcake and was about to throw my napkin into the trash when I saw an elderly black woman. She was leaning over the trash can digging out half eaten cakes and stuffing them into a white paper bag. She was so frail. I judged her to be about 80 years old. My heart broke. I couldn't bear to see this sweet woman living in such a way. I walked over to her side and placed my hand upon her shoulder. I could feel her bones, she was so thin. Our eyes locked and I said, "Ma'am, you don't need to dig through the trash for food. Let's go in and get you something good to eat. She shook her head and said she'd be fine. Once again, I went to my husband. I didn't have to say a word, just held out my hand. He placed his wallet in it and again, I took out a twenty.

Walking back over to the trashcan, I placed my hand on the woman's back and spoke softly to her. I felt like I could count every bone in her spine if I'd left my hand there long enough. I took her hand and placed the money in it. She smiled the biggest smile and lifted her head toward heaven. I encouraged her to use it to get something nutritious to eat. Half eaten cupcakes weren't what she needed, I insisted. She threw one of the cupcakes back into the can and took the other two with her telling me she'd feed them to the birds, but I knew otherwise. She asked where the Dollar Store was located and I had to tell her I didn't know. I explained we weren't from that area.

Turning my head for a split second, I looked back and she was gone. That's when I lost it. I couldn't stop crying. Two homeless people in one afternoon were too much. I had no idea Chattanooga, Tennessee had so many street people. I felt like I was back in Atlanta where homelessness is prevalent in the downtown area, but I hadn't expected to encounter it here, in the midst of an area known to attract tourists.

All the way home, I couldn't help thinking about Regina and the older lady. I wished I'd done more. I wished I said more.  I didn't even ask the older woman's name. I didn't share the gospel with either of them. I could have taken more time. I could have listened more. Why didn't I?

We'd been there on a mini-vacation. We were there with other family members. Surely they'd have waited while I ministered, wouldn't they? And aren't we all called to share the gospel of Christ, in season and out? I knew these things and yet, I didn't do them. I hated myself for not sharing the good news with those two precious souls.

All around us people are perishing. Some of us see and some of us don't. Some of us choose to see while others walk quickly past, imagining the problem doesn't exist, but it does. The Bible says when we see someone who's hungry and feed them, we're doing it as if we were doing it unto Christ. Although I didn't react exactly as I should have, I did act and I think God will honor that.

I haven't shared any of this to make myself look good. The only reason I shared it is because I wanted you to see and understand that we have to pay attention. I think God allows us to cross paths with those less fortunate and at times, I think He might even use those situations to test us a little...to see how we'll respond. Will we stop? Will we see? Will we help?

The next time you see someone begging for help, don't be afraid. They're people just like you and I. Sometimes bad choices have put them in their current position and sometimes, something completely out of control has placed them there. In any case, the shoe could easily be on the other foot. You or I could be the ones begging. So please take time to minister to the "least of these" and in so doing, you'll honor Christ. We all need to show a little unconditional love because we all need love, don't we?