 I am a big fan of new beginnings. For years, there have been certain markers in my life that bring me a good measure of joy at the thought of a clean slate and a fresh start. Mondays hold a special place in my heart, offering a new week full of opportunities to try again. I'm fond of August because for over twenty years, it meant the beginning of a new school year, both as a homeschooling and public school family. And for as long as I can remember, January has always felt like a big ol' door swinging wide open into twelve months of possibility. New beginnings are the best. However, this December, like no other December I can remember, I have struggled a bit to be excited about turning the final page on a calendar year and diving into yet another January. On December 31st, 2020, at 4:39 p.m., I received the news that would drastically change the next new beginning I would face. January 2021 still felt like a new beginning, but it was obviously different. Unexpected. Unwelcome. Unknown. Last January would lead me into the most difficult year of my life, and while I am able to see so much good that has come of the past twelve months, it is impossible to completely shut out the memories of pain, sorrow, anger, and intense disappointment I have wrestled with. And if I'm being honest, I have had some fear about what the next January might bring. I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about what 2022 might hold. It would be easy to let the worries of the past year creep into those thoughts and become afraid of what is coming. When you've been beat up and seen those you love beat up as well, fear can be all-consuming. But I've been working hard to let the voice of hope be louder than the voices of doubt and pain. Doing that work has looked like dreaming big and making plans. I've also been remembering how I've been cared for because the ways I've been loved makes me want to love others better. I am a different person going into 2022 than I was going into 2021. Thank God for that. I wanted to leave this year with a song as a message for January - both January 2021 and January 2022. I asked Houston if he would take this song and put together a video using some photos throughout the past year because all of it is worth remembering and reason for celebrating. Even the pictures of the tougher days are worth acknowledging because they remind me how far I've come and that fills me with more gratitude than I can possibly express. I pray your January brings you a beginning filled with fresh starts and new adventures. I pray you are able to turn the calendar page with gratitude for what you've survived and with excitement for the path set before you. And however you are ending 2021, I pray you will walk bravely into a new year with great joy, hearing the sound of hope, loud and clear. There are good days ahead. HEY JANUARY Gina Boe Hey January 2021 I never dreamed you'd come And put up such a fight You did your best to take me down with you And some days I thought too That you just might I gave you tears and sleepless nights But I'm still here and I'm all right (And I'm) Stronger Better Wiser And maybe even gentler Than I used to be 'Cause I believe Hope is bigger Louder Deeper Than pain and fear will ever be So I want you to know As you come and go You don’t scare me January Hey January 2021 I'm not the only one You shook to the core You knocked my people down but we got up And all of it made us Closer than before You took your shots, and left your scars But we’re still here and now we are CHORUS Hey January 2022 I'm coming after you And I’ve got dreams to chase And what you give and take will never be Enough to silence me So hear me when I say I might bend but I won’t break And what you do will only make me CHORUS
1 Comment
 Today, as I sit here in my writing room, feeling pretty well, sun shining in the windows, with my kids in the other room doing things that make them happy, it is a little easier to see some of the good that has come from the past 12 months. I honestly never doubted good would come out of this season, but what I have come to define as good, isn't necessarily what I expected. Would I change how I came to appreciate these new definitions? Of course I would. Good grief, I wouldn't choose the events of this year for anyone, let alone my own family. But do I have a glimpse of purpose in how 2021 went down? Yeah, I think I do. I have noticed how people are often attracted to one particular attribute of God's character. Some people tend to talk about His power. Others focus on his love and goodness. Some naturally default to talking about His grace or even His judgement. As for me, I find myself regularly falling on God's sovereignty. I don't believe there are accidents or coincidences, but I do believe in the working out of a plan that is perfect, even when I don't like it. In all honestly, I haven't liked His plan for me this year. But just because I haven't liked it, doesn't mean I haven't trusted Him with it. What has been harder for me, has been trusting Him with His plan for the people I love who have walked through their own personal hells this year. I've found myself having more talks with God about that stuff than my own crap. I've prayed a lot over the past 12 months, for myself and for people I care about. Some of those prayers have been answered. Some have not. Some of the answers have made life feel better. Some have not. God's kindness doesn't always look like I think it should. His grace shows up differently than I'd like it to. And I've come to see His blessing doesn't always mean my comfort. The thing I try to remember is that God is ultimately motivated by love. So if learning more about that love takes teaching me some new definitions for words I thought I understood, then so be it. 2021 has been hard. But I think I know more about God's hand of blessing because of how hard it has been. I'd sure like next year to look differently than this year has looked. But more than that, in December of 2022 I'd like to be able to say I trusted God even more because of what the new year brought my way. THE THORN
Gina Boe I begged I pleaded I prayed Believing You would come and take away this pain You heard You listened You knew How this would help me learn to trust your perfect ways Sometimes your kindness is the closing of a door Sometimes your grace is in the raging of the storm Sometimes the answer isn't what I'm praying for Sometimes the blessing is the thorn This need This aching This road Is taking me to places I don't wanna see This hope This waiting This faith Is making me into who you want me to be Sometimes your kindness is the closing of a door Sometimes your grace is in the raging of the storm Sometimes the answer isn't what I'm praying for Sometimes the blessing is the thorn So if you choose to take it Or if it should remain You will love me through it either way Sometimes your kindness is the closing of a door Sometimes your grace is in the raging of the storm Sometimes the answer isn't what I'm praying for Sometimes the blessing is the thorn  Health update: Feeling much better after adjusting some meds. I haven't had to take a nausea pill in about three weeks and for that I am incredibly grateful. I continue to hope for more energy, less pain, and better range of motion in my shoulder which has been an issue since my last surgery. All those things are getting better, for sure...just not at the pace I would like. Patience is not my thing. All in all, progress is happening, and for that I am so, so thankful. I'm coming up on the one year anniversary of my diagnosis, which, as you can probably imagine, has led to a wide range of emotions as I consider what this past year has meant for me and my family. I plan to spend a little more time in the writing room as that day approaches so you'll see a little more activity here on the blog. There are things to say and songs to share. I hope you'll stop by often.
For now, I leave you with a random list of thoughts about the past year. And a really random thought about something else. 1. Every medical professional I've dealt with over the past year has been an amazing human. I can't say enough kind words about the level of care I've received and the true angels God has put in my path. From radiology to surgery to oncology to phlebotomy. From receptionists to pharmacists to physical therapists to occupational therapists. Not one jerk in the bunch. God forbid any of you need a recommendation for your own cancer journey, I would love to tell you about my people. 2. I remember my diagnosis day like it was yesterday. Where I was standing when I got the call. Where my kids were. What was said. I remember every detail. I also remember only having about 45 minutes to digest the info before some of my kids' friends came over to spend New Year's Eve at our house. I have always loved having my kids' friends over, but that night, they were the absolute best distraction possible. They had no clue about the bomb that had just been dropped on our family and I wanted it that way. My boys needed them to be there and I did too. I wanted to end 2020 with laughter in my home. Thank God for those kids. 3. I am growing my hair out. Many of you have asked, and no, I haven't cut it since it started growing back except for a quick snip of the rogue long hairs that were getting annoying. It's just taking forever to grow out. I haven't minded having very short hair, and maybe one day I'll cut it that short again. But if I do, it will be on my terms, darn it, and not because stupid cancer took it from me. 4. Finding balance in the area of nutrition has been a challenge. I understand the importance of treating my body well, considering what I am fighting. But dog gone it, sometimes I just want a burger and fries from Freddy's or a jumbo margarita or a sharing-size peanut M&M's which I have no intention of sharing. So, sometimes I indulge, savoring every last calorie. Then I get back on the health wagon. 5. Chemo brain is a real thing. One day, at a follow-up appointment with my surgeon's office, the nurse asked what medications I am currently taking. I couldn't think of one. Mind you, I take six different prescriptions or supplements every day and I couldn't recall one of them. Not even Tylenol. "I swear I'm not an idiot," I said. "Just give me a minute and it'll come to me." She smiled and said, "It's okay. It happens." I have had moments when I can't remember a student's name when they are standing right in front of me. I've grasped for dates and details and numbers and other information I have always had easy access to. This frustration has given me a new level of compassion for anyone struggling with memory issues. Losing the ability to remember absolutely sucks - and I've only had a glimpse of it. Oh, the ways we learn to care for others. 6. Speaking of not being an idiot, I've been increasingly bothered by something on social media so I'm just going to vent about it here. I am vaccinated. I have a lot of friends who are not vaccinated. Some of my best friends aren't vaccinated. And you know what? They're still my best friends. And I wouldn't dream of calling them out on social media for making a personal decision. Lately though, some folks I consider friends have said some really hurtful things on social media about people who are vaccinated, and I just want you to know I've seen it. And I would also like you to know I'm not a sheep, a communist, or an idiot. I'm a human being who made a personal decision based on the information I had. I literally don't have the ability to fight infections right now. I have a 90-year old mother I'd like to see over Christmas. I hate wearing a mask. But if you see me wearing one, it isn't because I'm stupid or weak. So please, when you are about to post comments intended to be funny, or to make fun, or to blatantly imply I'm a completely ignorant ass, just think twice. There are real people reading your words who are fighting battles you aren't aware of and your comments sting. One of the best things I've learned in my 54 years on this planet is that most people are doing the best they can with the information they have so it's best to just show everyone a whole lot of grace.  Health update: I am two months into my new meds and let's just say it's been an adjustment. I suppose I thought things would be a little easier during this stage. I think I just had in my mind that once you've been through chemo, two surgeries, and radiation, how hard can it be to take a few pills a day? Truth be told, radiation was a breeze compared to this phase. I am grateful to my doctors who've listened, done more tests, and made changes. I've got a long haul on these meds, if I choose to stay on them, so it would be nice to get to a place where I can be more active. Things are definitely better now, but I'm certainly not capable of what I thought I would be at this stage. Very frustrating. However, I am hopeful, persistent, and really angry at cancer, which I believe will serve me well in the days ahead. Pressing on... The page has turned on a new month which brings mixed emotions for me this year. December now feels like it will forever be defined as the month I was diagnosed. I hate that, and yet it feels a somewhat appropriate as well. In 2019, I wrote a song called O Dark December, which I'll post below. Having no idea what was in store for 2020 or 2021, I wrote what I knew at the time - that December, specifically in regards to Advent, is supposed to feel dark. We trod through suffering and sorrow, waiting for light. Then light comes and we rejoice at seeing the hope we have been offered. I've thought a lot about how I want to live out these last 31 days of 2021. I've thought even more about how I want to dive into 2022. It feels good to have plans. Dreams. Now if I can just have the energy to see them through. I know it will take some hard choices. Some change. That's where it gets difficult. But I know now with more certainty, many things that I claimed to know 11 months ago. And the things I am more certain of now demand I live differently. These next 31 days will be filled with reflection and sorting through what has and hasn't happened in 2021. I will talk with people I trust. I will gather information. I will make lists. I will keep dreaming. This may be a season of darkness, but I do believe 2022 will be brighter than ever. If December is feeling dark for you, hold on. Light is coming. I recorded the video below a few hours after having received the life-changing news I had breast cancer. Sometimes I watch this video and think, "I miss that girl." I miss her energy, her hair, her ignorance to what was happening inside her. Then I think a bit longer on who that girl is today - what she's been through and what she knows now. And aside from a few really awful moments, I wouldn't change a thing. I know God to be kinder, His people more loving, and His grace bigger than I ever thought possible. So grateful. O DARK DECEMBER O Dark December, how long is the night The silent wait for promised light We cling to hope of worlds aright O Dark December, how long the night O Dark December, how heavy the weight Of bitter winds and fleeting days We brace our souls for such dismay O Dark December, how heavy the weight And yet there is in hearts distressed A solemn, sacred confidence In strong, unwavered faithfulness Which steadies us to peace and rest O Dark December, how blessed and kind Your brutal mercy still reminds We weep assured of joy we’ll find O Dark December, how blessed and kind  I hesitate to write posts like this for fear one of you reading it might think I am writing directly to you. Please hear me on this - I am not. I could write a book or two telling you all the ways I have been cared for over the past ten months and the kindness that has been spoken to me. So many friends, and even strangers, came through in thoughtful ways and continue to do so. So, please hear my heart in what I am about to write. If we've had a conversation in the past year, please do not sit and wonder if my words are referring to you. I had these thoughts running through my mind long before cancer entered the picture, but I feel it even more acutely now.
The first time I remember making a conscious decision to let myself be sad for as long as I needed to, was the day Hunter left for college. I smile at that now because he only moved about 22 miles away. Today I have a kid in college 985 miles away. I'd like to think that means I've gotten a little better at letting go, but I'm not sure that's the case. I think it has more to do with the fact that FaceTime didn't exist in 2012 and now I can "see" Houston any time I want. Well, any time he answers my calls, that is. Back then, after we dropped Hunter off and made the loooonnnggg 22-mile drive home, I sat on the deck and told myself I could sit there and cry for as many days as I needed to. Change is hard and I knew Hunter moving out marked the beginning of a new season for our family. Over the next 9 years, we would go through that same transition three more times, and every time, I allowed myself to just be sad. It actually felt good to let myself grieve, body and soul. I have never considered myself to be a glass-half-empty person. I am generally positive, hopeful, and looking for the good in all circumstances. However, I have found myself wondering if my view of the glass has changed, as some conversations have left me questioning my perspective on difficult seasons. I'm sure life and time have taken a toll on my positive-o-meter, but what I'm noticing more and more is an overall resistance to sadness. It feels like people have grown more and more uncomfortable when someone tells them they're not okay. As if we just don't know what to do with the emotions that rise up in us when we hear about someone's pain. I understand - I really do - the feeling of needing to do something or say something helpful when someone shares their pain with you. We either want to fix their circumstances, offer options for how to get out of their situation, or say something to boost their mood. Lift their spirits. Change their perspective. Having been on the receiving end of many of those comments, I do believe those attempts come from the most genuine of places, and I have rarely left those interactions upset. I said rarely. Have I ever left a conversation or two thinking things I can't even post here because they are completely inappropriate for this blog? Yes. Yes, I have. Thankfully, I usually come to the conclusion pretty quickly that I'm sure I have said the exact same thing to someone else at some point. We don't always say what is best for the other person. Sometimes we say what we think they need to hear, which isn't always beneficial for anyone but us. And sometimes we say what will make ourselves feel better, because to sit in someone else's sadness for a while is hard. My friend Julie texted me one day a couple weeks after my first surgery. We don't see each other as much as we used to, but every time we're together, I am increasingly grateful for her friendship. She asked if it would be okay if she came over for a bit. I told her I could only manage about an hour of conversation, since managing pain with heavy narcotics only gave me about sixty minutes when I was either not in la-la land or barely holding on until the I could have another dose. I also told her I was in my pajamas, bald, wearing no make-up, and had four bloody drains sticking out of me so she'd better be prepared for what she was about to see. She didn't hesitate. When Julie arrived, we ended up making our way out to sit on the deck, which was always the most healing place for me to be. She asked a few questions, mostly let me talk, and what I recall most about our time together, was how she responded to the information I shared and the tears I shed. She just said, "I'm sorry." She said it several times. She didn't try to fix anything. She didn't try to relate. She was simply sorrowful with me. It was really the only thing appropriate to say and I remember being so grateful for that when she left. Sometimes it feels like our culture is doing everything we can to avoid sadness. Please know I am not talking about depression here. I fully support anyone who needs help overcoming a deep, dark sadness that will not lift, with whatever counseling, medication, or other resources they find helpful. What I'm referring to is the inescapable emotion that accompanies everyday experiences for every human. Sadness over disappointment. Sadness over broken relationships. Sadness over the struggle with a chronic illness. Sadness over loss. I know all too well how hard it is to watch people you love be sad. Hurt. Grieve. As a mom of four kids, I'd say on any given day, I pray for one of my kids to navigate their way through some kind of sadness. My heart just wants them to feel better, but I've come to believe that them feeling better without having grieved or learned or trusted won't serve them as well in the long run. I hate the process, but because I love them with a love beyond words, I often pray they'll sit in their sadness for however long is best. The hard part is knowing I'm not the one who knows best. When I was halfway through chemo, we got the wonderful news we would soon be grandparents for the first time as Hannah and Seth were expecting. This gave our family some much-needed joy in a season when joy was often hard to find, so we celebrated and anticipated having a new little life joining our family. Two weeks after making their announcement, Seth and Hannah would walk through the dark shadows of grief as they lost their baby to miscarriage. Having experienced the same kind of loss myself, I knew there was no way around some of the emotions they would be wrestling with in the weeks and months to come. Their little one would have been arriving any day now, so a fresh wave of sadness has come again, and again, my mama's heart breaks for my girl. Choosing to sit in that grief can be agonizing, but choosing to ignore it could be worse. And so I pray they weather this storm of sadness once again. No one but them can determine how long it will take for this storm to pass. I have learned firsthand, you can't predict the things that will cause sadness to overtake you or when it will lift. When tears will finally give way to smiles and even laughter. I found it interesting that one of the symptoms of chemo is watery eyes. There were days when this symptom was relentless for me. I would literally have tears streaming down my face. It still happens occasionally. I used to find it annoying, but I've come to view it as evidence of healing. I see it as my body grieving what it once was, even though those tears may seem to be void of any emotion. It doesn't register in my brain, but my body knows there is loss to be acknowledged and somehow released through those tears. There are also days when the tears come from a heart that knows full well what my body has endured. On most of those days, I've found it's best if I'm alone with my thoughts and emotions. But sometimes, I want to be with someone who lets me know it's okay to just sit in that sadness for a while. This world is not our home and sometimes it just stinks to be a stranger here. However, shadows show us our need for Light. Pain shows us our need for a Healer. And sorrow shows us our need for Joy. Even in feeling the weight of loss, I know deep in my being I do not grieve without Hope. I can be sad because I know joy is coming. We like to throw out the verse "joy comes in the morning" but we really have no idea when morning will be, for anyone. Morning might actually mean morning, thus the reason we sometimes sleep off our sadness because we know we'll feel better when we wake up. Morning might mean days or weeks or years from now. I have no idea when morning will come for my own long nights, and I certainly have no idea when someone else's will. In the meantime, don't be afraid to grieve. And don't be afraid to walk with someone else in their shadows. There will likely come a day when they walk with you through yours. It's okay to not fix their problems. It's okay to say nothing. And it really is okay to simply let there be sadness.  I bought a new desk. Some of you reading this will understand the magnitude of this transaction. I recently did a little rearranging in my writing space, which involved moving my desktop computer upstairs, clearing out some clutter, and a general cozying of the little room where I spend a good portion of my time. Knowing my creative self needs this to be a place I want to be for hours on end, I carefully curated the books, pens, notebooks, candle, chair, blanket, photos, and lighting, which I have deemed necessary for making me feel the way I want to feel in this room.
I brought my old desk up from my studio in the basement and knew immediately it wasn't going to work in my writing space. It was too big, too unstable, and frankly, looked awful in the room. I wasn't crazy about the idea of spending money on a new desk, but decided my recent royalty check of $28.82 might be well-spent on this new item. Yep, you read that right. Moving on... I also had some money sitting in my Amazon account, courtesy of a gift from my dear friend, E. A songwriter herself, I knew E would find great joy in knowing her gift had been used on this purchase, so I began perusing for the perfect desk. Eventually, I found something I thought would look great and serve me well. The right shade of wood-grained top. Black metal legs. A small, removable stand, identical to the desk itself, which I could use to prop up my iPad for Zoom meetings. A storage unit that attaches to the end of the desk, perfect for stashing a legal pad, a few papers, and anything else I needed within arms reach but didn't want lying on top of the desk. Best of all, it was only $64. I placed my order and waited. Two days later, the desk arrived and I asked my poor husband to put it together immediately, even though he had arrived home late after a long work event. Perry, being the nicest person on the planet, which everyone knows and frequently reminds me of, obliged and assembled it quickly. When it came time to move the desk into my writing room, I did something I have never done before. I pulled the desk out from the wall, far enough to where I could barely squeeze my chair in, with enough room to comfortably swivel. Now, instead of coming in to this room, sitting down and facing a wall, doing my best to stay focused on the task at hand, I would be able to walk in, sit down, and face the window. Having come in to this space frequently over the past couple of weeks, I cannot being to tell you what a difference this had made. I understand this might seem silly to some of you, but let me explain. I am a strange mix of desperate creative and self-imposed taskmaster. Those left-brain, right-brain tests? Yeah, my results come out 50-50 on every one. When it comes to writing, I love everything about the creative process and live for those moments when something new stirs inside me and I find a way to unleash it as a song or other creative work. I am also a person who likes to put her head down, block out the world, and do whatever is necessary to get the work done and cross things off my list. I understand how those parts of me can co-exist, but I also know I can easily settle into "do the work" mode and in doing so, limit my ability to notice, dream, and feel. My friend L, regularly tells me I have deeper places to go in my writing. I am trying to go to those places, but I think that requires something of me I haven't quite had the resources for. Up until now, that is. Life has now given me time, space, and hopefully soon, the energy to go new places in my writing. Some deeper, some farther. Which brings me back to the placement of my desk. From where I sit in my little room, I can now lift my eyes and stare out the window. I can allow myself to be distracted by my beloved cornfield just beyond our back fence. I can watch cotton ball clouds float across a blue sky and get lost in wondering. My world just got bigger, simply by choosing to face the window instead of the wall. I still have my list in front of me. I still want to be productive. I still want to get to the end of the day or the week and know I've used my time well. But how much more will there be to write about, now that I've given myself a broader view? How much deeper is the well of ideas, now that my brain isn't blocked by taupe-colored drywall? What if we all turned our "desks" around to "face the window?" Could it be we'd all find new ways to unleash the beautiful things that begin to stir in our hearts? Maybe we would sit with the sunlight finally shining on our faces, warming our skin and brightening away the temptation to simply accomplish something. Or maybe we'd all have days like I'm having today, when I've opened the window so I can hear the rain fall even though it's 55 degrees, let a space heater warm my feet, and allowed myself a few hours in this space where I can get lost in an idea. I think we can all get there. To that place where we have a broader view of the world. It might take stepping away from our to-do lists and allowing ourselves time to feel. It might take hopping off our soapboxes so we can be at eye-level with people who think differently than we do. It might take clearing our schedules or trying new things or getting off social media (which is NOT a healthy view of the world, by the way). Or it might just take a little moving of the furniture. Trust me, choosing to face the window can make all the difference.  Health Update: I am currently slugging my way through physical therapy, occupational therapy, and new medications, which have brought with them some yucky side effects. Up until now, every phase of this journey has been difficult for various reasons, but each has had a relatively short season. It certainly didn't feel that way in the middle of it, but again, each treatment, each surgery and recovery, I've been able to view as short term, meaning I've tried to approach things in 6-12 week chunks. The season I'm currently in feels long and relentless at times, and can be very discouraging. While I have viewed past seasons in weeks, I am now forced to think in terms of years. Am I grateful to even be able to think of my life in years? Yes, of course. Is it hard to think about how long it will take me to feel better? Do I worry about upcoming labs and scans? Do I wish healing meant I would have the body, energy and stamina I had a year ago? Yes to all those things. The uncertainty of it all can be all-consuming. So, I try and wake up every day and tell myself, "Don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Today has enough trouble of its own." Today also has a whole lot to be thankful for and to celebrate. So, I move forward, with gratitude. I was 20 years old when I boarded a Greyhound bus headed for Nashville, Tennessee. I had been accepted into a workshop for artists and songwriters where I would take a deep dive into a world I hoped would be my future - the music business. By that time, I had already recorded my first album of original songs, released only on cassette. Yes, you read that right. I was at a bit of a crossroads in life when, as a sophomore in college slugging it out as a music major, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay on that path. I knew, deep in my heart, I was meant to be a singer/songwriter. I just didn't know exactly what that was supposed to look like. I was counting on the workshop in Nashville to help me figure it out. The biggest question I had in coming to the workshop was whether or not I was supposed to move to Music City. Nashville was the hub of contemporary Christian music and I knew there were opportunities there I wouldn't have anywhere else. During those two weeks, I met people, listened, learned, and prayed for direction. When I returned home, I had made my decision to stay in Nebraska. Not because I didn't think doors were opening in Nashville because they were. I met the people I would eventually record more music with, and some of the folks I met that week I have continued to interact with to this day. I remember my dad asking me why I wasn't moving to Nashville. I replied, "Because I think I can do exactly what I want to do and live here." Over the next few decades (yes I'm that old), I recorded a dozen records, traveled the world singing, and found a way to carve out a life making music in one way or another. However, the best thing, and the thing I always wanted most out of life, was to be a mom. God also granted that desire of my heart, five times. One child I'll see in His perfect time, the other four have been the joy of my life here on earth for the past 28 years. A few weeks ago, I moved one of those kids to Nashville. Harrison was the same age I was when I headed south, and at a similar crossroads, knowing it was probably time to find out for himself if Nashville was where he was supposed to be. We stood in the kitchen the morning of his departure, tears streaming down both our faces. Harrison loves Nebraska. He loves our house. He loves cornfields. He loves his dogs. He loves his family and friends. Leaving home was difficult, to put it mildly. I was about to walk out the door and head to the car in order to give him a few minutes alone in the house, when I turned around and said this: "I just want you to know that just because you're going to Nashville now, that doesn't mean you aren't supposed to be back here someday. Maybe this is where you're supposed to be, but you won't know that unless you go. And remember if you do come back, it won't be because you've failed at anything. It will be because you figured out where you were supposed to be." I think Harrison is exactly where he is supposed to be right now and my little speech was in no way trying to provide a way out if things get difficult in Music City. He has seen enough of the music business through my lens to know it will be hard, and there are a couple things that might actually be more important than talent: work ethic and a love for people. He's got those things down. What I wanted him to know was the world has a definition of success that's pretty messed up. And if he let's that definition determine his success or lack thereof in his career, he will wind up frustrated and empty. A very long time ago, when Perry and I made the decision to come off the road after three years of full time music ministry, a friend of ours said to me one day, "Aren't you disappointed? I mean, things never really turned out the way you'd hoped, did they?" I couldn't believe it. I'd spent the past three years pouring my life out in a way that brought me joy and fulfillment. Mostly, I thought I was right where God wanted me to be. And because I was then pregnant with my second child and wanted to spend more time at home than on the road, we'd figured out God wanted us somewhere else. And yet, to her, and probably to many others, coming off the road looked like a failure. It stung, I'll be honest. There were many times when I wondered if she was right. Yes, life on the road was hard. We were often exhausted. We had very little money. We missed family and friends. But I hadn't really entertained the thought that coming off the road might look like we'd failed. But that's the world for ya. When I gave Harrison those last words of wisdom before he left, I wanted him to know from day one that while life in Nashville would be hard, and likely filled with his fair share of disappointment and rejection, only He could determine what success meant for him. I also wanted him to know that it would take trying, and trying a lot of different things, in order to figure out what his definition of success would be. And do you know what happens when we try things? Sometimes, we fall flat on our faces. Sometimes, we crash and burn. Sometimes, we fail. But that doesn't make us a failure. It just means we figured something out about who we are and what we should or shouldn't do. Social media doesn't help when it comes to having a good perspective on success. One look at social media and it is very apparent the world has an image problem. A success problem. There's a lot I'd rather not see regarding what other people choose to post, but it takes a lot for me to unfollow someone on social media. I think I've only blocked or unfollowed a handful of people in the 12 or so years I've had social media. I have a fairly thick skin when it comes to seeing other people's posts and how they make me feel. However, I am increasingly bothered by two things that are making it very tempting to simply hit "unfollow" and say "sayonara" to a few people. First, anyone who evidently thinks God is an American. Enough said about that - probably a subject for another blog. Second, anyone who subscribes to a Winner God theology. You may have heard it called something else, but that's what I call it. Winner God is the perspective that when something good happens to you, it's because Winner God has looked down at whatever situation you've chatted with him about and in His perfect wisdom, has decided you should win. You should succeed. You should prosper. And God is just so good. The problem with Winner God theology, okay there are many problems with it but there are entire books for you to read if you want, is that it leaves a whole lot of people thinking they must have been stuck with Loser God, since their situation didn't quite turn out as great as yours. Their plans fell through. Their hard work didn't pay off. Their cancer came back. They lost everything. Sure must suck to get stuck with Loser God. I get it. God does something we view as good and we give Him praise. As we should. We see God go above and beyond and we acknowledge Him for it. As we should. We face impossible situations and think "there's no way." Then God makes a way and we celebrate Him. As we should. But what if Loser God is actually Winner God doing things a different way? I mean God does have a habit of letting things completely fall apart in order to do what is best. I'm thinking of a certain dead friend, who Jesus Himself wept over, then saw fit to bring back to life. And remember that whole dying-on-a-cross thing? Sure must have looked like Loser God was going into that tomb. But, wait. Winner God actually did show up! And right on time! Funny how that works. Maybe there actually is no Winner God and no Loser God. Maybe there's just God. Last week I taught a class about staying creative in times of crisis. One of the things I shared with the class was how I had released a book in October, 2020 called "What If They Fly? Raising Creative Kids to Believe They Can Soar." I had intended to spend much of 2021 out and about promoting the book, because surely the world would open up and we could go about our business. And surely I wouldn't get diagnosed with cancer and spend the next year going through treatment and surgeries. Obviously things didn't go according to my plan. But what I shared with the class is how what I perceived to be an interruption to the plan was actually THE PLAN. It wasn't as if Loser God stepped in and said, "Uh, no. You don't get to do those things you'd planned for." And it certainly wasn't that Winner God was saying, "Yeah, I'm not showing up for this one." What did happen was GOD. Not Winner God. Not Loser God. Just GOD. Right there, smack dab in the middle of my disappointment over my wrecked plans. Right in the middle of my book not getting the promotion I'd intended and the sales I'd hoped for. Right in the middle of test results bringing bad news. Right in the middle of other hard things I've not yet blogged about. Here's what I'm continuing to learn about disappointment. Bad News. Failure. GOD doesn't care about those things. What GOD does care about is me. He cares about people knowing HIM, not people simply knowing He can come through in a crisis. He doesn't just care about people knowing He gives good gifts. He cares about people knowing HE is more valuable and precious than anything we could need or want or work hard for. Believing all those things has helped me see everything differently, especially heartbreak in one form or another. I released a song back when my book first came out. It's all about viewing failure differently. I wrote the song long before I knew we would be moving Harrison to Nashville, but as happens often with my songs, they circle back around to me in ways I didn't expect. I feel it more deeply than ever, and believe its message to be more true because of what this last year has looked like for me. GOD has shown up in my moments that may have looked like failure or disappointment to others. But those moments have simply given me more ways to learn how to trust Him. As this song says, I'm learning new ways to land. I'm confident Harrison will learn new ways to land as well, as he weathers his own storms of disappointment and heartbreak. And who knows, maybe one day he'll land back in a cornfield. If not, well, I've got my bags ready for an occasional road trip.
 Quick health update: Feeling pretty good, started one med this week, will start chemo pill next week, lots of labs and other appointments coming up, getting my port removed soon, a bone scan, and weekly PT. Yes, this is a long haul, but I'm so thankful to be done with infusions and radiation. I've been told to expect symptoms from those treatments to last two years, which isn't fun, but it's okay. I'm grateful for how things look today and that's as far as I'm gonna look.
It's been a couple of crazy weeks at Boe house. After nearly 28 years of waking up every day to the knowledge I had a young human in my house who, in one way or another, was relying on me for their daily nourishment, I have reached the phase most people call the empty nest. But trust me, there’s nothing empty about it. Over the years, as I have watched other parents reach this milestone, I’ve thought about how I would feel when this season came for Perry and me. And now we’re here. As I process it all now and think about the mom I will be in this season, it has been helpful to look back at the mom I’ve been. I’m the mom who always did my kids laundry. No regrets there. I enjoyed it, and considered it a way to serve my kids, especially during the teen years when they were barely keeping their heads above water trying to cope with school, activities, and an overdose of emotions. I’ve seen a lot of parents wrestle with guilt over what they didn’t teach their kids before they left home. Things like doing laundry, cooking eggs, and how to change a flat tire. I’ve had a few mom-guilt moments over stuff like that, but they’re fleeting. I quickly come to the conclusion that I had to learn some of those adult things myself too and I did just fine, even without the internet. Having launched a few kids already, I am definitely more at peace watching this one go. He’ll be fine. He'll probably turn some white clothes a lovely shade of light pink. He'll probably burn some eggs. There's always roadside assistance. But if he calls and asks me for help, it’ll probably make my day to hear his voice. I’m the mom who was too strict with my first, a little less strict with my second, probably found a balance with my third, and regrets not being more strict with my fourth in a couple of areas. My apologies to all my children for what you had to endure, whatever my approach was at the time. I was just trying to figure it out as I went. And remember, therapy is a good thing. I’m the mom who chose mothering her kids over tending to her husband, a lot. You wanna know why? It’s because I didn’t get married to be a mom. I got married so I could be a wife and have a husband and partner. For as long as I’ve known Perry, he has been a capable, responsible, self-sufficient man. He had a great mom and he doesn’t need one now. I did, however, have children to be a mom, and I thoroughly enjoyed being needed by my children. For those of you tempted to comment or email me and offer your thoughts on how you think I’ve neglected my husband, save it for someone else. We’re on year 32 here and still going strong. Okay, some seasons stronger than others, but we’re still here, doing the work. And remember, therapy is a good thing. I’m the mom who has had to learn a new dance - parenting adult children. This is a very different dance, with steps no one can teach you until you’re doing the dance yourself. It requires a grace you’ve never needed before and even when you think you’ve done it well, you find out the steps have changed and you need more lessons. I’m learning how the pride, satisfaction and joy you have in watching your adult children thrive is the same as when you watched them take their first steps or get their first hit in coach-pitch. It’s just bigger. I’m also learning how that pain you felt when your toddler face-planted or when your teenager got cut from the team gets deeper and sometimes darker when your adult child is hurting. This season is a mix of watching in awe as your greatest achievements in life live out their callings, and being confronted in new ways with your shortcomings and regrets. But when you add in the fun of relating to these amazing humans as adults, wow, it is awesome. I do know this - kids don’t stop needing their parents as they get older. It just doesn’t happen as often and they need you for entirely different reasons. You do less talking, more listening. Less helping, more praying. You know other voices are louder in their lives and while it makes you sad some days, mostly you are grateful for the other people pouring wisdom into your kids. And you remind yourself, therapy is a good thing. Do you wanna know what the hardest phase of parenting is? It’s the one you’re in. Do you wanna know what the best phase of parenting is? It’s the one you’re in. I don’t think I’d want to go back to any phase with all its highs and lows. I’m incredibly grateful for each mom-season I’ve had, but even more grateful for the humans who gave me those seasons and for the season we’re currently in when they are still calling me Mom. Yes, every season has been exhausting and has taken a lot out of me, but without question, each season has left me more full than the one before. And today, my nest is still full. It's actually overflowing. Overflowing with more wonderful memories than a person deserves. Overflowing with hope for four people who love others well and who have big dreams to pursue. Overflowing with dreams of my own for what this next season holds. I’m not naive to the fact that this transition will be hard. I plan to sit on the deck and cry. I plan to annoy my children with too many texts. And I plan to remember therapy is a very good thing.  I've had a few people text or message me asking if things were going okay because I'd been quiet on here. Things haven't felt quiet, but yes, I haven't had much to say here over the past five weeks. After my last post, I think I just went into work mode. You know, the put your head down, do the work, just get through it mode. I knew these daily trips to radiation would be challenging, but there are a lot of unknowns as far as how each person tolerates these treatments, so I didn't really know what to expect. All in all, my body has handled it well. As the weeks progressed, the fatigue, pain, swelling, and overall discomfort definitely got worse, but honestly, I can't complain. Okay, I have complained, but I've tried to keep it to a minimum.
Interestingly enough, one of the things that got to me the most was the daily-ness of this process. My life was dictated by the 3:40 p.m. appointments on my calendar every day, Monday-Friday. Those next 30 minutes became robotic, void of emotion. Each day, I walked in the clinic, checked in at the desk, sat in the chair in the waiting room, waited for the double doors to open, chit-chatted with the tech as I walked back to the small room where I put on the robe, then waited for them to call me back into the radiation room. As another tech walked me back, I would tell them my last name and birth date, set my things down on the chair, crawl onto the table, take my left arm out of my robe and raise it over my head, then turn my head to the right as they placed a wedge pillow under my legs. They put marks on my five small freckle tattoos with a black sharpie, then the machine slid me into place. Three times, the tech would ask me to hold my breath as they checked positioning, then they left the room. As the machine rotated around me through the entire process, I heard the tech give instructions over the speaker as I held my breath off and on for 10-30 seconds. Ten times, in each appointment, I held my breath. I hate holding my breath. If I never have to hold my breath again for as long as I live, it will be too soon. When it's all over, I would get up, thank the nice people for the fun time, pick up my things, go change back into my clothes, say "See you tomorrow!" to the gal at the check-in desk, then walk out. Over these five weeks, I grew accustomed to the sights and sounds in that room, the feel of the table, and the spinning of the machine. I memorized shadows, ceiling tiles, and the blips on the monitors that told me it was almost time for me to stop holding my breath. I hate holding my breath. Like, I really hate it. It was all routine. So. Much. Routine. The one thing I never did get used to, was the moment the machine rotated into the position just above my head where I could clearly see my reflection. Every single day, I would think to myself, "I just cannot believe I am here." Even after everything that my body has been through over these past 8 months, I still have those moments of disbelief. Today at 4:20 p.m., I walked out of my last radiation appointment. Hallelujah, Jesus. One more phase, done. Next week, I meet with my medical oncologist to go over the plan for the next phase. Giddy up. A couple of weeks ago I asked my radiation oncologist what I could say about myself after finishing radiation. Because I still have some work to do as far as treatment goes, I wasn't sure if there was an appropriate label for someone in my situation. Do I still have cancer? Am I in remission? If we're still fighting this beast, do I ever get to say I beat it? Maybe I just wanted some affirmation after all the work I've put in. We talked about things in medical terms and statistics for a few minutes. Then he said, "Basically, you're doing everything you can and I think if I were you, when you're done with radiation, I would celebrate." That was good enough for me. Today, at 4:30 p.m. I threw a little last-minute party. I invited a few friends to join me, both in person and virtually, in raising a glass to celebrate the completion of this part of the journey. It was beautiful. My friends rock. I told the friends who gathered with me in person, one thing I have become more and more convinced of over the past few months, is that we need more parties. More celebration. More raising of glasses. It's easy to forget the good stuff these days because there is so much bad. But I promise you, the good stuff is there. Sometimes you just need someone to ask you, "What are you celebrating today?" So I asked my friends that before we left. They shared something good in their lives. And while we came together to celebrate the end of my treatment, we left having celebrated new hires, face-timing grandkids, non-profit work, ministry activities, our kids being in good places, weddings, birthdays, and so much more. Then we decided we will have more parties. Yes, please. More parties.  I’m not a big numbers person but there are a few numbers I wish I would have kept track of on this little cancer adventure. Like the number of needle pokes. Or the number of miles I’ve put on my car going to appointments. I also wish I would have counted the times I’ve had to lay on table exposed to whoever happens to walk in the room that day. What used to be totally humiliating has become tolerable and numbingly routine. Maybe I should be glad for that but I find it kinda sad, too.
I have tried my best to find humor in the moments that were most uncomfortable. Like the day I was in an MRI machine when it broke. Keep in mind I was facedown, arms outstretched over my head with my girls hanging through an opening in the table. The operator took me part way out of the machine, then left the room to get help. I couldn’t see the clock but I’m pretty sure she was gone about 30-40 minutes. I started to think they’d forgotten me or that I was actually on some sinister version of Candid Camera. When it was all said and done, I had all the scans twice, including two injections of contrast, which as you may or may not know, makes you feel like you’ve peed all over the table. Super fun. An hour and a half later I was out of the tube from hell. I left, kicking myself for not filling the prescription for Valium they had given me to take before the MRI. My hair situation has also brought equal amounts of humor and humiliation. The first cut, the clumps falling out, the first shave, the first time going without a hat in public, all of it. I’m currently rocking what my kids lovingly refer to as my salt-and-pepper badass look. All I need to do now is to get a few tattoos and trade my tiny nose piercing for a large hoop and I’ll totally fit the part. Stay tuned. Last week, I had another one of those appointments where I found myself laying in a room alone, waiting for the doctor to come in and inspect me in preparation for radiation, which begins today. While I’ve gotten more used to those moments, for some reason this one was a little more difficult. It might be because I’ve been feeling pretty good lately and the thought of starting a new phase of treatment is tough, knowing I’ll likely feel a little worse over the next few weeks. As I laid on the table, head tilted to the side, my arm lifted over my head, I prayed two things. First, as I felt the twinge of vertigo kicking in when the ceiling tiles started to spin, I prayed, “God, do NOT let this happen. I’m humiliated enough the way it is. I do not want to be the puking patient.” Second, I prayed, “God, I know you’re there, but sometimes I just need to know that you see this. That you see me. And that you don’t like this either.” I left my appointment and headed to my car. I sat down, checked my phone and saw a text from a friend. He had sent me a recording of a song that had been cut by the group he sings with. The title of the song is Jesus Wept. I co-wrote it with my dear friends Sue and Joel. We wrote the song in the midst of the nightmare that was 2020 and throughout the lyric, we listed some things that grieve the heart of God. As I sat listening, I was struck by two lines in the chorus. “For the wounds that scarred our past and the brokenness to come, Jesus wept.” And I felt seen. I like to think when Jesus wept, He wept for chemo treatments and needle pokes and mastectomy scars and humiliating appointments when I’m stuck in an MRI machine. I think He grieves over the fact I have cancer. I am certain He didn’t create me for this, but I am equally certain He knew it would happen, and He knew it would be redeemed. I can’t explain the mystery of all that, but I believe it to be true. Sitting in the parking lot that day listening to the song, it brought me great comfort to know my Savior weeps for me. I thought about the two friends I wrote the song with, how I have witnessed their unimaginable suffering, and how Jesus weeps for them too. I’ve learned to find comfort in my own tears as well. I now see them as the way God washes away hurt and fear and sadness, and in the process, He improves my vision to see things more clearly. To see the things that matter. To see other people’s pain. I am grateful for that. I also like to think He's using my tears to grow something good in me. As if He somehow takes the crap we go through and the tears we shed and turns it into holy fertilizer and rain. Then you just need some sun. And the sun is coming out today. For the next five weeks, I will lay on a table every day, praying those little rays of sunshine (my new name for radiation) do their job on the soil that is my body and life. I know the purpose of radiation is to kill cancer, and I'm certainly praying for that, but I'm also choosing to see it as something necessary to grow something in me. There might be more crap to step in, and I'm sure I'll water it with a few tears along the way, but I'm okay with that. After all, that's how good things grow. |
|
RSS Feed