All Aglow

I am working in many ways, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, even physically, to weave through these days of brokenness with a spirit that Allison lived in her last days with us. This day signifies so much to us, last night her last one spent in the comfort of her home. All she wanted to do toward the end of her life was to come back to her home, her bed, her boy, Barkley, and be comfortable. She even begged at times, as she slipped in and out of this world. And, at times, she believed she was at home, because there she was, surrounded by all who loved her, all who never left her side, all who held her and eased her mind about leaving us. The pain of it all just doesn't subside, but the beauty of it peeks out at me like the sun shining behind a dark cloud. I feel every motion, memory, every word, every tear, every thought, every action of those final days, which really counted down from this day. I don't try to. As I have attempted to do since her passing, my full time job is living, and not spending time in a past that holds no meaning now. Yet, the memories don't fade, I suppose because they are in the deepest chambers and fibers of my soul, and as a mother carried her baby under the bosom of her heart, so the memories, pain, and love reside, intermingled, tangled, churning, yet sorting it all out, this time of year when the days become shorter and shorter, until there was one last breath.

There was a glow about Allison that always permeated her. That indeed is a fact, and acknowledged by many, even before her diagnosis. But after the illness invaded, and she would not let cancer control her, the glow, the halo grew larger than life, and sometimes it was so physically present that we would wonder if she were truly an angel on earth. A spiritual being in a young woman's body. But we would dismiss that notion, as if it were not even possible. But it was and it is. And the glow was ever present, as if in halo form, beginning on Christmas Eve, and glowing all around her, even after the breath and life was gone from her body. Her spirit hovered when released, and does, still.

The glow of this soul is our gift today. Those who have seen it up close and personal know that no words can truly describe the final days, this day when relief came to her as she entered the hospital, never to come home to this house. But that was not meant to be. We thought she would. We knew she would. But she didn't. She made a life for nine days in that hospital room, some memories too painful for me to visit, still, but most are beautiful and glowing, like her spirit. Through the pain and procedure and acceptance that she would leave us, there was a strength that has never left me, her father, her sister and those closest to her. We know, now, that we can do anything life sets before us. We will carry that glow with us until it is our turn for her to meet us in the Heavenly Kingdom of God.

This is a week and a day to remember in many ways. I hold on to the spirit that my life is now what it is because she left us. Who would I be if not for her death? Why did it take my own child dying before I could truly comprehend the sacrifice of Jesus and how He died in order that we may live? That we are not promised tomorrow, that we live to die. When my own precious child asked me the question no mother wants to hear, "mommy, am I dying", I had to answer with complete honesty. "yes, my girl, you are, but we all are, that is what we are created for, we live to die, and it is our time on earth that we get to prepare for our eternal life"...those words just two days before she closed her eyes forever. She accepted my answer as truth, for it was, and she rested, and she smiled, and she was beautiful.

All who knew and loved her see the glow differently today, some tangible, some in spirit. It is so clearly with us, it is what guides us, what gives us strength, what motivated us to work hard and live strong. As I cry this week, endlessly, for what has been lost, I still find that place in my heart that smiles, that draws courage and strength in all she left, and I find the glow my sustaining, driving force to keep living.

Can Every Day Be Christmas?

I would like to think that everyday could be Christmas. I hope that I try to make that happen, that the cookies baked for neighbors don't just come during the hustle and bustle, that the little gifts that can bring a smile don't just get handed out on day of the year, but most importantly, that the spirit of Jesus in my heart doesn't contain itself to one day. The spirit of Christmas and what it means to know the Lord and Saviour the way we do is meant for every day of the year.

So, in knowing that, it was my way of convincing myself that this day is like any other day of the year. And it is. The only difference is that families gather round, celebrate, and follow traditions. Or make new ones. Which is what we do now, new ones, that weave in some of the "old", yet make way for the new. We must find a way to honor the past, the present, but look to the future with hope and faith. We must hold on to the celebrations that once were part of our lives, while making way for the ones that will hold a memory in the future. Those memories are what make Christmas what it is, after all. It is often not the moment. It is remembering the past, the joys, the laughter, the love. So, in that, we were able to celebrate another Christmas without Allison being here. This is not to say it did not have the most intense, painful moments. It is not to say that I would have given anything to turn the clock back, not know the pain of grief that now walks my daily walk and talk and life. But she is not here, in the physical sense. And there is no way to describe that absence.

I saw on the news that many families were not joined together this year. Of course, I already knew that from the confines of war, where soldiers are not home with their loved ones. Then the storms kept sons and daughters from getting home. Families are not intact but there is hope for the new year and another holiday. The difference, I believe, when a child, no matter what age is gone forever, never to return, when you know there is no chance of a physical reunion, or the sight of her opening her gifts, the difference is the finality. And the sense that you carry with you, that dull sense of absence. It hovers. It clings. It is always there. But as each day comes and goes, one must learn to deal, cope and live with it, because it cannot be changed. There is an unspoken gloom, yet, it weaves with refreshed purpose and plans, and the opportunity to be alive. You want it to begin, then you want it to end, the days that mark holidays or celebrations or anniversaries. Learning to live like this is astounding. It is confusing. But we keep on, as I say everyday, for her, for our living daughter, for ourselves, for a God who is true.

We got on with the sense of Christmas. We look to make a bit of Christmas in our lives everyday. It is just another day, yet it is not. We made it what we could, and we found our way. Through the cloud of grief, we were able to find joy and love and maybe a bit of peace, if only for a moment.

Alfred Tennyson writes:

Again at Christmas did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
The silent snow possessed the earth,
And calmly fell our Christmas Eve.

The yule log sparkled keen with frost,
No wing of wind the region swept,
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.

There it is, always hovering, the sense of something lost. We miss her, we ache for her, as many parents do this Christmas, for their beloved sons and daughters, lost to them from this earth, yet guiding them from where they now reside, deep in the hearts and bosom of our souls, our lives.

The Graveside Wreath

There is a beautiful wreath that awaits being placed at Allison's resting place. Jennifer's Godmother, Aunt Sue, made it and brought it over with at Christmas time, 2007, our first one without Allison's physical presence. She just told us to do what we wanted with it, so that first year, since the monument had not been placed, we just laid it down but I picked it right up and brought it home. I couldn't leave it, and I couldn't believe that I was a mother, visiting the gravesite of her beloved daughter. The second year I did leave it, right under the bench opening, under her name that I have traced many times over, perhaps so that this will become "real" in some ways. It is shimmery and has one simple pink glistening bow. I thought each year I might add something to it, but that hasn't happened. I like the simplicity of it, just lying there on top of the cold ground where the green grass still stands out, even in the beginning of winter. So, last year I left it, and had no thoughts of retrieving it, yet, when I visited later in winter, as it still sat there, not a bit frayed from the raging winter winds, or cold of night, I decided to bring it home. Maybe start a new tradition. Maybe make a visit and lay it down again. But, the wreath is still here and I have not been to make that visit, to see how others honor those who have gone before them with grave coverings, poinsettias, wreaths. The time has not been right for me. I am not a grave visitor. Allison is not there, so for me, when I go there, I feel very removed, not comforted. I know other mothers and fathers who feel quite the opposite. And that is okay. Each one of us finds our own way, and God shows us different ways to move through this, not move ON, not even FORWARD, just move. To me, that is the key.

I haven't hung any wreaths this year, quite odd for me. But this has been one of a different season, the one where I believe some sort of "shock" is wearing off and the freshness is binding. There is not even the big Christmas tree up, and that is okay. The pink one is, the candles are out, the snowmen, the displays of comfort but not too many. Less is more this year.

I am unsure what will happen to Allison's graveside wreath this year. Maybe it will stay there for another year, maybe I will visit on Christmas Eve, maybe not. Maybe I will hang it on our door this week, maybe I will just hold it close and let the tears come that need to...just maybe I will hold it and be reminded of the beautiful way in which her sister, Jennifer, read the poem on the day of her wintery celebration of life, the poem that held such meaning then, but is more profound with each growing day. The poem that helps us to know we don't need the graveside or bench to know she never leaves us, for she did not die. I have shared it before, but this morning, I need to hear it again and again and again...

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there.
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamonds on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds circling flight.
I am the the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there.
I did not die.

The Right Message

Yesterday, I was restless. The emotional pain was settling in ways, and in places, that I found a bit unknown. I had to keep going, and I knew it, but I didn't know how. By keep going I don't mean shopping, or bustling, or baking, I mean simply living. As every other day, I find my strength from sources unknown and unplanned, from places familiar, some foreign. I never know where it is going to come from, this ability to move and live and breathe and endure the pain that really cannot be described in words. But what I do know is that it will come, because God hears my prayers, knows my heart, and sends whatever I need, even when I have no idea what that may be, at such a time as this...a time when we blend Allison's last days on earth, with holidays, with planning a celebration of her life in just a few short days, with knowing down deep that those weeks may very well bring the last Christmas we spend on earth together. This is that time when it would be too difficult to gather around parties and make idle chit chat, when silence is rather golden, and when reflection and time to just breathe and take it all in, the lights, the memories, the life, the here and now, the future. So, as I found my way through a very heavy load this weekend, as I sought God's guidance on whether I should, or could, attend a dear friend's sister's memorial service, I just kept asking for help. I was led to Allison's own celebration service pamphlet, the one that provided an outline of a service to remain locked in our memory, forever. I read it as though it were the first time. I guess that is what a new set of eyes will do for a person, and I read parts of my journal that I had included. I am not sure why I was led to that, but it brought me comfort and it brought me closer to God and His goodness and His tender ways. It brought many things back, the words shared, the opportunities to say so much, or so little, to say good-bye, to say I will see you when God decides it is time for our own reunion. To hold my child, not as though she were 21 years of age, but to hold her and rock her and love her into eternal sleep.

Still, my heart couldn't hold enough yesterday as thoughts of two sisters, all of their siblings, a young mother taken far too soon, leaving her soul-mate and two small children to figure this out. Cancer has invaded again. I couldn't bear the e-mail I received from a mother who had found this blog quite by accident, and who had contacted me months ago to ask how to prepare for the moment she may lose her own young woman of a daughter, the e-mail that came yesterday simply stating, PEACE...and I knew, Erin was gone to eternal rest. I couldn't bear to think of two young mothers who had planned to hang their baby's first ornament up on the tree, only to have laid them to rest after only knowing them a few days. I couldn't bear to think of the sadness of another mother who spent time with me this week, trying to figure out how to move without her daughter here for Christmas, a young lady in the prime of life. I couldn't bear my own pain. And in an instant, a friend, Sarah, sent the scripture I needed, one I couldn't have found yesterday as I read and searched for the right message...there it was, though, found by her and she took the time to share it, and she may never know just how much I needed to read this.

Of course, the scripture is referring to the Christ Child, but in that moment, Sarah thought of Allison, and I did, too. After all, her belief in Jesus as her personal saviour brought her to the loving arms of God above, through His own son.

Luke 1:76-79
"And you child will be called a prophet of the Most High,
for you will go before the Lord to prepare the ways,
to give the people knowledge of salvation,
Through forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
by which the daybreak from on high will visit us,
to shine on those who sit in darkness and death's shadow
to guide our feet into the path of peace."

God IS merciful, grants us peace, and guides us, and through His Son, we can find our way. He sends angels among us to help us along the way, and promises that when more than one are gathered in His name, there is hope, light and love.

I am thankful for the many angels in my life, who take that minute to reach out, share, leave a message, pray for us, and hope along with us. This journey is not getting easier, by any means, but it is different, revealing all the while that the right message is always at our fingertips. We just have to be willing to share it, and listen, and live.

The Sun Does Rise

This morning the sunrise was incredible. It's a sight to behold and even in retirement I am up way too early. That's okay, it is peaceful and there is no hustle or bustle or traffic or children and their parents to tend to first thing in the morning. Silence is golden, as they say, and I live it now. I embrace it. And as I seize the day, taking it for what it is, yes, missing, especially at this time of year, all those who I interacted with on a daily basis, I must accept that life is paced differently, slower, quieter, more subdued, but it is what I make of it. I must accept a lot of things. One such part of my life, our lives, is that as we make our way toward Christmas, it is not only the holiday we must find our way through with new traditions and ways to celebrate life, but these days signify so much more. They represent the final days Allison spent at home with us, a December to remember, and even in the devastation of a raging and relentless cancer, there was joy, here, that now lives in our hearts. There was laughter, lights, hope, strength, and love. There were visitors, endless at times, and special gatherings as Allie perched on her pillow in her room, or in a favorite chair. There were two sisters, laughing and telling secrets, laying together and watching Ellen and reality shows! There were games and coloring books and toys and almost daily presents in the mail! There were naps with her beloved Barkley, there was music, there were movies, there was a young woman with a a halo of light that helped us through some remarkably difficult days. Yet that glow brought peace and helped us turn to the only one who could take control, a loving and tender God, who took her on a morning that started much as today did, a very cold and bitter early morning, with the most amazing colors streaming through the sky. I mostly remember the pinks and oranges that filtered through her hospital room, and how appropriate, those being two of her three favorite colors, the other being turquoise. Yet, that day, unlike today, as soon as she took her final breath and left us for eternity, the skies turned gray and the cold settled in...today is not going to be like that. Today is a reminder that the good comes with the bad, that for now, it is beautiful, but soon, all can change. Just as those days in December brought the utmost beauty, they turned dark, and cold, until we could see again, hear again, remember without the intensity of such pain.

I remind myself daily that Allison is not in pain, only those of us left behind are still grappling with this thing called life. We don't know what to do or how to do it, we try, we take baby steps, we falter, we pick back up, and we do what we must. I know if she could say anything directly to us it would be to remember the wonderment of those last weeks, not the pain, the nights, the hospital visits, or the death...but to remember the laughter, the family gathered all the while each visit now becoming a precious memory, remember the food, the purpose, the reason for the season. She would encourage me to put the wreaths out that are still waiting in the basement, decorate the tree, play the music, do the shopping. And to her I would say, I am doing it, I am finding the smallest steps to be the biggest journey. The music is on this morning, a friend is coming for lunch, and another for a happy hour, one at a time, or a whole house full, I am living. Sometimes I don't want to, sometimes I just cannot even begin to breathe through this or comprehend such a loss, I have to touch her face on a photo just to get to the next minute, but I do what I must.

The sun has risen and I am recalling in my soul the beauty of those last weeks, her death is not the painful part, she is in the most serene and wondrous places of all, it's the living without her that is the complex part. Yet the gifts she left are bigger and better than any under the tree. I can feel the love of those weeks, the friends and family who made time to come by, visit, not even question if they should or should not, they just did. Those moments help me find my way, knowing that love prevails and carries us when there is nothing else to do.

Psalm 30 says that weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. Right now I am thankful for this morning and what it brings.

Needs and Wants

When I was teaching I enjoyed the economy lessons of needs vs. wants, whether it was in the 2nd, 4th or 6th grade curriculum, we always touched on the topic and it was always interesting to me how the students responded. As they grew older, their needs would get confused with their wants! And that happened in my own home. The girls surely didn't care about paying the bills first and THEN seeing what was left over to buy the things they liked, or do the things they enjoyed. They just wanted what they wanted when they wanted it! And yes, over time, they were a bit indulged, some would say VERY indulged, after all, they had great tennis shoes and swimsuits from Dillards...and the prom dresses, and the homecoming dresses, and the shoes to match, and oh, the hair highlights and the nails done...indeed, the list goes on. Still, we always stressed the "needs over wants", and I am proud to say they had a good head on their shoulders, gave to others, very generously, paid their bills first (most of the time) and didn't get too far into trouble. Allison even had two of my credit cards while living in Chicago (which Jennifer couldn't believe:), but never did she make a purchase without authorization from me, and then, it was very rare. So all in all, I know that both of them understand (to some extent:) that we must take care of business first, then indulge a bit.

I think of this at this time of year because of the mixed emotions I have about the upcoming Christmas Day. Again, over time, the girls were indulged, and presents filled the room. A Haake Christmas is a sight to behold, and while the items are not particularly expensive, they are fun and thought provoking. Sometimes you opened what you may "need" but often it was what one would "want". And now, in the depths of grief, I am struggling to identify what that is, for my loved ones, but especially for myself. I don't mean in the form of a present. The gift in a box or bag means so very little, the kindness or gesture is the beautiful part, and perhaps always has been, I just didn't "feel" it so intently. I just never "felt" to the core of my soul what is there, now, as grief mixes with spirit, and feelings are crying out to be set free. I don't know how to do this, each day is like finding my way through the fog, the light, the darkness, the sunrise, the evening, every turn of every hour represents something new and fresh, and I am not sure what I want or what I need. It was easy to identify before, it was concrete, it was tangible. Now it is remote, and foreign, and out of my reach.

Some may say that with time passing, perhaps it should be "easier" to know, but to them I must say that until you lose your child and need to redefine yourself, your family unit, your holidays and tradition, it doesn't get easier, it takes work, hard work, and lots of it. It's not a bad thing, it's just different and painful and yet, the slivers of light that stream in, in the form of the phone call, or note, or visit, or care from others, helps spur the grieving one on in ways that cannot be described.

As my family and I find our way through the last weeks of Allison's life, blended with the holiday season, we are learning much more about our needs and wants! We are taking our own cues from each other, not making commitments, staying in, being with each other, finding our way. And that takes work, conversation, tears, cleansing, and faith. Faith in one another, in the promise of a new day, and in a loving God who surely holds us in the palm of His hand, for there is no other explanation as to how we have arrived at almost 36 months since Allison passed away and not really known how we got here. We are here by His good grace, it is not to our credit. Surely, God and God alone knows what we need. Yes, I search through my daily readings, activities, care for new dog Rex, visits with others, following what I have always called God's agenda. But I don't know what to do or how to do it, so each morning I just ask Him to show me how to get through, how to do this, and to provide what I need or want. I am often too numb to know.

So the beauty of the day is God does know. He knew to take our daughter and sister from her pain, early enough so that we can remain hopeful for when it becomes our time to leave this earth. He knows enough to connect me with others who I would have never met if not for this journey, and He brings people into my life so that I can share a bit of hope that they, too, will be able to take those steps toward healing. I can promise them, through His word, that nothing else is needed when you walk with the Lord as your guide. He also knows enough to use Allison as a guiding force for others who need hope and guidance on their own cancer journey, and through His love, she shines on. He also provides what I need when I cannot carry on, when I fall to my knees in tears and utter disbelief that I am not making plans for her to come home for Christmas. There is such comfort in knowing that God has it all covered.

God gives us the morning, literally and symbolically. He erases the darkness for a bit, so we can hope. I am thankful for it today. I need it. I need the pain to ease a bit, and the sun to come out and warm me up a bit and help me move, make any kind of movement. I work today at giving it all over to Him and I thank Him for knowing what I need and want!

To Love IS To Lose...sometimes

I've heard the expression (paraphrased somewhat), "would you rather have loved and lost than never to have loved at all"...and it has come to mind, for some reason, so often lately. I never really thought of it in terms of losing a child, our Allison. That is not even a consideration, we don't have children ever expecting to lose them. It's not in our realm of remote possibility. If we thought we would ever have to learn to live without them, and if we knew the pain that encompasses every aspect of emotion and part of one's soul, I wonder what we would say if God had given us the choice. But He often doesn't, and the child is coming, and life takes hold, then you wake up one day, your child living at any age and you find that whatever time you have with them has come to an end, and you know, in spite of everything, in spite of the shock, despair, indescribable loss, that you would do it again, that she was here for a purpose, and life was meant for her presence, until it was time or her to go and make a difference from the heavens. There is that faith and belief in a higher power that makes this realization somewhat more comforting, at least a lot of the times. But a lot of the times, too, it takes some time to retrieve that thought, especially when as her mother I desire a "normal" holiday, with traditions in tact, her physical presence here to hang the ornaments that we never failed to put up, each telling their own story, or that of generations past. I desire in the strongest way to touch her cheek, hold her hand, wake her up on Christmas morning, rather than she and her sister waking us up, as in days gone by. It is exhausting to "figure out" the new traditions, the new ways, the diversions and the maneuvering through a time such as this. It is simply the most incredible feat just to get through the days. But we do and we will, and we make this house a home, with the subtle ways to honor her, remember, and "celebrate" her life as we did nearly three years ago. The candles get lit, the pink tree all aglow, and new life has found its way into our homes and hearts in the form of a new, needy little guy, Rex!

Rex comes to mind as we really debated the expression above...would we rather risk loving and finding attachment and loss than to not love at all? That is a discussion Joe and I had as we had to make a decision whether to adopt this little guy, who was named Pippin at the animal shelter. He will have his own story on my blog soon! But after some discussion and decision making, Rex came to live with us. This is not what we wanted, we didn't ask for it, and as in life, we would have never imagined it. On the heels of losing our beloved Barkley, with our hearts still broken, and missing him beyond words, Rex was brought to us and we couldn't say no. Just last week I began to think of how I need to find a place for Barkley's belongings and packed up the car to donate them to a shelter! Isn't that what they say about babies, too, once mom and dad give away the crib, thinking there is not to be another baby, well, surprise! Nothing was good about this, we told ourselves. It's not the right time. These are our most difficult weeks of the year, our last days now, lived with Allison, blended with her last Christmas at home, there is much to sort through. We just don't need this!

But most of all, how could we sustain yet another loss? How could we endure the pain if we become attached and his life was short? All the unanswered questions surfaced, all of which we knew had no answers. We already know we cannot predict what lies ahead, nor have tomorrow promised, we only have today. And we have a home, love and a life we can give another dog. No, this was not the plan, but what part of life IS our plan?!

So, we have decided to open up and love, and if there is loss, and there will be again, in some form or another, someone we love will be lost to us, at least loss in the physical sense. But not ever truly lost. Allison is gone in the physical sense, and although we are still trying to accept that and acknowledge it internally, our minds tell us it is so. Barkley is gone in the physical sense, as well. But neither of them is ever really gone. Both have taught us to try to open up a bit more, that it's okay to keep living and loving and giving in ways that we can. So our home is open and Rex is adjusting, seeking and craving the love that has been denied. We may lose again, but we will love a lot in the process.

Shopping and Presents

I should look back and see what I wrote a year ago at this time, but I have never looked back on my words and heart filled reflections. I wonder if I wrote the same thing, I wonder if I am in the same "place", I wonder if this pain of holiday blended with Allison's last weeks with us was as intense, or does it just seem as though my heart is going to be ripped to shreds with every ornament, Christmas Carol, with every trip to the store. Shouldn't I still be buying her those gifts? Why does everything I gravitate toward remind me of her...her smell, her comfort, her beauty, her inner strength, the pinks, turquoises, oranges, blended with the memory of 21 Christmas mornings blended into one final beautiful morning, complete with the peace that God granted us, the wonderment of a day meant for a family who didn't know what the next minute would bring for their beloved daughter and sister. Complete with a final picture of four, five counting our precious dog, Barkley, who now rests in peace with his girl.

The shopping that has taken place over the years, the gifts wrapped, the presents unwrapped, don't hold a candle to the memories. I don't really recall the fatigue, the hours of working and finding time to make the gingerbread houses, the cookies, the crafts, attend the holiday performances. Like giving birth, I suppose, I can barely remember the pain because of all the joy. Yes, sorrow too, pain, anguish, and all that goes into raising children, but the pure joy of having them on this earth overshadows it all. Now, I am praying that I can get through every shopping excursion, not really understanding the stabbing pain in my heart and every fiber of my being, not really wanting to go out and be reminded, feel the "triggers", see presents that would bring that momentary light to her eyes, allow my fingers to linger on the pajamas that she would have put right on, touch the coat that would have kept her warm in her Chicago town or trip to Boston.

There is no reason or rhyme as to why she is not here with us, and I have to believe she walks with Jesus, sends her pink glow in the form of our new Christmas tree, and sends me messages, "mom, I don't need the present but someone else does". I have to believe that the money I would spend on her would be better suited to buy the coat for a girl named Emily through angeltree.com, who has parents imprisoned and who cannot buy her a Christmas gift, or that the donation to Ronald McDonald House so that parents who need care while their children are receiving cancer treatments would honor her better than anything I can "buy" or place under the tree. I have to believe that her life will continue as long as those she left behind find a way to reach out to someone else in the ways we can, reaching out with our hands and offerings, little or big. I have to believe that God is using her in powerful ways.

It's not the shopping, it's not the presents, it's the spirit of Christmas, it's giving what we can, but knowing our time is far more valuable than the gift. After all, who really remembers what they got and when? We all remember the feelings, the games played, the laughter, the food, the table, the traditions, the memories.

I am thankful God hears me, even when I am shopping and don't think I can take another step, when the pain of loss seems to prevail over all else, when I try to carry on with traditions, when I make her favorite foods and cookies, when I wonder how I am going to get through this day, I am still thankful. Thankful that a husband comes home from work every day, for a daughter who loves to share stories and memories of her sister, while making new ones for herself, for a planned cookie baking day with her, for the ability to reach out and buy those presents that matter, in the name of God and a forever-21 young woman who inspires us all to keep going.

The Quiet

One thing you notice when your loved one is first gone, and even in all the subsequent days, weeks and months, especially on holidays and times of celebration, is the quiet. It's not as though there is not plenty of "noise" around you, it's just that often you just don't hear it. In those first weeks and months and even into the years, you often wonder if you will laugh with the true joy that laughter used to bring...it feels so fake, empty and noiseless now. We all know laughter is good for the soul, but in grief, it is the last thing you feel up to doing, even though the world around you laughs and makes noise. There is that happy chatter of preparing for special occasions or just day to day living. There is also that grumbling and moaning and "bitching" if you will. Life can seem unfair and the little things, like flat tires and tupperware falling out of the cabinet can make you break apart at the seams! So, in retrospect, we know that not all times are remembered as being joyous and happy, but those are the times you ache for when they are so far out of your reach. You would take all moments back if given a choice.

Even holidays are not without their stress, and now that they are here again, it is the quiet that I most notice...without her. Yes, we talk, we laugh, we live, we find enjoyment, and definite peace, and you will rarely hear a grumble or complaint from any of us. How would we dare? How would we allow the problems of this world and the "small stuff" get to us, when we now know that everything has a purpose, a solution, a way to come through it all with our heads held high? How could we have observed the trials and tribulations of cancer taking over our daughter and sister, the side effects, the pain, the shock, the loss of all normalcy, and not learn the lesson?

Still, the quiet is often gut wrenching. I long for the noise that was...sure, the TV can be on, we can be watching a movie, we can be playing a game, and there is noise. But it is not the noise we are used to...it's just not the same, and it never will be, so we learn how to take hold of the quiet, accept it for what it is, and regroup with new purpose. Until someone is missing from the family gathering to hang up the ornaments, bake the cookies, go to church, wrap and unwrap the presents, until the person's face fades from the images of physical life, we cannot comprehend that there is so much more to deal with than just them not being here. It all sounds so different, even when there is noise.

I used to think I had to fill the empty space with words and chit chat. Known as a "talker" I can find anything to talk to anyone about! But now, I am learning to be still, accept the quiet that surrounds the death of a loved one, but make a different noise, not fill it with sounds that cause me pain or discomfort. One moment I can listen to the sounds blaring through the house, the Christmas Carols, once playing continuously for weeks. Now, I may listen, and in a blink of an eye, there it is, that song or hymn that must be turned off. I can go from noise to quiet in the same 60 seconds, recognizing that this IS or IS NOT what I need right now. One moment I can be laughing at a movie, and in the next, realizing that the laughter seems so hollow and empty and foreign...who would have thought, that laughter and joy would need to be relearned?

Noise is all around us. It never ceases, and I recognize that I have been around it all my life, finding it hard just to settle and be still. Now I see and hear it all differently. There is no longer any need to fill the air with noise, the silence is becoming my greatest teacher.

Blessings Flow

With every tear that is falling down my cheeks, that wakes me in the night, with the memories and triggers of this holiday, Allison's very favorite, even over Christmas, I have determined, it must have been her favorite because it represented her, in oh so many ways. That thought just dawned on me...it defined her, it told so much about her. It is and was family day, simple and tight, and warm and loving. It held no expectations, no glam or glitter! Nothing fancy, yet comforting. Plenty of food and a simple state of being. Some years we would share our reason for being thankful. Some years a simple prayer, some, a more profound blessing of praise. But always, a small family gathered in the country or at Aunt Kathy's, with Aunt Karen sometimes arriving that very evening. Sometimes there were games. Sometimes we just read books, colored or did puzzles. Sometimes we made crafts. But always, there were no expectations. You could just be, and I have to believe that is what she savored about the day. Plus, she loved it when "the fam", as she called our family, was together.

So, here we are, on the eve of another holiday, and I tell myself it is not unlike any other day. But I can't kid myself, she is not coming in from the train or plane, with the bags and the smile and the hug and the laughter. And because of that, nothing is ever the same. Ever. Yes, we are ever so grateful to have had her in our lives, to have known her, to hold her, to love her, but until your heart and soul physically aches from the missing piece, one just cannot comprehend how difficult it is to learn the new way of having her here, in spirit, in our hearts, in our prayers, and in our lives. That tangible, physical presence is missing and it takes every ounce of strength to carry on...but carry on, we will.

In spite of this indescribable loss, the blessings flow. Every day, not just today or tomorrow, I write in my blessing journal, and look for the top 5 blessings of the day. I know I repeat myself and I know that in the early months of Allison being gone, I couldn't look past the same few. But my eyes are widened and I see, and I know, and I feel. And I am thankful, grateful to a loving God who continues the showering of blessings.

I am most thankful for the strength God has given this family, mainly two parents who could have parted ways and let the loss destroy us, rather than work it all out for good. I am thankful we are finding our way to respect one another's "place" and where they are at the moment, honoring each other's feelings, knowing that in the next 60 seconds anything can change. I am thankful for two daughters, one who shows her strength and honor to herself and her sister who left this world before her, and one who guides us with a force that won't allow us to quit. I am thankful that God shows me how to take advantage of opportunities to assist others and has given me the gift of time and resources and the "wherewithall" to step outside of myself. I am thankful for the simple pleasures that I may not have known had this experience not touched our lives. I am thankful for the few who allow me to share a bit of where I really am in the process and not turn the discussion elsewhere. Those are brave souls who can step outside their own pain and loss or discomfort and allow me to share for a minute, with honesty, just how I am "really" doing. They want to know. I am thankful for the wonderful support of family and friends, the card, the e-mail, the call, the visit, just when I need it. I am thankful to those who know while Allison has been gone close to three years, to us, it's as if she just left. I am thankful to those who follow their heart and spirit to reach out to other grieving parents, never knowing how that can light their lives. I am thankful to those who put meaning to the words "we must get together" and not let too much time escape. I am thankful to those who schedule time with me but understand when I say it is not a good day, can we do this another time! I am thankful that God has shown me there is nothing to worry about, that none of what happens in my life is within my control and that He will take it all if I lay it at His feet. I am thankful for the people who have come into my life as a result of their loss, or ours, and while I wish it could have been under different circumstances, I know it would never have happened had it not been part of the bigger plan. I am thankful that there is promise in God's word that no matter where we are, this is all temporal, and none of it means anything if we don't believe. I am thankful for a spiritual walk that began years ago and is developing over time. I am thankful for life.

I know, this day, and every day, I am not the only grieving mother, all one has to do is watch the news, answer the phone, read the statistics, or hear from friends how the numbers are growing every day. I know that several have walked through my door just this year, looking for that person who might understand, or relate in some way that the rest of the world cannot. Each one of us has a different story, yet one thing in common, there is no need for the Thanksgiving plate to be sat out, there is an empty seat at the table, there is a new family puzzle to put together, the family photo will look blatantly different. There are no words to describe that feeling. Yet, each mother, father, sister, brother, family member will find their way. We must. We will. We wiil praise God from whom all blessings flow.

End Of Life Stages

As I write, two beloved souls are facing end of life stages. I know too much about this journey, so it is with mixed emotion that I talk or walk with their families, visit one later this morning, mixed emotion because it is all so complex. I am no expert, but I do have the experience, first with my mother, then years later, my father, then my daughter, and then, our family dog. In all that comes with the journey, it is a final gift of life to be able to be the one who holds that hand, sings, prays, rocks, whispers, kisses, hugs, and holds that loved one as they enter the Kingdom of God. A real treasure and even though we don't think we would know how to help at such a time, when we ask God for guidance and are open to His wisdom, we receive in ways that are plentiful and good. The key is knowing how to listen, what to look for, and take ourselves out of the picture, focus on that life, that loved one, and the dying themselves will supply the answers and the need. Assisting my loved ones in relinquishing their fears and face death with serenity has become my greatest joy. As well as my greatest heartache. None more than my own daughter, but as I know to trust God, I understand that, that too, had a divine purpose under heaven.

I know it as others turn to me, maybe for a prayer, or a question, or strength, or some form of hope. And I know full well, there is always hope. We don't know the form our loved ones miracle will take shape, but when we believe, we just know it will. When we truly give our heart to Jesus and know that through Him, under God, all things will work for good, there is peace and joy in ushering the ones we hold dear to eternal rest. No, that doesn't mean that it takes away the pain, the worry, the fatigue, the disbelief, the unexplained sorrow, but it does show us just how chosen we are when we have this unbelievable and magnificent opportunity.

There are transitions and there are moments when our precious ones find themselves in end of life stages that must be dealt with, and oh how I wish we could all be prepared for what they, and we, experience. But we are not. Nothing ever prepares you for the journey we take when one cannot be treated for cancer any longer, when one lies in a coma for six weeks, when organs and functions begin to cease. This type of death is all part of life. And none of us know when, or how, it will be when it is our turn. And someday, it will be our turn. And when it is, we can only pray that we will have the love and hope that surrounds two special people this day, this week, and the weeks to come, dear Chrissy and precious Esther.

I know there are many others whose loved ones are gathering, just as we did, three short years ago, this very time, this very week, this very holiday season. A final gift, that can only be attributed to an answer to prayer, was that we held on as a family, lived life to the fullest, and had the most amazing eleven weeks, weeks of joy and living, even when bed ridden and incapacitated. Even through tears of frustration, sometimes anger, disbelief, shock..."what do you mean there is nothing else to do", "is there not something else we can try", "it wasn't supposed to happen this way", "she was going to beat this thing", words cried out with such emotion and shock. Words turning to, "Father, your will be done", "Lord, God, take her to her Heavenly home if it is her time", "Father, thank you for 21 years with this daughter and sister", "Thank you, Father, for relieving her pain".

End of life stages is different for everyone, as unique as the person and their situation. I admire the families of the ones mentioned, the dignity, the respect, the joy and the love they are providing their loved one. I am grateful I had the same opportunity, and I wouldn't change a thing, a moment, because when listening to God, there is nothing to regret. When He sends the Holy Spirit to follow there is no misguided direction. It is clear. We have one purpose under heaven. And God is good. He is always there, He never sleeps, He has no timeframe. He is waiting.

Dear Allison

Dear Allison, my journal today is a letter to you, I will pour out my heart and maybe convey my deepest feelings this day. I don't know why I have chosen this format, perhaps because you are so close to us this month, these final weeks God gave us to spend with you, and now, imagine our intense amazement to know November is Lung Cancer Awareness Month. I can only speculate that makes you very happy, and I know that from the feeling in my heart, although heavy with grief, lightened by the pink sunrises and sunsets of this past week, leading up to the first 5K Lung Cancer Fun Run/Walk where yesterday, hundreds gathered to honor their loved ones, or stand up as survivors. You know there are not many, so when a survivor can proudly stand and say they are beating this dreaded cancer, that is a gift, to them and to their family, and to others. Although, I must tell you that was one of the most difficult parts of the day, yesterday, wanting so much to see you there, standing with the rest, bald head shining, eyes brightening the skies, I so wanted you there, but I know you were. You were in every part of it, and since you were always about helping people on earth, I know how proud you would be of all of us for getting the word out, the awareness, the staggering statistics. Through it all, your face shines as an example of how this is not a smoker's disease, how it can touch and impact lives beyond reproach, and how devastating it can be...I want you to know I do my best not to dwell on the rough days of cancer, the pain, the lack of air, the procedures you went through, I really try. I ask God above to help me remember you as you were, a young woman who just took life as it was, who smiled through the whole journey, even through the pain and tears. Could you have known, could any of us have known, just what gift you would leave us? Could any of us projected we would be walking or running in a 5K event, where you, among many others, were a shining star? Could we have ever imagined we could possibly do the things we have been called upon to do since you left our arms, our home, our lives?

You would be so proud, of your sister, father, aunt, uncle, friends and friends of friends. Your grandparents, too, who came out and walked in spite of their own pain or limitations. It was so difficult to see your name on the back of nearly one hundred walkers or runners, yet, it was rewarding too. Because of you and your legacy you are teaching from the spirit world in which you now reside. And because of you, our lives are never to be the same, nothing can get us down or cause us anxiety, nor will we ever complain again. You have shown us how to live.

Today I am not smiling, but yesterday I could. Today I grieve, for many reasons and that is okay. I will keep on, I will be productive, I will find my way, and I will smile when I can. You brought us joy and hope and pride, and most of all, love, to make it through a day such as yesterday. There are sunny days and there are cloudy days, and appropriately, today, is a day for clouds and gray skies and gloom, but in an instant, all that will change, and we will be guided, once again, by you, and the loving Father who holds you most dear.

I know your work on earth was finished. I know that deep in my heart. If you were alive and well, your work would be limited to a classroom, or the circle of your friends and family. But you were destined for bigger and better. Your time had come to influence and guide from afar. That thought doesn't always make it easier, but God is helping me find peace that passes all understanding. I will never get it. I don't try to. There is no answer to how or why you got lung cancer. At least no tangible reason. There are many spiritual purposes, though. So many know and understand and feel blessed that they can get through their trial because of you, and because of how your family has responded. There is such a bigger purpose and you are helping us find it.

Allison, my precious daughter, as the tears fall and I know in my heart that you are my hero, I must end and say thank you, thank you for the day yesterday, for spurring us on, for enlightening so many others, for helping us stay focused, see new perspectives, meet new loving and caring people, for giving strength to your sister, father, me. As I look at the photo of the three of us, you are so definitely missing, at least in the physical sense. But, there you were, in the clouds, in the pink sunrise, in the solitary benches, in the tears of others, in the smiles of joy as others completed their run, in the eyes of those beloved friends who came out to support us, and in those who could not be physically present but held us up in thought or prayer, in it all, you were there.

In The Classroom

Just yesterday, I was in a friend's classroom as she prepared to be videotaped for a lesson that she will attempt to recreate with her new set of students, one that her principal observed and found worthy of taping as an exemplary example of teaching at its finest...my words, not hers! She is humble about her talents, this I know, because I was at one time her principal and marveled at the instructional ability, the reflection, the planning that this teacher, who is now my friend, displayed. She never takes the credit, she gives every tribute to God above for helping her get this far and for providing her with the ideas and implementation. But she is a learner and tries to take in everything she is taught to make it a better day for her students, that they will walk away with not only knowledge but many other skills. She taught rigor and relevance before they were the new "buzz" words!

As I assisted her in getting some of the preparations under way, I had glimpses of my own days in the classroom, in that very building where teaching and learning thrived, where we all came together for a one purpose, where students were the focus of every decision. I pondered a moment about the true joy that enveloped me as I would take the "stage" in that room, and how the years, now, mean so much to me. I was taken back so easily to days that were meaningful and filled with passion. I was taken back to so many things. Then I said to myself, "don't be one of those women who live in the past". It was what it was, and now it is what it is. As I had little thoughts of what it would like to go back to that career, lead a group of students through their studies, I knew that you can never go back. All circumstances are different, nothing would be the same, those moments were meant to be what they were, and all conditions under heaven were right and good to allow me those years of teaching.

Just as in my career, and definitely more so, I struggle daily to live where I am, in the moment, don't look back. Don't dwell. Don't wonder. Work to accept what is mine to accept. Like stepping back into the classroom, I cannot step back in time. I can't relive the days of raising our daughters, of attending their events, of going to church as a family, of teaching Sunday School, of family traditions, of Joe coaching their sports, of graduation and birthday parties. All that has changed. It is supposed to, but I didn't think it was supposed to be like this. When the girls left and created the "empty nest", I didn't think the pain in my heart could get any deeper. We were lost and at odds, we didn't know quite what to do with ourselves, everything had been centered around their growing up, and now they were gone in one sense. It was time to redefine ourselves, our family unit, our interests as a couple. But on the heels of that, we faced cancer and loss, and we were so lost in yet a different way. I begged God to make it better, to help me find my way. I wanted to go back, and at times, I still do. But I can't, and I won't, and I am learning that Allison is not coming back. In those first months, and even years, close to three now, I expected her to walk in the door. Sometimes I still do. Sometimes when the phone rings at exactly 6:00 in the evening, I am just sure it is her. But it is not. And it never will be again.

With every fiber of my being, I would love to go back, and take whatever I had before knowing this devastation and pain, before, when hearing Christmas music in the stores brought pep to my step in joyful anticipation, when I could lie on the couch and watch a Lifetime movie with my daughters, when I could hear about her day and new friends in her college town, when I could go to the mall without seeing reminders on every turn, when we could talk about their dream weddings, when I could hear two sisters giggling in a room as they prepared to go out or wrap Christmas presents, or talk about girl things! But it's not to be. The pain of that comes and goes, one minute you find yourself in complete acceptance, the other minute, your body is pain from the desire to see, hold or talk with her or turn back the clock. But God knows that looking back is not going to make today any better. The snippets of looking back bring meaning to the day we have, the moment, and the future. It holds it all in its hand, and while it has its place, it is not a place to dwell. So, I strive to take that memory, make it meaningful, and give it purpose to live this day, the one I have, with those who are here, and stay strong, for them, and for her.

The classroom teaches many things, but life is our greatest teacher. We cannot go back. That's not how it works. All I have is today, and I pray I make the most of it, through the tears of loss, through the promise of blessings, which will reveal themselves if I keep looking.

Can't Compare

I woke up thinking and praying for those in need, at least the ones I am aware of at this time. I always end up by asking God to bless those not mentioned because He knows what their trials and burdens truly are, what they walk through, not me. The good news of the day is that He does know and He cares and He doesn't want to see the trials we face, but life is not without its share of burdens. We are all going to face the tribulations of this world, loss, pain, illness, death. As I write that I wonder if to some that sounds morbid. To me, it does not because it is truth. We just won't escape it, and while some folks seem to think they receive more than others, more than their portion, more than they themselves think they deserve, we know that bad things happen to "good" people.

This morning I awakened with the faces of many, some to be named, many just carried in my heart. It's no wonder it feels as if it is breaking these days, but I am learning the ultimate lesson of releasing my concerns and pain for others to the very capable hands of the Lord, just as I began the process just three short years ago to understand that I am not the one in control, I cannot keep things from happening to those I care about or love, and robbing myself of sleep, nutrition, mental and emotional health is not going to cause them to get well or heal. This has been a slow process for me, but the freedom in releasing all that we are to God above is a gift that has come from the brokenness of losing my youngest daughter. No amount of worry or losing sleep or neglecting my health is going to make my, or other's situations, any different. I know that to the core of my being, yet, every time I begin to slip into thinking that I can actually make it better or take it away, I work hard to give it to God in a way that is helpful and healing for myself. Carrying the extra burden will only rob me of this moment, this glorious morning, the beautiful times with a thriving young woman, my precious living daughter, the quiet evenings with a devoted husband, the trips to a sister/best friend, the opportunity to seize the day. I may or may not be productive but I am alive and here to follow the agenda God has planned for me.

That brings me to the others whose burdens DO weigh heavy on my heart and their faces blurred into one this morning in my early awakening thoughts and prayers, and I thought about their burdens. And I thought about all those who have shared their pains, losses, worries, fears with me, and often prefacing their words with comments such as "I know this cannot compare with losing a child"...as if their burden was any less significant than mine. I understand why they say it and think it, yet, from my perspective, I have always felt that it may be so, I don't know, I don't carry their burden. Mine is mine. Ours is ours. I don't know theirs or yours, but I am willing to bet there is one. And we can't compare. Who would want to? Others wouldn't want mine, and I would not want theirs. We own what is ours to own.

So, today and everyday, as I pray for the ever growing list...the sister of a dear friend of mine (Lynn) who anxiously waits with her family for the outcome of tests, my long time friend who struggles everyday to make sense of a divorce that she would not have chosen, Carol and family who have lost the beloved patriarch of the family, suddenly and shockingly, now must rebuild life and find their way, my own brother in law who now finds great news in the medical end of his cancer diagnosis but now must face a past that will set him free, who must learn to live with cancer, who is coming into his own acceptance, and his wife, my own dear sister, who gives care and medicine and hope and love and patience and tender kindness like there is no end to the well within, to sweet Kim, whose daughter left this earth to be free from the pain within, leaving a mother to maneuver the seasons and the days in a way that brings tribute to that young life, to my dear friend who tends to parents who suffered greatly from a devastating car accident, to Chrissy, who in the midst of chemotherapy and major treatment for breast cancer found the strength to dress up for her children and make yet another Halloween memory, to my daughter who lives strong each and every day, knowing she must rebuild her own life without a sister to share the journey, being the only young person in this generation of the family, left alone to find her way, to Tina's family, who figure out how to live day by day without their mother, robbed in her twenties by a unique cancer that took her from her babies way too soon, to the countless friends who do not know how they are going to pay the mortgage or provide a Christmas due to loss of job, to dear Esther, who is finding end of life stages to be quite challenging but perseveres with the smile and spirit that taught so many students and adults how to live, to my husband, who works hard, never misses a day, provides the strength this family needs, is a role model for his living daughter, all as his own heart breaks and tears spring at the mere mention of his deceased daughter's name, to CJ's family, for the never ending "paying it forward" for childhood cancers in the sweet memory of their boy, taken way too soon, to Erica and Jamie, who knew their daughter for three days, and had to bury a child before they could make a life for her, for Lauren and Gregg, who devote time and energy to their living children while mourning the loss and the life of their sweet Lily, to Donna, who now knows the time has mounted and add up to more years without her beloved Tina than she had with her...to the endless list and countless names. It never ends. It never will. And all we have is this day and our ability to respond.

I share this short quote frequently and I read it daily as my reminder that when I am troubled and burdened and feel so very alone (and I often do!) that I am just a snippet, that my pain and tears, while most devastating at the time, are blended with many others. God has His hands full. But He is good. He knows what we need even when we do not. He will provide.

"O God, your sea is so great and my boat is so small. Be with me."

November, and it's Lung Cancer Awareness Month

I never knew that many cancers held an awareness month or that each one has a designated color of representation. I wear my white, pearl, or clear cancer ribbons, angels, bracelets, as does Jen, Aunt Karen, Aunt Kathy, and other friends and family. The lung cancer color is clear to show that you cannot see when lung cancer is there unless you have in-depth testing, an incidental x-ray, or when the more obvious symptoms occur, as was the case for Allison. And most often, when the concerning symptoms are prevalent, there is little time left to live on earth. There is "usually" limited time. And one day you find there is no time. No more time to do or say all the things you had hoped to portray, and life as you knew it, is over.

It seems rather ironic that during what became one of Allison's most intense parts of her short 11 week journey, that here we are, living out a month designated as Lung Cancer Awareness Month. It seems surreal to me that her face is just one snippet and snapshot of a life impacted by lung cancer. It makes one wonder, how could it be her, us, why this journey, why in the prime of her life, on the threshold of a young life filled with hope and ambition? Why? How?

As I look and post new photos of this precious face, now a symbol and statistic of the dreaded disease, I cannot believe that this child, daughter of ours, sister, niece, granddaughter, cousin, friend can well represent the staggering statistics. How can she be one of the lives that is taken each year, more lives than breast, ovarian and uterine cancers combined!

I am slowly realizing that it took a face such as hers, quite possibly still the youngest female to lose her life to lung cancer, to help people stand up and take notice. It took her passage for others to inquire and learn and become more aware, because after all, does this really happen? Do young women who do not smoke (aside from the occasional teen aged cigarettes) really lose a life? The alarming answer is a resounding yes, and not only her, but the risk is rising in young women. In fact, more than 100,000 American women will contract lung cancer in the next calendar year, yet the awareness, funding and research is low. One reason for that shocking reality is the stigma associated with the diagnosis. Most of us, including our family, considered lung cancer a smoker's disease, and along with that, the "perception" that people did this to themselves, therefore, what might they expect. The comments and thoughts of those hearing about such a diagnosis can often leave me mystified...first and foremost, questions like "did she smoke" and accusations that she must have "done something" for this to happen. Thankfully, as Allison learned of the diagnosis, she was able to directly understand that nothing she did caused her to "deserve" such a situation, that had she been an addictive smoker, she would have had to smoke 2-3 packs of cigarettes a day since she was 2 years old to have the type of cancer and size of tumor. I still recall her smile and laughter and comfort when the doctor explained that nothing she did caused or pinpointed her!

Never being a smoker, I have never understood the addiction. I know that people understand the risk, but what I don't think people know is that ALL of us who breathe are at risk for lung cancer and that MOST lung cancer patients did NOT smoke! Naturally, I would love to see everyone I know and love who do smoke, stop immediately, but I know that each thing we do is a personal choice. And I know that Allison's story has changed some perceptions and even encouraged others to breathe more fully and stop smoking completely. And if this story makes a small difference in one life, it is worth sharing.

I would like to see those diagnosed NOT have the questions or the accusing look, they are dealing with much already. I would like to see support and awareness and funding for those who walk this journey themselves or with someone they love. I would like to see the dollars dedicated to support other than JUST smoking cessation programs, after all, how is that going to help and assist when the statistics show that most lung cancer patients never smoked. I would like us to believe that no one deserves this disease, no matter what choices were made.

I must believe Allison is a face of lung cancer for some profound purpose. She is just one little photo that will be displayed at the upcoming, first annual 5K Fun Run/Walk for Lung Cancer, sponsored by The Lung Cancer Connection on 11/14/2009 right here in St. Louis. (contact me at jwhaake@sbcglobal.net, if you would like to know more) She was a vibrant, fun-loving, gentle, sensitive, motivated, young women, living out her dreams. She did nothing to deserve this and the struggle she went through to breathe and receive treatment. She did nothing to deserve the pain and side effects of "living" with lung cancer. She did nothing to deserve the day to day appointments, scans, injections, devastating news that the cancer was yet in one more part of her body. She did nothing to deserve having to depend on others for what were once "normal" body activities and functions. What she DID do,though, was everything to leave us a legacy and a light and a motivation to live today, not feel sorry for ourselves and reach out with acts of kindness when we can. She did everything to stay strong, smile through the needles and the chemotherapy running through her veins, hold her head up high when her head was shaved, go in and ask for more radiation, hold tight to the scriptures in her pocket, memorizing them and believing she would live and never die. And she did live, and she will never die, and she guides us to help make a difference with the time we have left. Surely she is smiling on us, knowing we are doing our best to keep learning and educating in sweet remembrance.

I may never understand any of this, but for her and for my life, I will keep on.

Here...again

It is so unreal and surreal that we are in the days of remembrance, the pain and the diagnosis, yet the laughter and the tears, of cancer and Allison's life. Our immediate family, and even those afar, share that their souls are crying, that when the leaves turn color and the brisk air takes over, and Halloween night awaits, thoughts are of Allison and how she lived through the times, listening to her diagnosis, enduring treatments, accepting more and more penetration to her body, just so she could get well, and live. It's no wonder that we all keep going, keep living, keep smiling, when we would rather pull the covers over our heads for these weeks, and retreat and recoil. Could she have known just how much she left us by her sheer desire to spend each day, celebrating as if it were her last? Could she have known that her smile was so contagious that now that we don't see it light up our lives, we carry it in our hearts? Could she have known that the words and the way she chose to respond to her trials have helped each of us accept in some form the fact that she is gone and given us reason to respond accordingly?

All we have is the ability to respond. We get to choose. I have the opportunity to decide how my attitude will be set for the day, will I choose to be angry and bitter, or will I choose to live out the legacy that has been handed to us as if it were wrapped in the most magnificent, illuminated light. Will I recoil and shut off the light this evening, only to remain in my own grief and loss and misery? Or will I welcome the faces of trick or treaters and spread the cheer that little ones should receive? So many choices, each and every minute of my grief stricken life. As I do my gut level best to put one foot in front of the other, buy the candy, prepare for the upcoming weeks and holidays, my heart beats so intently that I feel it will burst, come right out and send a flood of tears that will never stop. And I do allow that. I must, I have to, and I do. But as in our St. Louis weather, when the rain stops, and it does, periodically, the sun comes out in the form of the triumphs of cancer, life and even death, I must turn my heart to God and thank Him for this day, this life, and again, I find comfort in doing my best, for this is temporal, and really, if truth be known, this life is not my own, it is His. I knew that before, but I truly know that now, God has the design on where I am and how this unfolds, and to be chosen for this journey, as grueling and painful as it is, is the sweet reminder that loss and tragedy and pain and suffering escapes no one.

These weeks are here and the reminders are strong. Allison's presence is so powerful, nudging us to keep doing, living, loving. I try my hardest not to remember the weeks of cancer and all that entails, and to focus on the fact that God released her from the pain, that she has no recollection, and that to spend time in the past will serve no purpose, for her, for me, for my family. Still, the images and feelings can surface without warning...when I recall that Halloween when the friends gathered here to be with her, when the pain was setting in and she was preparing to lose her hair. I want desperately to recall the years of going door to door, dressed in costume, laughing and looking through the candy as sisters, attending parties and living in a world that we didn't know at the time was easy. But I am not there yet. And I am at peace knowing there is no time frame to reach that destination. This journey of healing and living in our family, out of balance, and finding our way through a maze, will take us through twists and turns that we could never have imagined. There is no final destination.

You don't walk through the loss of a child without being changed forever, completely and without ever going back to who you once were...sure, there are shades of the person I was before, and I can even "look" the same, but along with facing the reminders and remembrances, I am finding myself, too. I have to redefine my purposes, my life, my self. And when this time of year comes, again, that is more important than ever. I affirm to live strong for my husband, my living daughter, my deceased daughter, my siblings, my friends, my self.

We are here again, and I will find my way. I must.

No Manual, No Handbook

There is certainly no handbook or manual that exists that can help any of us know what to do or how to do it when it comes to LIFE and all its experiences. That thought has crossed my mind so often, lately, as I view the news and hear of mothers and fathers not knowing where there children are for years, of young ladies kidnapped only to return to society with some form of resilience that most of us cannot comprehend, how one young lady spoke of being raped more than four times a day while being held captive for months, and now, to speak of it with dignity and grace with an eye on the future. The examples are many and I draw strength from each one. I seem to hear the stories differently than had I not walked in my own experiences, and while burdens cannot be compared, I am inspired to keep going by those stories, the public stories, and the quiet stories, the ones that go on in our own backyard, our own family, our own home.

In younger years, and in what I know now as lighter years, I certainly recall thinking about the manual of life. I wondered where it was when I had all the textbook knowledge a person could hold at the time, graduated, and entered my first classroom of third graders. Nothing in those classes prepared me for the 28 smiling faces, sitting in desks, waiting to be taught! Could they have known they were about to teach me perhaps more than I would ever teach them?! What I learned is there is no page 22 to go home and read up on and figure out how to meet each one of them where they were coming from, help them achieve, cope with their behaviors, meet with their parents, and teach them all the objectives of the grade level! Fast forward many years, to a sixth grade class who really didn't want to be taught, who were NOT sitting smiling in seats, rather disgruntled, tired, angry, hungry, standing up, throwing things, verbally assaulting each other, then tell me I didn't need a manual to help me find my way, but again, no class or lesson or textbook prepared me for that one! But through the grace of God, and prior experience, and learning from mentors AND experience, I didn't need the handbook! I found my way.

I found my way through marriage (where there certainly is no manual), childbirth, again, who is really prepared for that, and the intense delivery of a firstborn child, who was wisked away to an intensive care unit for the first eight days of life, never held by her mother in another hospital, on the other side of town. My arms longed for her, to touch her, to see her, to know she was fine, and I recall that ache like it was yesterday and not 27 years ago. Much like my arms and heart and soul ache today, and everyday. I ask God if it will go away, will it always be like this, will I just die from the ache? This ache, while similiar, is different, because I have to come to terms with the fact that our second born daughter is gone from our grasp, sight, and arms. I cannot touch, smell, hear, hold her ever again. And there is no manual for that. There is no one outlining what needs to be done, there is no script, no page 45 to read, there is nothing that lets a mother know how to be prepared, or to deal with, the loss of a child. So, as in all aspects of life, I find my way. God has provided endless scriptures to assist me in ways I would have never dreamed possible, perhaps right there, that is my manual, my compass, my guide. He sends the words that I need most at the time, He sends the people or person I can be myself with, who I can talk with and cry if I need to, laugh when I can. He knows what I need when I have no idea what that could be and He provides. But I have to work at it, too, and open the Bible, read and heed the words, speak to the people he sends, open my eyes to the signs, and live. He knows, during these days, especially, that tears spring and do not stop, that I cry in my sleep, and I feel the reminders of these days and "anniversaries" so intently. But all I need to do is ask, and He is there, ask and you shall receive.

I know that grief and pain are part of me, just as my smile and zest for life, is also. I know I have earned them and that only in feeling and experiencing them do I open myself to the lessons. I have known that all along, just as in simpler times, I knew one experience prepared me for the next and the next and the next. God works that way. We don't know what He is preparing us for, but when we are there, we can have our AH HA moment, and say a grateful prayer, thank you God for taking me down this road, I see your purpose and your knowledge is greater than mine. All along, I never needed a handbook, He was always there.

Everywhere I Go

Everywhere I go, everything I see and touch, smell and hear, even when I don't want to, there it is, the reminder, the remembrances, the pain, and even the joy, the thanks be to God for doing what His will desired, rather than ours. We thought we knew what we wanted, but He knew better. We thought we knew what was best, but He knew what the future would bring, so He spared them, and in doing so, all of us in the process. I am not just talking of Allison, yet, here it is, the month when the world stood still as if no movement took place outside that hospital room, and it blends with the same month, different year, where the same emotion raged, knowing that with each falling, beautiful leaf, we would be brought closer and closer to our knees. That is one of the many blessings that can be found in profound devastation, pain and loss. We find God, and He is never more present than when we face a crisis.

Dear friends are facing a crisis of their own. It's not their first and it won't be their last. It never is, that's the meaning of life. October makes me always think of her in particular because of it being her only sister's birthday month, and in the few years since her sister lost her life to breast cancer, the turning of the season and page of the calendar always make me wonder...as I often do about my own surviving daughter, what would it be like to lose your only sibling and become the one to live on as the only living child, with no one to really share the memories and family history the way only siblings can...what it would be like to grow older and find yourself alone to tend to parents and family responsibilities? What would it be like to look around and see the families together, sisters dancing at weddings, attending celebrations, and there you are, searching for yourself in the eyes of the crowd? I hope to never know. But I might. In the blink of an eye, I might, just as my friend does, just as my daughter does, and now my friend, who in the blink of another eye, has all her closest family, each one of them, in separate rooms of a hospital after a very traumatic car accident this weekend. She has in an instant become the caregiver, the errand runner, the interpreter, the note taker, the one who will assist and nurture and tend to every need. She has wonderous support from her own husband and children, but no sibling to make decisions with, to listen, and to empathize. Oh sure, we all know that even when there are siblings here, sometimes they don't help in the way one would hope. I have heard those stories and am grateful I never had to cope with that in any sense. We have all done what we were able at every juncture, and are at peace with what was done. And where would I have been had I not had them to call and talk to and in my sister's case, just breathe, knowing she would feel my heart from afar?!

These are days when life is not fair, loved ones in a hospital, consuming grief of October, a month of tears, as a friend of mine has termed it. A month that has the most beauty and celebration, a 32nd wedding anniversary of ours coming up, the day the good Lord took my mother to be by His side, as we were contemplating having dinner for our 17th anniversary. Fifteen years ago and the pangs and feelings still exist, yes, softer perhaps, less intense, but still, the tears can come without me knowing what day it is, only to realize, oh yes, this is the day she entered the hospital, remained in a coma, and fought to live. This is the day, as it relates to my daughter, that we packed our bags for Florida, as we are doing today, only to return to pack up again, this time for a lifetime of change. This is the day my friend will begin to take it all in, find her way, perhaps fall to her own knees and thank God that her family is still here, and ask His mercy and grace upon their healing.

This is the day, and it is all we have, this we know.

Sundays and October

Combine Sundays and the month of October and many emotions charge and explode. Everyone has that inner sense in their soul when it is THAT time, when you don't need a calendar or a clock to know what took place then and what takes place now, in relation to loss and grief. We ALL have those anniversaries, those times when without being told, we just know what was happening then, compared to now. We may not want to go back to that time, we don't want to dwell, we want to live today, but that internal beat surges and sends messages that must be dealt with...and this year, I have tried faithfully to prepare, weeks in advance, praying that I can simply move through the times that are, and have been, painful, that I will find the simple blessings in the reminders that this is a very rough time, season, even in all its beauty, there is deep grief. I am brought back to times when I would bend over in the utmost pain and want to scream, cry, vomit, die. I am brought back to the disbelief that I would spend every day of October in a hospital with my mother in a coma, in total shock of her sudden illness, changing prayers from please save her to your will be done, dear Father. I am brought back to the sense that I believed no loss would ever compare, only to find myself and my family spending yet another October, 12 years later, in a hospital or doctor's offices nearly every day, tending to my courageous daughter who battled cancer as if it were just a cold. Thank you God for the innocence of youth. I am brought back to so many things as I comprehend that it takes time for the shock and impact of it all to subside and ease, but to never completely wear off.

I am reminded of something shared with me by a counselor/therapist I see from time to time. When speaking of after shock, and all that encompasses cancer, not to mention death, he reminded me in his gentle way to be patient and to look at it differently. He made the comparison that if I had been in an accident, or been struck by a car, or God forbid, cancer myself, I would perhaps accept the healing process much better. He shared that I may indeed understand the longevity of time it would take to heal the shattered bones and the rehabilitation it would take to restore and resume life. And he, in all his wisdom, helped me see that with grief there is no description, there is no timeframe, that healing comes as it is intended, and the peaks and valleys will arrive, to be lived and endured, and that in time, there will be restoration. I understand more fully now that there is nothing you can see about grief, it wears no bandages, no casts, no loss of hair as in cancer patients, no outward signs, only inward, for no one else to "see".

So, as the Sundays and October begin for me a new season, I tend to what needs attention. I do as I have tried to do from that first January, when Allison left this world for her eternal peace, to live my grief and walk through it. That will mean something different for me than Joe or Jen. Individually and together, we have begun to face the new season, knowing the senses are deep and painful, yet wonderous and freeing. It's complicated. No one can understand the complexities of it all until they walk the walk. No one can comprehend just how saddened we are, the leaves representing God's beauty, yet reminding us of a time when loss prevailed. But in that loss we must prevail, we will, and we shall. We will face the pain straight on, we will cry and grieve, we will bend to our knees in tears at how Allie should be here to help her sister move into an apartment, be with her friends on their first real vacation, be the one everyone could count on as she did in this life, shop with me, take Joe and me to the airport as she always did for the annual Florida trip, meet Lucie under different circumstances. But that is not meant to be, so we will take our memories, too, and we will remember the laughter, the girl and young woman she was before cancer, the family gatherings, the fun she had with aunts and uncles and grandparents, and we will be thankful for the blessing of God that He has reunited her with her grandmother and grandfather in His blessed Kingdom.

I will continue to pray for a season of grace, that we will move through the conscious and subconscious memories and times. That our pain may be replaced with the beauty of a daughter/sister's smile, of a mother who left in October, free from
her own pain, that we can find joy in the simple pleasures and that we have this day to laugh, cry, celebrate, mourn, whatever God deems necessary.

Trust God For The Results

As the leaves turn, and I pray each and every day, way more than once per day, in the wee hours, in the car, in the quiet of my home, in traffic, even in the grocery store (not out loud, of course:), I pray to God that He is going to get me through the moments that I tend to relive the circumstances that led up to the day we were told cancer was to be part of our journey. Lately, I literally cannot breathe, and I wonder, does my breathlessness have to do with the reminder that the physical toll was taking place in these weeks, days before the mid-October phone call from Allison, signifying trouble? Am I breathing heavy because she herself could barely get her breath, just to walk the short distance to the train which would transport her to classes that she had begun to miss all too frequently? Or does the lack of air come with the changing of the trees, reminding me of the longest ride of my life, the car rolling along the highway as fast as we could get there, to our youngest daughter, lying in a hospital bed, strong but weary, and oh so ill? Do I lose my breath when I think about what my last month of innocence represents, a mother/wife/sister/school principal who was going about normal life, only to discover that the world was about to be shattered in just one phone call? For many reasons, I am breathless, my eyes brim with tears, and still, I know, we are only infancy stages of comprehending the magnitude of loss. God has shown me that there is no time frame, and since the moment of diagnosis, our course has been to learn to trust Him with the results.

Trusting Him with the outcome was something that happened early on...yes, we all arrived to that destination at different milestones. For weeks, I suppose, I thought as her mother, I could make it all go away, that this was not going to impact her, us, for more than a year or two. I thought I had some control, after all, I had birthed her, felt her heartbeat under mine, felt her first turn, the first time she rolled over, and the first time she kicked. And while Joe, Jen and I go hand in hand in the journey, still, we have found that trusting God for the results comes in different stages in our own time frame. When we all reached that point together, including Allison, there was nothing but beauty and peace. That did not mean that the pain was gone, the desires alleviated, the wish for her to outlive the cancer so profoundly strong that we would have given our own lives for it to be us in that bed, in that hospital, shaving our head, shopping for a wig, weary and weak, unable to roll over in bed, or take a private bath. We begged God to let it be one of us, we had a good life, hers was just beginning. Didn't He know what she was to become? Didn't He know she had plans to teach and live in a big city and marry and have children? Didn't He know that a part of our future as a family was destroyed the minute she left? Didn't He know that a sister was left to be the only child, with no one to share history or memories with...Didn't He know?

He did know and He did not give her cancer, this we knew. It was never a question of His acts, of Him sending cancer into a body, taking her breath away, making her endure procedure after procedure, injections and shots and treatments that simply sustained, and only for a very short time. But it was a question of how we find our way, how she did, and how to trust Him with the future, with the outcome. And in spite of the pain, the relentless grief that still consumes, He worked it out according to His plan. Now we must find our way through the anniversaries, the remembrances, the seasons, the holidays, the milestones. And as we did, and as He brought us together, we must now trust Him once again, still, for the results. He is providing the answers, the stamina, the determination, the willpower, the spirit to keep keeping on! It is only by His grace that I can be here this day, to seize it, and to welcome it, and to live it.

I surely hear stories each and every day of people who lose and walk paths that I cannot imagine. I wouldn't want to trade places for anything. And I recognize that others would not want to trade with us. But this is our road to travel, it is still winding, and uncharted, and filled with pain. But it is also an opportunity that I would have never suspected, to see and hear things that would never have been known to me, had God not chosen Allison to go to eternal rest so early in her life. I can fight it, deny it, let it consume me, but instead, I know that as I trust Him for the results, they will come and they will be of His desires and His timing. That is all I need for today, one day at a time.

Connections and Confidence

The connections of late just confirm for me, once again, that this thing called life is bigger and more encompassing than any of us realize. Yes, I knew that when our daughter left us after such a short 11 week battle with small cell lung cancer my life would never be the same. But never, ever would I have imagined the people who have walked in and out of my path since that moment. While I sensed there was definitely a "purpose" to this, that God was using Allison in powerful ways, and hence, her family, I could never imagine what would lie ahead. As odd as it seems, that while my heart aches and pains to have this go away (as I have shared many times over), I know at some deep level that God is using our family, Allison's story, and the facts/statistics that go with it, to make a difference in the lives of many. I pray each day, because things happen so fast, that God will settle me down, give me the breath to take it as it comes, and to not get ahead of myself or look back, especially during those times when it would be so much easier to succumb and lie down, let it all just be. I must honestly say I don't want this to be me at times. If I had the choice of road travelled, this would not be it. But it is, and I must, and God is making it very clear that the connections are happening for His reasons and He is giving me the confidence to take the steps of living what has been clearly designed.

I am still learning. I suppose I always will be...I used to call it the awkward dance, none of us knowing where to sit at family dinners, where to stand in family snapshots, what to do about the missing link. I still feel that tug in my heart at the empty chair, or when sisters should be together, cousins should be interacting with one another and amidst the smiles of three, our family pictures have a very profound, missing element. All patterns have shifted, I feel like I am swaying, the melodies are unfamiliar, this is still foreign territory. This is the lesson plan that never unfolds, but God knows I am trying to learn it. I ask Him each day, many times a day, to help me learn, know and be the person He desires through all of this, to show me what I am supposed to do, to help me look at these opportunities and new people in my life as the purpose behind the loss. He never fails me, in fact, He keeps sending me the signs, sometimes so much so that then I have to pray He lets me have some relief!

That is how it has been lately. The connections do not stop, the wonderment of Allison's story is about to unfold in ways I could never have imagined. She is impacting people that I don't even know, nor have ever heard of, in this country and out. And I am overwhelmed to be her mother. I am in awe of the changes people are making or the reaching out to a mother who understands, just as they try to cope with the loss of a child, any age, any circumstance. I smiled when a friend called yesterday to say she would be running the first 5K Lung Cancer Race in St. Louis where we will be out to support the local efforts, and not only running, but the day she got my e-mail her cigarettes went in the trash. She and others are going to breathe easier because of Allison. What a wondrous and loving God who keeps sending me messages that while Allison is free of her pain, she is helping others do what is best for them. What an amazing journey we are having when we look at the life in a new day. How many lives will change when Allison's story comes to light and lung cancer statistics are shared because of her, when Lung Cancer Awareness Month arrives in November and her story is shared on a local radio station, when lives are changed by one simple invitation to a race. My mother always said, God works in mysterious ways, and I agree, but adding, wondrous and loving ways. He is providing the answers, the connections and the confidence so that we can make movement through this journey.

I can never claim to be the one to take any "credit" if such credit seems due for the strength and knowledge and understanding of how to find my way through this loss. I can never take credit for the fact that I am Allison's mother, left to be a role model for my surviving and living daughter, a caretaker and loving supporter of my husband, or the "go to" person for other grieving mothers. This is not me, knowing what to do, this is God, knowing what I need, choosing me, us, Allison, her family and friends to be the ones left and honor her, but honoring Him first. I praise Him for the simple things, like getting me up in the morning, giving me strength and desire to approach the day, for resources to be able to contribute and support other efforts, for a home where people feel welcome and comfortable to come and cry or share or laugh or celebrate, for family and friends who support us from afar, either by contributing to the memorial cookbook, walking in the fun/run, remembering that autumn is painful, oh so difficult, with each falling leaf.

It is heavy going sometimes, but through the connections and confidence, I will find my way, carrying with me the strength of my loved ones, and the grace and dignity of a daughter who paved the way through her perseverance and love of life.

Do What Is Necessary

Her presence is so powerful right now, even engaging, with such a mixture of sadness, disbelief, sometimes euphoria, joy and wonder. It is truly no wonder that the fatigue of emotion sets in when these "anniversaries" occur, that the surges of feelings that really have no words roar and subside, weave and glide through my heart, my bones, my cells, my body, my mind, my spirit. I ask myself, how can we possibly be on the threshold of another anniversary, another month where all innocence was lost, where lives were hung in the balance, and then changed forever. How can I already be hearing her voice, the call from Chicago, the weeks leading up to the day when she could not breathe on her own and walked the long city blocks to a hospital in a pre-season mist of snow? Why am I looking at the suitcases that will be packed for the annual trip to Florida but only see the little overnight bag I took to Chicago, expecting to be home by the end of the weekend, only to learn that I would live in the same clothes close to two weeks and come home a completely different person? Why are my eyes misting with the changing colors of the leaves, knowing that the next weeks will replay every word, diagnosis, treatment, sound, touch and smell? Why do I find that sometimes I cannot do what once was so mundane and routine? Why can't I look through the bags and boxes that still sit in the basement, brought home from her apartment? Why does her death teach me so much about my life, about growing old, and about my own life in eternity? Why did she have to go? Who would I be now had she stayed? Why...how...why....how....the thoughts whirl inside, and there are no answers. And sometimes there is no sense in "going there"...but sometimes I must visit those places just so I can take that step in healing and living and striving to do what is necessary.

And as individual as grief can be, I continue to learn that for each of us what is necessary is different. I only wish I had Joe's physical energy, that going and wearing myself out on an 8 mile run after kayaking all morning, would somehow help me! I only wish I could immerse myself in a rewarding career once more, tying up my mind with the important thoughts and decisions, so much so that maybe for a short time I could just ease the grief. I only wish this would go away. But it won't, so for me, I do what is necessary. I walk so that I can participate in a 5K Lung Cancer Walk/Run in November, I read and pray and spend time in devotions and affirmations so that I can spend time with family and friends and do "normal" things like they do. I must wear God out for the many times I ask Him to help me get to the next hour or day or week or through a certain activity or anniversary. And He never fails me, I am still here, living, and doing what is necessary.

This beautiful time of year is so painful for many reasons, and while the memories surge and could take over, I am allowing them their place, but I am seeking to find the beauty. I know God is guiding me through the seasons of change in my life. I know it for when I could barely breathe this morning with the thought of fall and all it means to me now, there it was, simply stated, yet poignant and meant for me, in my Daily Word, "As autumn begins and temperatures cool, the most noticeable change is a colorful display of leaves. But there is also a shift within me, a sense of fresh energy and excitement. Visible changes remind me that all is evolving. Seeing God's transformational handiwork in nature triggers in me a deepening awareness of my potential for positive change. I find opportunities to grow closer to God and deeper in spiritual understanding. Whether the changes I face are minor or monumental, I have the spiritual tools I need to meet them with confidence and faith. With trust in God, I am guided through the changes life brings."

God knows how heartbroken and difficult these days are for me, for us, for our family and friends, but He shows me that I have this day, and this day only, so I will do what is necessary, here and now. Not for tonight, not for tomorrow morning, but for this moment, now. I will do what is necessary.