This is an unusual topic, one many of you have probably not heard of, but, perhaps, there is something to be gained from the remembrance.

“On New Year’s Eve in India, our church would hold a service that began about 10:30 p.m. and ended about 1:30 a.m.,” said our friend and guest speaker Solomon.

Immediately I was transported to my own past with the memory of “Watch Night” services of long ago. I haven’t heard of such services for a long time. More than likely, some churches still have them, but I am not familiar with any, nor have I been to any such services for many years.

“Watch Night”: We are watching on this night? We are keeping watch on this night? Why does this night need to be “watched” more than others?

My only experience with watch night services were the ones that I attended when I was a teenager. The service would start at 10:30 or so, bur ended right after midnight. It was a time of directed prayer and contemplation, with a few pieces of music interspersed throughout the time period. The solemn service began with a looking back at the year that was passing away. The time of reflection served to bring us to a point of repentance, if necessary. Where had we failed or fallen short? By taking inventory of our past mistakes and shortcomings, we could pledge to do better in the future. We had a list, a tally, of those parts of our lives that were less than ideal.

Looking back on that exercise now, I can only imagine what all of us in the congregation were thinking. Were we overwhelmed by the magnitude of our shortfalls? Were we energized to try harder just one more time? Did we have at least a bit of despair that we couldn’t possibly succeed where we had failed, not only in the past year, but also in all the years before that as well?

Of course, the emphasis should have been on what the grace of God could do in us to enliven us and to justify us, but I think that the emphasis had much more to do with old time grit and determination to overcome our failures. God was in the mix somehow, but, for the most part, we felt obligated to do better—and I’m not sure we asked for much help.

After the time of soul searching our past, we were encouraged during the latter part of the service to look forward to the new year. What were our goals? What should we try to accomplish? What would we do for our Lord? Then came the time of intense prayer. We would “pray in” the new year, asking for guidance as the year began so that we would live a holier life than we had led the year before. A rousing song of rejoicing and greetings of “Happy New Year” from one pewful of people to another ended the service.

It’s been years since I have been to a watch night service. Here in Illinois, I have been to several parties that had a religious component, sometimes drawing prayer partners for the new year amongst the attendees. And I’ve been privileged to be in England with student tour groups on two different occasions for New Year’s Eve, and the host company was kind enough to help us ring in the new year.

I’m wondering now about the benefits of various kinds of celebration of the coming new year. I rather like what we usually do now, which is to have a party with our Sunday School class members, all of whom are congenial friends with shared interests. Because of those common interests, the time of food and games also includes lots of chatting about family, friends, and church members. Prayer is a component of the night. This year, of course, we were unable to have such a gathering, but we can hope for communal gatherings next year after COVID-19 is behind us.

But I wonder about those watch night services of old. Were they in any way a bad idea? I doubt it, even if sometimes our prayers and goals were more personally oriented than they might have been. A time of contemplation, a time of repentance, a time of anticipation of the new year as a better year ahead—none of that is bad. In fact, as long as I keep my eyes focused, not on my own abilities to bring about the better life, but on the fact that a God who is control of the universe would like to see me have a better year ahead, then I think that a watch night event, whether it’s a service or just a private time of meditation, would be good for me, even if I’ve missed the new year by a few days—and it’s got to be much better than all of those pointless resolutions that so many people make—and then break—each year.

“The child’s father and mother were full of wonder at what was being said about him” (NEB Luke 2: 33).  The KJV uses the verb “marvelled” to show what the parents were thinking, and William Barclay, in his commentary, translates the verb as “amazed.”

It doesn’t matter what version of scripture you read, Luke’s words record the fact that Joseph and Mary, Jesus’s parents, on the occasion of his circumcision eight days after his birth, were, in some way, astounded that an old, holy man named Simeon swept up Jesus in his arms and prophesied that he was the “deliverance,” a light of revelation to the Gentiles and a glory to the people of Israel.

Whenever I read this story, I’m always struck by this marveling—actually I’m confounded by it. It’s not as if Mary and Joseph hadn’t already been told that this child of theirs was to be special. Luke, just paragraphs earlier, had recorded that an angel had come to Mary to explain that she would bear a child after the Holy Spirit had come upon her. She seemed to understand the message, since she responded with appropriate words: “I am the Lord’s servant. . . so be it.” Later, her cousin Elizabeth reveals that her own child-in-womb “leaped for joy” when Mary greeted her, presumably because the one child recognized in the other unborn child he who would be the savior of the world. Then Mary breaks into the famous song we call the Magnificat, a lyric that confesses the goodness of the Lord who has blessed her with this coming child. No, I think, Mary should not have been marveling; she should have been remembering.

Joseph doesn’t have an excuse for marveling either, if Matthew’s gospel is be believed. An angel visits Joseph in a dream to reveal to him that his betrothed wife Mary is with child “by the Holy Spirit.” Specifically, the angel tells Joseph that he must name the child Jesus, that is Savior, because “he will save his people from their sins” (NEB Matthew 1: 20-21). Obviously, Joseph heard and accepted the message, because he did not divorce Mary, as he had been thinking of doing, but, instead, took her into his home. No, I think, Joseph should not have been marveling; he should have been remembering.

Why should I care, one way or the other? Why am I troubled by this marveling, this amazement, of these two people who were, indeed, going through extraordinary circumstances? For one thing, I think authors choose details to give us the story they want us to know. They don’t write down every single incident within a narrative: they shape the narrative to point out certain ideas of concepts that are important to them. Both Matthew and Luke seem to care that we know the backstories of Mary’s pregnancy and of Mary and Joseph’s marriage. Both even mentioned the angel as a messenger sent from God. We are to understand that they understood what they were “getting into.”

Just a few months later, however, they were marveling and amazed at what they had “gotten into.” At least, Luke wants us to know that fact. Simeon calls Jesus the Savior (Joshua/Jesus), which is, of course, the name Jesus is given. I don’t think that Mary and Joseph are wondering about the name. I think they are wondering about the title “Savior” and the words that follow: a light to the Gentiles and a glory to the children of Israel—words that prophesy the long-awaited Messiah.

Had the two understood so imperfectly what the angel had revealed? Had they spoken and acted correctly but only semi-consciously?

Would that be so unusual for human beings? How many times do we have to repeat an action before it is habit? Three hundred to five hundred times, says our old friend Google. How many times to commit a word to memory? Seventeen times, says Google—but don’t count on being able to adequately use that word in your writing, unless you work at repeating it at spaced intervals until it becomes natural.

Perhaps Mary and Joseph marveled because they hadn’t fully learned what it meant to be the parents of this specially promised child. They were in the early stages of repetition—hearing the prophecy from others and the echoes of the angels’ words in their heads. Really, they would never stop learning. Although Joseph’s story seems to end after Jesus’s visit to the temple at age 12, Mary’s story continues. And through the time of Jesus’s ministry, Mary is seen, sometimes understanding Jesus’s power, but perhaps not his timing, such as when she is sure he can fix the problem at the wedding in Cana. Then again, she gathers up her other children and follows Jesus, not to enhance his ministry, but to try to spirit him away to his home, because she is not sure of the soundness of his mind.

And, finally we come to my own consternation at Mary and Joseph’s amazement. My problem is that I am like Mary and Joseph. I have to learn of the saving power of Jesus over and over. I continue to be amazed when I see the hand of God in my life. Usually that “hand” is in the form of a means of grace or a means of mercy, both stemming from the body of Jesus, but seen in the body of Christ’s followers around me.

To see the sacrificial love of Christ in the sacrament of the Eucharist never ceases to amaze, even though I have participated in the event hundreds of times, perhaps even thousands of times.

To see the glory in the face of believer at the moment of baptism is another of those events that is ever new, ever amazing, even though I have watched many being baptized, as well as remembering my own baptism.

To see a person recall an act of kindness, a gift of food brought to her door at a time of need, and to share that moment as if it is happening in the present gives to me the amazing gift of empathy.

To know that people are praying daily for my health and to feel the strength of those prayers in my body as I eat and sleep and walk this earth is a testimony to the miraculous, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

 Amazing!

What if I can’t do this right? What if the lighter won’t catch hold? What if the candle goes out the minute I light it? Why did I agree to do this? Of course, why wouldn’t I? I’m a 38-year-old woman with a couple of degrees, three children, and a decent job. Surely, I can light a candle.

The time was this: 1985.

The place was this: Nashville, Tennessee, First Church of the Nazarene.

Both the time and place are quite relevant. Nashville is not only the center of country music writing and producing, but of many other kinds of music as well. Local producers sometimes asked choir directors of large local churches or a group of churches to try out a new cantata. I don’t know that that was the case with this particular musical in 1985, but it was most definitely a current, contemporary cantata that we were pleased to premiere at our church. Most churches in the area would be performing cantatas—that was the norm for that day—and each church wanted to have a presentation that would be unique from other presentations.

The cantata theme was this: light in the darkness. The idea was that the world was in darkness and needed to be invaded by a light, the light that would break into the darkness and conquer it. Jesus, the infant, conceived by a virgin with the overshadowing of the Holy Spirit, and, thus, the very son of God and the very son of man, would be the Light of the World. He would break the power of darkness in this world and bring its people into glorious light.

The cantata was arranged to tell the story of that overpowering darkness which had hung over the Children of Israel for hundreds of years as they waited for their Messiah to arrive. Gradually, the story revealed the fulfillment of prophecy, the story that to us is ages old, the story of Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem and seeking shelter in a cave stable to prepare for the birth of her son. Of course, it included the angels singing to the shepherds on the hillside and their hurried journey from the fields to the place where the Christ child lay.

But the end of the cantata came back to the idea of the light breaking into the darkness, not the darkness of the Children of Israel, but the darkness of today’s world, a world so in need of the light, so in need of a Savior. What better way to portray this necessity than to have the church in total darkness and gradually build from one candlelight to another until the church was full of the gleaming light of hundreds of candles—the light that started with Jesus spreads through believers and encourages others to believe until the light is great. The symbolism, though very traditional, has never lost its significance. Many churches reenact this same scene each Christmas Eve, passing the light from one person to another to another until the whole building is alight with a light that seems holy.

The situation was this: I was the shortest, and, hence, the last, person on the front row of the church choir. We were performing this new Christmas cantata at our church—and perform was the correct word. The choir had about 100 members; both men and women had been told what kind of “matching” clothing we should wear. We women had to wear white button-up blouses in a “dressy” fabric and red satin maxi skirts. We didn’t have choreography, but we did have groupings of singers that moved about the stage for the evening. But the crowning achievement was to be the complete darkness on the stage—dark enough that people would not be able to see me when I turned my back, picked up the Bic lighter, and lit that first candle. Everything depended on me—I was the only one with a lighter; I was the only one with a candle that could be lit by that lighter in that darkness.

I was so afraid that I would not be able to get the lighter to catch or the candle to flame. The whole symbolic scene would be ruined if I could not fulfill my duty. And we had no backup plan. I was the plan.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the candle caught hold of the lighter flame and burst into light. I passed the light from my candle to one and then another of the designated persons who were to fill the aisles and pass the light. Soon the auditorium was filled with that most beautiful kind of light—flickering, yet strong, the light of many candles that had obliterated the darkness.

The symbolism, though traditional and familiar, does not grow old at Christmas. The Light of the World, Jesus, God incarnate, came one very dark night into our world and began to shine a light that could never be extinguished. The Light of the World is, indeed, Jesus.

Perhaps we all need the diversion of this lighthearted post:

Leaving the airport in our rental car, with our Garmin installed on the front dash, we merrily headed north towards our first farm bed and breakfast in England. We had the address, we had directions, we had the Garmin. What could go wrong? Nothing, right? Of course, perhaps our judgment, reactions, and instincts were a bit off. We had just landed from an overnight flight, and the night before that had been a short one—too much excitement after leaving the wedding site—our wedding site. Still, we were confident that we could follow the Garmin and follow directions.

We did follow the Garmin—right through lush green fields spotted with sheep, bumping over cow grids, squeezing through lanes with stone fences on either side, backing up to find the hidden intersection. By the end of a long and tiring day, we finally did arrive at the B & B, a converted barn and its outhouses. Looking out the window of our second story room, we could see round, brown hay bales lining the pasture wall and muddy paths just waiting to be explored.

But, first, we must eat. Back in the car, we followed the verbal cues that had been given us by the farmer-host to the pub that he had recommended. Tired and hungry, we ordered. Jim, always a brave one to try the special, had some concoction that was full of the local sausage in a stew—huge amounts of it. I have no idea what I ate—it was fine, I’m sure. It was sustenance. But Jim’s was much more than sustenance—it was an angry visitor that would not stay in his stomach.  What a disaster—to get sick before we could even get the car back to the B & B.

Fortunately, Jim’s illness subsided quickly, and the next morning we began to plot our forays into the wonderful area of Northumberland England from our base close to the little town of Haltwhistle.  Beyond the little town, we traveled northeast to get to Housesteads Fort on Hadrian’s Wall, which stretched for miles on the gentle hillsides. The day was perfect for walking: bright blue late summer sky, warm sunlight, and lots of stone wall ruins in front of us, behind us, and branching off, occasionally perpendicular to our path. We walked over rock and stubble for a long while, counting off the various turret remains before turning around to get back to the car and the gift shop.

Jim could have done without the gift shop, of course, but I always enjoy wandering around to see what kinds of souvenirs the National Trust site will provide for us weary, starved-for-air-conditioning travelers. What a bit of luck I had! An artist named Karen Neale had sketched a landscape of the wall and transferred the picture to thin, tile earrings which had ear wires created by Lucy Clayton. Just the perfect purchase to remember not just the perfect day, but the whole week that we would spend traipsing through all kinds of places in Northumberland.

While we were in the north country, we toured for a day in the city of York, clambering over the Roman walls there. Another day we crossed the border into Scotland, spending the morning ducking in and out of all the buildings within Edinburgh Castle. We chatted with complete strangers as we sat to rest on some park benches, and the woman asked enough questions that soon she had the information that we were newlyweds—we were all happy with the confession! Later that day we traversed across country lanes to get to the storied Loch Lomond. The sky was dreary, the shoreline was rocky, and we were tired and hungry; therefore, we were altogether unimpressed with the famous lake.

Another day we made it to market in the famous market town of Alston. The market, of course, was open air—a very good place to pick up socks, a sweater, and a watercolor of the market center. Yet another day we wandered around the host-farmer’s land, staying clear of mud puddles, cattle, sheep, and their droppings. Still exploring a farm in England helped us to understand the vast differences between American farms and English farms.

All told, we left the Northumberland region with the socks, the sweater, the watercolor, a miniature of Edinburgh Castle, and the Hadrian Wall earrings.  Of the five items, we still have the last three. The watercolor is in a drawer, unframed to this day; the castle miniature is in the guestroom, hardly ever seen by anyone; the earrings, however, get worn on a regular basis. And now when I wear them, I have two memories of the wall—not only did we visit in 2007, but we revisited a part of the wall in the summer of 2019 with our GO team that had traveled to England to help a church in Manchester. Good memories all.

“Today is the beginning of the rest of your life.” That phrase rattles around in our brains every once in a while. “Red letter days” those “todays” might be:  a wedding day, the birth of a child, the death of a parent, the decision to change jobs, an unwanted diagnosis.

Yesterday was such a day for me, and it was, indeed, the day of an unwanted and rather unexpected diagnosis. I could have marked several days lately as the “beginning” of the rest of my life, but yesterday felt a bit more ominous than the others. Having been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer was, of course, not welcome, but the news was tempered by the fact that the doctors were in agreement that I was a good candidate for surgery, the surrounding area looking “clean” (read “healthy”) as it did.

But that changed yesterday when the surgeon called to tell me that the CT scans had found several lesions in the liver and that surgery was not an option at this time. Instead I would have to see an oncologist as soon as possible to set up chemotherapy treatments. If the chemo works to shrink the tumors and a future CT scan shows marked improvement, then perhaps surgery could be an option again. BUT—that big BUT—we will not know till the treatments are complete.

I, along with every other person who has ever had a diagnosis of cancer, feel betrayed by the body. How can my own personal body do this to me? Why is it turning against me? Against itself? Why does cancer have to exist? Why do cells mutate and do weird things? But I know enough not to ask, “Why is this happening to me?” It just happens. It happens in almost every family in this country. And with that diagnosis comes fear, comes anxiety, comes dread.

But those words—fear, anxiety, dread—cannot be the final words. The final word has to be hope. That hope can take many different forms on many different days: hope in the wisdom of the doctors, hope in the efficacy of the treatments, hope in the prayers of the people who have the faith for us when ours may be weak, and, for all, sooner or later, hope in an eternal, resurrected life, mysterious though it be.

And so I hope as I look forward to treatments that may make me sick, may take my hair, may make we tired. The outward circumstances may change, but one thing has not: my life is in the Lord’s hands. It has been, it is, it ever will be. And I say my own “amen” to that.

“How would you like to be roommates at Olivet this year? I thought it might be nice to know a person to room with rather than take our chances with the unknown,” said Donna, as she stood in the doorway of our summer church camp dormitory room.

The idea was novel to me. On my own, I never would have considered it. Three of us girls from my high school were going to attend Olivet Nazarene College in the fall, but we had never talked about rooming together. Part of the idea of going off to college was to meet new people and have new experiences, and that included having a mystery roommate.

But I was a timid soul and never would have voiced the idea of “mystery” to Donna, who was, to be sure, a bit of a mystery to me. We didn’t know each other outside of our time at camp, and she was one of those girls that “wowed” me. She seemed mature, poised, smart, well-spoken: she had it all together. She came from the big city of Dayton, Ohio; I came from the rural area outside of the small town of Union City, Indiana. We probably couldn’t have been more different.

Her question, however, demonstrated that she thought we would be good roommates, and that was good enough for me. In no time at all we were meeting in our dorm room, making plans to decorate our room in some appropriate manner. We must have done more than an adequate job, because our resident director always used our room as the model when she was showing visitors what a dorm room was like: Bunks spread with bright orange and brown block plaid covers, brown throw rugs on the floor, a small, tidy, metal bookshelf in front of the window.

We were good roommates in many ways: we were both quite neat, jumping out of bed to make the beds up immediately, sweeping the tile floors weekly, putting away all clothes when they weren’t on our bodies. We were both studious, spending long hours together, pouring over notes and texts as we crammed for essay tests. And I don’t know whether she ever learned anything from me, but I know I learned from her. She told me that I sometimes didn’t close my mouth properly when I ate. An embarrassing fact to hear, but such good knowledge to put to good use. She taught me that nylons should be hand washed immediately after wearing, something I had never heard. As I had said: she had it all together.

She was feminine to a fault. Her hair and clothes were always perfect. She knew exactly how to talk to all people. She oozed friendliness. She was great with boys, not just with the boyfriend types, but also with the good friend type. She was opinionated, but she earned the right to be—she so often was right.

We roomed together till she left to go home to follow her heart. Although I had known two of her boyfriends, one from high school days and one from our freshman year, I did not know the one that she was leaving school for. But by the next year, I was serving cake at her wedding. And two years later, with some persuasion from her, I was living just blocks away from her and her husband. We settled into an easy friendship of churchgoing, Sunday night suppers, chats with Donna about babies and houses and with Don about Mustangs.

Then I left Dayton to teach in Kansas City and, as it turned out, to marry. But I went home to Dayton to get married in the Maryland Avenue church, and Donna was my matron of honor. Time passed. They moved to Louisville. We moved to Paris, TN. They convinced their church board that my husband should be considered for their pastorate. We interviewed. We did not get the job.

Through the years, with the ebb and flow of our lives, Donna and I would keep in touch. Not often, but time passing did not matter. When we did see each other, we had the kind of friendship that could pick up without any interruption. She welcomed me and my children to stay with her on my way home to Indiana from Nashville the Christmas after my divorce. She was the perfect hostess, never getting ruffled if three little boys were annoying.

One year, she and I went to our college homecoming together. On my own I would not have had the courage to go—too many years with too many experiences had soured me on those college years. But Donna, with her ability to be friends with just about everyone, had a marvelous time—so I did, too. After I moved back to Olivet to be a professor, she came up again for another homecoming. Another marvelous time with the old gang that had hung together so much our freshman year.

Some of us women decided that we should take a trip together after that homecoming. Donna, with her experiences as an executive assistant for the YUM Corporation, knew exactly how to plan a great sightseeing adventure for all of us Midwesterners who really didn’t know much about New York City. She was the perfect tour guide to share a city she loved with us.

The past several years, Donna and I had seen each other at least once a year. While I was in Louisville to grade Advanced Placement tests for English literature, I would have dinner with Donna on a “free “ night. I was able to introduce her to some of my colleagues. Once again, I saw that friendliness that flowed from her love and acceptance of others. She always had an easy laugh and the ability to chat with anyone about anything.

Then my son moved to Louisville and I had other reasons to visit, especially with the advent of two grandchildren. Just a couple of years ago, I stayed overnight at Donna and Don’s house, and her welcoming spirit enveloped me. Sitting at the kitchen table and chatting was as wonderful as it had ever been. Anytime we were together, we just tried to catch up on everything; children, grandchildren, husbands, churches—just sharing those things that were important to us, knowing that the other would understand the depth of love we were showing by talking about those things closest to us.

I will miss those visits. I will miss that easy laugh. Donna died last week after a valiant fight with pancreatic cancer. I can’t imagine how much sorrow her family must feel. She was the perfect wife, mother, and grandmother. She was so proud of her children’s and grandchildren’s achievements—they will miss that demonstration of pride. She loved fiercely—they will miss that love. Her life was a life well-lived. It just did not last long enough.

“I’ve always had fat legs. I guess that goes with the rest of me,” my one sister said.

I chimed in, “I’ve always had fat legs—and fat ankles. When I was pregnant the first time, I didn’t even have ankles: the fat ankles became elephant stumps!”

“Well, I don’t know, I’ve always thought I had pretty legs—and all of us have basically the same kind of legs,” said my other sister.

Now, I can’t attest for the accuracy of the third statement, but I do know the first two statements have been repeated more than once in my family. And my mother used to agree, along with the affirmation that we had “German legs”: strong, sturdy, solid—and stolid! Now I am horrified that we characterized our legs with an ethnic label in an unflattering way. I am sure I have never really looked at a German woman’s legs. I am also sure that not all German legs are alike.

And my second sister was right—we all, including my mother, had the same kind of legs. We may have had different perceptions about them, but we could tell we were all related, no denying that in many ways.

Genetics. The word hasn’t been around for that many centuries (perhaps not even two), but the concept of inherited traits has always been accepted. In our family, besides the “fat leg” syndrome, we have noted that at least my mother, myself, and one of my nieces share the exact same hand structure—even when we were children, each of us had bony, wrinkly hands. Of course, the “big head” syndrome exists—at least half the males in the first and second generation down from my father have unusually large heads. And male-patterned baldness among most of the men starts in their early twenties. Most of my nephews, and occasionally my sons, decide to shave their heads rather than have people notice their advancing baldness. When my middle son was little, he walked around with his hands clasped behind his back. My mother said that her grandfather, who had died long before I was born, walked exactly the same way.

Families often comment on eye colors, hair textures, height, weight, and body shapes as commonalities that prove their relatedness. As the years have gone by and we have become more and more aware of the particularities of the human genome and all of the information it passes from one generation to another—or doesn’t pass on in straight lines—most of us have begun to see the importance of these genetic lines that we carry within us. Adoptions, which often were closed and secret in past years, have become much more open, so that adopted people can find out just what the genetic make-up might mean for them in the future. Especially in the area of health, people need to know as much as possible about what they have inherited.

We have certainly found this to be true in our family. We are a family that gets cancer—and as we have looked back on the generations before us, we have realized that we are a family that has been getting cancer for a long time—and that that cancer has not only affected our branch of our family, but other branches as well. We used to mourn that fact that we had cousins who seemed unusually susceptible to cancers—we have traced it through four generations in their family.

Now, we see cancer appearing in our family with increasing rapidity and viciousness. Of course, we cannot be certain all of it is genetic; we know that environmental and nutritional factors play their part. But the tendency? That may very well be genetic. Besides the cousins, a branch separated from my siblings and my lifetimes by two generations, we have apparently had aunts with breast cancer. We’ve had others who are so far removed from our present that the dim memory in the family is that these people had “masses” and they died. But our own father had colon cancer. Granted, his case was discovered late in life, but his having had it has affected each of us when we give our medical history to a doctor.

My nephew who died of metastasized testicular cancer and my niece died of multiple myeloma. My sister Judy, the gorgeous one with the pretty legs, died last year after a twenty-year battle with metastasized inflammatory breast cancer. My sister Ramona has been battling light chain myeloma for the past four years, dealing with extreme fatigue and an ongoing regimen of chemotherapy that keeps the incurable disease under control.

And I am number three in our own generation to face cancer, mine being pancreatic. I have often wondered, had he lived through his other debilitating ailments, would my brother have also gotten some kind of cancer. All three of us sisters also have had a bout with breast cancer, and we know that he had had a scare with that, too. As I said, cancer is in our family.

But something stronger than cancer is in our family. As a friend told me this week, when she called to encourage me as I faced another procedure, we have no need to be fearful of the big “C” word—bigger words than “cancer” are “courage” and “Christ.” What a great reminder to all of us.

I have seen that courage in both my sisters. My sister Judy was not supposed to live beyond her treatment: the life expectancy for her kind of cancer was 18 months, just about the same length of time as her initial treatments. She had good times and bad times, battling through several bouts with the cancer as it moved to a bone here and there in her body. But, by the end, she was tired of the battle, which was heightened by her worsening emphysema. Yet she struggled on, laughed through much of the worst of it, and died with dignity.

My sister Ramona, whose myeloma diagnosis came with her arrival in the decade of her 80s, showed the same courageous spirit. Her first thought was to educate the whole family about the disease, so that they would know what to look out for in their own health. She has continued to be the matriarch of her sizeable family of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, hosting events, cooking food for everyone, remembering friends and family with cards and notes and encouraging words. She keeps battling through her cancer, determined to be as active as she can be, even in the time of covid.

My sisters’ examples are enlivening my own courage and my own trust in Christ. None of us know the future, with or without cancer or some other genetic factor that may rob us of our health. But we can laugh, we can stay active, we can press on. And we can trust the future to a Christ who is Savior, Redeemer, Sustainer—and we can take courage for tomorrow.

I grabbed one end of the pull toy and she latched on to the other with her strong teeth. Both of us shook the toy back and forth, which made her whole head move. It might have seemed like I had the upper hand, but not so. In no time at all, this wonderful 80-pound puppy had dragged me several feet across the shiny wooden floor. My 105-pound body was no match for the concentrated strength she held within hers. But I was not frightened—I felt sheer joy over the exuberance of this wonderful brown body with its black shadings on the eyes, ears, and nose and the white star on her chest.

Was it love at first sight? Oh, I don’t know. In some ways I was still mourning the loss of our old miniature sheep dog look-alike Mason, who had died a grueling death of congestive heart failure. I wasn’t sure I was ready for another dog, but Jim said that it wouldn’t hurt just to visit our friends who had this foster pup named Frankie. But being foster parents to several dogs, Gina and Mindy were good at persuasion—after all, it was their job to get these dogs from the no-kill shelter permanent homes.

And so we brought Frankie home for the weekend. By the next day, we were sure we wanted to keep this lovely great big puppy forever. We re-named her Babe (she just didn’t look like a Frankie to us), purchased a crate for her safety, procured huge chew toys and a blanket or two. Babe was ours to keep!

It takes a while to learn a dog, just like it takes a while to learn a friend. We found out fairly quickly that this dog would be super-protective. The postal worker and the newspaper delivery person could not come up on the porch without our hearing about it from Babe with her big gruff bark. We found that we had to be careful when any delivery person or service provider came to the door—Babe would race from the foyer door to the front window and back again, skidding as she rounded the corner, just to make sure she kept sight of the person coming and going. She hated any kind of uniform and any kind of hat or helmet.

We found out enough about her history to know that she and her sibling had been abandoned in a warehouse when her owner was arrested. More than likely her fear of uniforms and hats came from that early bad experience with police officers. From the same source came her fear of the outstretched hand. Whereas most animals respond to the gently offered hand to smell, Babe would back up, bare her teeth and snarl at the person. She did that both to my son and my sister—I was rather embarrassed by her lack of politeness, but, fortunately, she learned to love all family members—even son-in-law Brett who wears a police uniform.

Her protection took other forms, too. In our multi-level home, there were times when three of us—Jim, my son Geoffrey, and I—were on three different floors. In order to make sure she could take care of us, Babe would go to one of the landings between floors to make sure she could “cover” the territory. But, if, by chance, Jim and I were in the same room, then Babe was definitely going to be in that room. And as she got older, she was only happy if both Jim and I were present to walk her, even if was only for a potty break. If one of us stayed home, Babe would look over her shoulder to the back door to see if the other was coming outside; if not, she was going back in, regardless.

The longer Babe was a member of our family, the more we came to realize how intelligent this Labrador-German shepherd mix dog was. We never kept count of the words she knew, but they were many. Names of rooms, parts of the yard, particular foods and toys, different areas of our neighborhood park—she knew them all. And, of course, she learned to spell them, too, so we couldn’t keep our intentions from her unless we used hand and face motions. Even those she sometimes picked up on.

And, of course, she had the internal clock within her that kept us on her schedule. Regardless of place or activity, at a little before 9 p.m. Babe would show up or raise her head if she had been sleeping to indicate that it was time for the last walk of the evening. I have to admit that the switch between daylight and standard time always put her off a bit—why would anyone want to change all the clocks forward or backward at a whim of some government agreement?

As Babe got older and smarter, we realized that we no longer had to tell her to go to her crate in the basement if someone she didn’t know was coming to the house. The sound of the doorbell or a knock set her rounding the corner into the kitchen hallway, nudging the basement door open, and trotting down the steps into her crate. There was never a need to lock it—she would stay in the crate till the coast was clear of all “stranger-danger.”

This past year, when Babe turned 12, and we could see she was wearing down, we discovered another new thing about her. After years of warning her against chasing squirrels and small dogs, we found that we could take her off the leash in the park and let her stalk every squirrel she could find. She was no longer fast enough to catch one, but she did enjoy the hunt. Her body went into stealth mode, gliding silently forward with her ears flat to the side of head. Every once in a while she was able to run a few steps to “almost” catch a squirrel as it reached a tree or a fence. Those fence jumpers were the best of all—Babe just couldn’t decide where that squirrel had gone from the top of a fence.

And through all these days, we loved her more and she loved us more. This living, breathing, snoring animal was such a part of our family that we could hardly imagine life without her. But she had a tumor and she had bad legs. I went to the hospital on Monday (after we had walked Babe in the park that morning) and I came home on Wednesday evening. She was dragging a swollen leg and could barely move from her mat that we carried to the main floor. For two nights, the three of us held vigil, hoping against hope that this almost 13-year-old dog would miraculously turn into that wonderful 11-month puppy. But instead we had to say good-bye to a dog why was just as good at dying as she was at living—patiently, kindly, gracefully.

John Updike long ago wrote a poem about the death of a young dog who was just learning to be good and obedient to use newspapers for her potty training. Although the circumstances were much different with Babe, she was the same way—always wanting to earn that phrase “Good dog” when she did what we wanted her to do. She never would let her guard down—she would be “good dog,” no matter what. And she was.

Updike, John. “Dog’s Death.” https://hellopoetry.com/poem/10222/dogs-death/

“I don’t know why I don’t just die now. I have no real reason to live any longer. I’m old and not good for much,” said my sister Ramona, as she sat in my sister Judy’s living room.

“I know. I’ve never wanted to live very long. And I’m tired. I’d just as soon die now,” said Judy.

“Well, I’ve had my obituary written for ten years, so everything’s ready. I don’t know what we’re waiting for,” responded Ramona.

What a macabre conversation they were having as I sat speechless. I have never wanted to die “early” or “soon.” My goal has always been to make it to 92, the age when my mother and both her sisters died. I couldn’t understand my sisters’ attitudes. Both had children and grandchildren (and some great-grandchildren), giving them, what seemed to me, plenty to live for.

True, both had had bouts with serious cancers, so that meant both had been in and out of treatments. Perhaps more than what I realized at the time, they had already had to face the possibility of death and such statements were ways that they could cope with the inevitability of death coming to them, sooner or later.

I’ve been thinking so much about that conversation of two years ago and my lack of understanding of their attitudes. Now, I’m beginning to understand quite well that, faced with possible death, a person has to think about it, ponder on it, talk about it—with some levity (my sister’s were laughing constantly while they were talking) in order to deal with it—not just for the individual, but for the whole family and web of friends.

Less than three weeks ago, an ultrasound of my gallbladder, liver, and pancreas, done because I told my doctor I couldn’t eat any kind of lettuce, showed a mass in my pancreas. An MRI four days later confirmed the mass was there. An endoscopic ultrasound just a little over a week later (last week) explored the area and probed for tissue for the biopsy.

From that very first day when I heard “mass in the pancreas,” I began to think about death—and not death at age 92, but death within months or, perhaps, if fortunate, a year. After all, pancreatic cancer is one of the most deadly aggressive cancers that usually has spread to other organs before it is ever discovered.

Within minutes of reading (and hearing) that first report, some words from a contemporary Christian song popped into my head: “No matter what comes my way, my life is in your hands.” I sang the two lines and Jim looked it up (he’s the Google expert). He immediately had both the tune and lyrics of Kirk Franklin’s 2010 song.  The whole chorus says, “I know that I can make it; I know that I can stand. No matter what comes my way, my life is in your hands” (obviously from the rest of the lyrics, you know that the hands are the Lord’s hands).

The following Sunday, at church, the worship team sang another contemporary song with which I was unfamiliar (can you tell that I’m not familiar with contemporary Christian music?) ended with the words “You are holding my life in your hands.” The whole chorus, from writers Clint Lagerberg and Nicole Nordeman in 2007, had these words as the chorus: “So how can I thank You, what can I bring? What can these [a] poor hands [man] lay at the feet of a King? I’ll sing You this love song, it’s all that I have to tell You I’m grateful for holding my life in Your hands. You are holding my life in Your hands.”

I think, perhaps, the theme of my journey will have to be “my life is in God’s hands.” Actually, it always has been, but having a diagnosis of a serious cancer makes the words more meaningful. We’re not promised anything beyond the present moment, but, oh, how much we want it. Now, I understand why we need to live in the moment.

I also know the power of prayer. Immediately, I reached out to family, friends, pastors, my local congregation. And the praying began. I asked for one of the following outcomes to the MRI: 1) the mass would be gone or something other than cancer, 2) the mass would be cancer, but operable, or 3)  the family and I would have the grace and peace to go through whatever is coming.

And the very best of the cancer outcomes occurred: the mass is small, and I am a good candidate for surgery (the Whipple procedure). We’ve all been praising the Lord.

And I have to give a “shout-out” to the doctors I’ve seen so far:

Dr Shonna Beckman, who caught my statement about lettuce and ordered the ultrasound.

Dr. Ashish Shah, who did the EUS and will do the ERCP and who recommended the oncologist, local, and the surgeon Dr.Bilimoria at Northwest Community Hospital, who has experience and a stellar reputation.

Dr. McGinnis, the oncologist, who was so reassuring and informative, and who gave me confidence.

Now that I have broached the subject, I hope that I will get back to regular blogging—that will depend on schedules and energy. Tomorrow is the ERCP (look it up—I can’t spell it) and the surgeon’s appointment is Nov 16.

 If you are a person of faith, I would appreciate your prayers. If not, I would appreciate your good thoughts. I have a fight ahead. My physical strength is not up to par right now, but the Lord knows that, too. Obviously, much more will come; some things may change, but whatever happens, my life is in God’s hands.

Works Cited

Franklin, Kirk. “My Life Is in Your Hands.” 2010. https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-1-d&q=song+lyrics+my+life+is+in+your+hands

Lagerberg, Clint and Nichole Nordeman “You Are Good.” 2007. :https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pointofgrace/youaregood.html

My mother was born on October 28, 1909. She died in 2002. On this, her special day, I want to honor her by this random list of life lessons learned from her. I hope that some of them will resonate with you when you think of someone special in your life who has influenced you. Here’s the list:

1. A stern face tells the one looking at you that you mean business. I wish I hadn’t learned that—it has scared all kinds of students!
2. Country cooking is cooking that almost everyone loves—it may not be the healthiest of all kinds of food, but it is warm, comforting, and delicious.
3. Running gets a body from one place to another much more quickly than walking does. I’ve seen my mother more times than not run from her own house to my sister’s house, wasting no time, because the telephone that kept the family connected was in that house, not her own.
4.  I do not necessarily deserve anything that I want. If I receive something, it’s a gift; if I don’t receive something, it’s okay—perhaps the other person needed that object or honor much more than I did.
5. Ironing a shirt must be done in a particular order: yoke, collar, facings, sleeves, then the body of the shirt.
6. Cleaning a room must be done in a particular order: dusting, starting with top door frames and picture frames and then moving to lamps, tables, chair rails, and ornaments; vacuuming furniture, starting with the outside structure and then doing all edges and flat surfaces of all cushions and finally the throw pillows;  dust mopping the floor from the far corner to the doorway to the next room.
7. Spring cleaning should include emptying a room of all furniture and decorations, dusting/washing/painting the walls, cleaning/ waxing the floor, cleaning all the decorations, curtains, bedclothes, mattresses. I must confess that I do not do spring cleaning in this way at all.
8. People who have less than I should be taken care of by giving them food or clothing, helping with housework, or giving them transportation.
9. Sewing for another person is an act of love. Mother’s creations were wonderful—she could take an old coat, rip it apart, turn the fabric inside out, and create a new design. She did that for me so that I could have a wonderfully warm winter coat when I was a little girl.
10. Reading the Bible daily is an act that brings comfort, peace, and joy to the heart—and guides the conscience!
11. Putting others before self is a way of life. This lesson I learned in some very negative ways, but it still is a way of life that blesses and honors the other individual.
12. All people should be treated equally. For children, at Christmas time, that means that the exact same amount of money must be spent on each individual, even if it means buying an extra gift to even things out. I have spent more money trying to “even things out”! Sometimes I wish I hadn’t learned the lesson so well.
13. If company is coming, everything in the house must be “spic-n-span” and the best of tablecloths and dishes must set the table.
14. Frugality may be the only way to make ends meet. Price comparison, ignoring name brands, and delaying expenditures are all ways to stretch the dollar.
15. The exterior of a house, the yard, and the interior furnishings should never give the impression that the inhabitants don’t have the money to make ends meet. All parts of the home must be neat, clean, and beatified with natural means, such as flowers, bushes, and trees.
16. If the church doors are open, I should be walking through them.
17. Ingenuity can serve to solve a problem or fill a lack. My mother wanted her kitchen sink surrounded by a frame. She couldn’t afford one, so she used some random old boards to build one, including interior shelves. She closed in a doorway and used a board, a chain and hinges to create a drop -down desk top for me to study on.
18. Transparent apples make the best applesauce.
19. Kindness, soft words, and, sometimes, silence are the best policies for getting along with others. I wish I had learned this lesson better.
20. Honoring parents is more than a commandment; it is an act of sacrificial love. My alcoholic grandfather moved in with us when I was twelve. Mother took care of him in his most disgusting states, cleaning up after him, washing him and his clothes, changing his bedding—whatever needed to be done, she did it tirelessly with love.
21. Checks and stripes should not be worn together.
22. Grandchildren should be pampered.
23. A gift is always accepted—and kept—whether you like it or not.
24. Guests should never be sent home without some kind of food to nourish them.
25. Reading is the very best way to while away an extra hour.
26. Digging in the dirt is a great way to ease tensions—and to provide extra food and flowers.
27. Whatever a person puts her hand to do, she should do it with all her might, no matter how small or short she is.
28. Birthdays should always be remembered—a special person was born on that special day.