The rosebush

My mom has a rose garden with about 30 different types of roses. When it is in full bloom, it is a wondrous sight. It is now my job to prune the roses. My dad taught me how to prune roses when I was very young. With finishing school and...stuff...it has taken a few weeks to get the 30+ rosebushes pruned. I have 1 rose left, and it's a doozy. There have got to be at least 1,000 (yes, that's one thousand!) thorns on each branch! In fact, at least 10 of the roses out there have the same amount of thorns-there is absolutely no way to grab a branch without getting stuck! This last rosebush-I just got tired of fighting with it today...I'll finish it tomorrow. It's a toughie, yes it is.

With pruning roses, there are so many life metaphors you and I could come up with, I'm sure. Especially with the thorns of life-getting through tough stuff...getting hurt...knowing we have to just get through it. I'm sure there's more...

As I was pruning today, I looked at the clippers as I clipped the branches just above the buds, or to cut off a dead branch, and thought about the season that rose is in right now. It was once blooming, in so many different directions, but I had to decide where to cut and prune, which direction would be good for it to grow in, and which way to keep it from growing in, and where it had to just stop because that part was done. It was up to me to prune in such a way that it would grow the right direction or to grow to its best ability and be beautiful. If I didn't prune, the rosebushes would grow wild. The blooms would be beautiful, but eventually the thorns, branches and wild mess would take away from the beauty of the roses.

Now before you freak out, please keep in mind that I don't see myself as God. I see myself as the rosebush. God, in His perfect timing, is the one doing the pruning. Life is about living, growing, dying-and getting pruned and trusting God that where He prunes us, we will grow and be even more beautiful than we were before. Sometimes those clippers prune and it hurts, deeply. Sometimes so deeply we deaden that area in our lives and we think it's easier that way. But then...we just become a stump, with no blooms. I don't know about you, but I can't live like that. So, hopefully we recognize the buds that God has left and let the healing and growing process begin. That is where we need to trust God. And trust others. Yes, the scars are there, but the roses, I mean we, can be all the more beautiful while we live, grow and trust.

Oh that's a toughie, isn't it?

Look, all I know is that while I was pruning the last rosebushes today, I was praying, asking God to heal where I have been clipped and to help me grow. I looked at those rosebushes and imagined what they will look like in the spring. The new buds and the beautiful colors and smells. They will be better because of my pruning. I prayed for my family and friends and in how many ways we have been clipped this year and are hurting. I literally asked God why He was clipping at us so much. I begged Him to please stop pruning. Then I asked God to please comfort and heal. Right now, all I can do is trust God's pruning, that He knows what's best.

Oh, that's a toughie, isn't it?

My dad

If you knew my dad, you knew his strengths: builder, fixer, doer.

Today would have been my dad's 70th birthday. This is our first Christmas without him. I have been debating whether or not to post a new blog in honor of my dad, considering I did write something 6 months ago, when he passed away and I didn't want to re-hash or over-mourn, or focus on things that I shouldn't focus on today, but I have memories of my dad that I just thought important to share-to give you a more personal glimpse of my dad, maybe you'll learn something about him you didn't know. My dad would throw a fit if he knew about all the attention he still gets, but I would argue that the honor bestowed on him just feels right to me, to all of us. We, or I, need to shareabout my dad. This makes the "growing through the rain" process easier for me.

Let's begin with a few random facts about my dad:

1) He was my Grandma Mary's first born. She gave birth to him at home, in Costa Mesa.
2) When he was 11, he made a Nativity scene out of wood-one of his first wood-working projects. My Grandma still has it-it's beautiful.
3) When he was in high school, He sang in choir and performed in the musical "The Pirates of Penzance." He even wore tights.

Now something more personal that I've been wanting to share. He was-well, for lack of a better way of describing him-a manly man. He learned to be tender-hearted, but he was tough. Don't get me wrong, all of four of us kids agree he was a great and wonderful dad, but he was a tough dad. I am his oldest child. This manly man would pick me up when I would fall or scrape my knee. He'd tell me to wipe my tears, brush it off and get back to whatever I was doing. He taught me to be tough and strong, just like him.

Fast forward many years and I was raising my own little girl. We had a family gathering at my folks home. My daughter, Jennifer, had fallen, or something like that, and began crying. I immediately patted her, told her to brush it off, and walked away. My dad went to her, picked her up, placed her in his lap and let her cry. Oh, my anger just blew! I let it out on my dad: "What are you doing! You never let me cry when I was little! You told me to be tough and get over it! Stop!"He waited a minute, put Jennifer down, walked over to me, hugged me and said: "You're right Paula, I did raise you to be tough, but you know what, I was wrong, and I'm sorry." I cried, of course, and he held me. That was the first of many times throughout the years that he held me as I cried.

This experience was one of those privileged moments I had of watching God work on my dad's heart. I even remember when Dad accepted Christ. He was still a doer, but he built, fixed, and did things for a different reason than before. Christmas was, I think, his favorite time of year. We celebrated his birthday with cake, and extra presents, as he'd admonish us for taking the time to do so, because we should be only celebrating Jesus' birth. But then he would always make sure we would remember to hug and kiss him and wish him Happy Birthday. He loved his family, but more importantly, He loved Jesus. Serving Jesus, and sharing God's love was the most important, single priority in his life.

So, in this time of remembering my dad, and the life we had with him, also remember that it was because of Jesus' birth, death and resurrection and the impact it had on my dad's life, and the impact it should have on all of our lives. Build, fix, do.

Do.

27 Books Later...

Even in comparison to my 3 semesters of brain exploding math, this semester has so far been the most difficult. Not so much because of the 27 books (I'm an English major, I love books), but more so just because of...life...and death...and illness...and health...life. At one point I dropped a class, but another professor added a book, so it was still 27 books. If life isn't overwhelming enough, you'd think 27 books would just add to that. It did. It felt like my brain was just going non-stop, no rest for...oh my goodness...more than six months. (word of advice: DON'T ever do 10 weeks of summer school!)

BUT I've decided to focus on the best part of the 27 books: The stuff I loved reading and what I learned. So, of the 27 books, here's a list of my favorites and what I've learned:

Beowulf: If you haven't read this, your life isn't complete. It is eloquent, tedious, full of wonderful history and detail, the heroic code, with monsters and dragons. My essay prompt was to describe the heroic code in Beowulf, and I compared my son's video games to the book. Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien worked on the translation? By the way-the book is way better than the movie.

Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet: we all know how it ends. This is the first time I had read it. I love Shakespeare, he's all about the process and the details. You can get lost in his stories. I also read The Tempest-that was amazing! In the end, Prospero ends up forgiving everyone-no revenge-and the boy and girl live happily ever after.

Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe: I'm still reading it. It's a long book, with just tons of stuff going on. Stowe uses strong female characters, and wonderful Tom, to tell a story about slavery, the North and the South and American History. This book has made me feel ashamed of not only our American History, but also ashamed of how we humans, all equal creations of God, exact superiority and power over one another, over those who we deem as unworthy.

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel: You know, I don't even like poetry, but this poem just cracked me up! This poem is the epitome of what a guy will say to seduce a girl. I enjoyed it so much I wrote an essay on it. Everyone will tell you that this poem is all about "carpe diem" or "seize the day." Eh, whatever.  I don't think that was Marvel's intention when he wrote it. I think he just knew what to say to get lucky.

The Dream of the Rood: an ancient poem about Christ's crucifixion from the perspective of the cross. It is powerful! The professor gave us a passage from the Gospels to compare the poem to, which gave me the opportunity to discuss it with a fellow classmate who had never even opened a bible before-it was such a blessing! Read it, you'll cry.

27 books later, I am ecstatic to finally have a break. I've been sleeping better, and I feel like this humongous weight has been lifted off of my brain. I even watched the movie "27 Dresses" thinking maybe there's some comparison with my 27 books I could blog about. Nope, I don't want to think that hard.

Besides, I need to prepare for next semester: 16 books.

God Works

When it rains...
It pours...

You've heard the saying, and you know what it means.

I hate rain. Ok, that's a little harsh, but I really don't like rain! I understand why it's necessary, and appreciate it when the season has been dry, but I don't like it. It soaks my glasses like a windshield, messes up my hair and gets my feet so wet and cold! Which is why, when you see me out in the rain, I use a very big umbrella. Inevitably, though, the rain does what it set out to do and gets me wet.

Rain gets everything wet. In fact, rain can be so powerful that it washes out everything in it's path. Storms, hurricanes, tidal waves (does rain have anything to do with tidal waves? Maybe I should just title this "water.") Rain can destroy homes, towns, and move mountains. Inevitably, though, the rain subsides, life rebuilds and there is always-yes, always-healing and growth. It may take time, it may be painful, it may not go the way we want, but the healing and growth is always there.

Here's another saying for you:
God works in mysterious ways.
We've all heard the saying, and we think we know what it means, but I don't think we really do.

And I don't think the "mystery" is the point. I think the point is that God Works. Whether in mysterious ways, amazing ways, unknown, blah, blah, whatever ways-God Works. God created the rain, He created seasons in our lives, and we all have those seasons of pouring rain. When the rain is done, there is always-yes, I believe eventually always-healing and growth. God Works. Whether we want Him to or not. God Works. (I should put that on a t-shirt and sell it).

I decided to look up bible references on God's work and this is what I came up with:

Psalm 19:1--The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.
Psalm 66:5--Come see what God has done, how awesome His works in man's behalf,
John 9:3--"Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life."
Romans 8:28--And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love HIm, who have been called according to His purpose.
1 Corinthians 12:6--There are different kinds of working but the same God works all of them in all men.
Ephesians 2:10--For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.

This is where you ask me why I'm writing about this. I'm writing about this because right now I'm angry. And I don't like being angry at God. I don't like being angry at all. I don't like how anger makes me feel. Right now, the season my family is in, it's pouring. My loved ones are in the midst of hurricanes. I wish the rain would just stop.

Then I look at my life, and where I'm at. I am blessed. I am healing, and I am growing. Because of where I am, I continually see God working through the rain and I know my job is just to hold up my umbrella and give cover in whatever way I can. In my life I have seen seasons of storms and hurricanes and I have felt healing and I have grown. God Works.

There is one little thing I like about rain...jumping in the puddles.

Yes, God Works.

An interesting thing happened in class today...

There was a minor incident right before class began this morning. Actually, it was so minor it really doesn't bear worth mentioning, but it struck me as strange. In fact, so odd I decided to write about it and maybe get some feed back from you:

Students were filtering into the class, no prof yet. One student, a woman (she looks to be a few years older than me) walked in holding up a textbook for this class and loudly announced she found it outside the door. The young girl sitting one seat over on my right put up her hand and said, "Oh that's mine, oh I'm sorry! Oh thank you so much!"

The woman (whom neither of us know because she sits on the other side of the classroom) walked up to where the girl was sitting and slammed the book on the table in front of the girl. She slammed so hard that I, the girl, and at least 3 other students sitting around us jumped. The woman continued to walk to the far end of the table where she usually sits, looked at the students on that end and loudly proclaimed, "Once a mother, always a mother" then sat down. I watched the girl sitting next to me-she put her head down and didn't look back up. I waited a few minutes and asked the girl if she was ok. She said yes, and that she also heard the woman's statement after. I reassured her that not all mothers are like that, and that the woman's response was probably more about her and not about the girl. The girl smiled at me, said thank you, and the professor walked in.

This just keeps bugging me! I thought about myself, what kind of mother I am, not to mention how I treat others around me. In class, it's natural for me to lend a pen or paper, or stapler. I even gave a young man a cough drop once. If I found a book outside the door, I'd bring it in, find out who it belonged to and say, "here you go sweetie." (yes, I do say sweetie to the young students-especially if I don't remember their names).

Then again, there are times when I am...well...impatient. You know those times: like being in a hurry and wanting to drive 70 on the freeway when every other car is driving 60 and you can't get around them and you get impatient (well, I do). Do I really want them hearing what I'm saying to them? (Olga would be laughing at me right now because she knows what I'm saying and she just tells me to relax and don't worry. We'll get there when we get there.)

But the point is: Do I want them hearing what I'm saying? Should I be saying what I'm saying? Do I want to turn into that woman?

I definitely don't think I'm that kind of mom. AND I don't want to be that kind of person.

Impulse

"What did you do!!!?" Says my 19 year old son, Ethan, after seeing my new hair cut. He was very upset. My only saving grace-he liked the color. Red, of course.

Yesterday, I made the impulsive decision to chop off most of my hair. My hair has never, in my entire life, been this short. Plus all 3 of my children  have told me that I MUST have long hair.

But there was a very important reason for my decision to cut my hair: Because my sister doesn't have any.

By the way, please don't tell my sister I wrote this, she'd kill me for being this transparent and to be honest, she really isn't the total reason I did it.

Allow me to begin at, well, the beginning of my story:  For many weeks I had been thinking about ways to show support for my sister as she fights breast cancer. I could lose weight-I have plenty. I could get more exercise, etc...and I confess, I was pretty much half-hearted about it all. Then I had a check up a couple of weeks ago. My blood-pressure is high. Not too high, but just out of the "normal" range. The doctor isn't too concerned, but I will need to check it in 6 weeks. She asked about my stress level and how much exercise I get. When I told her about life for the past few months, she understood. That was the beginning of a wake up call for me.

Then I did my first breast cancer walk last weekend. Jen, my sister, was there. She had a beautiful white and pink head dressing and was ready to walk the 5k. She had been in bed for 5 days after beginning a new chemo "cocktail." All I could think was...this is my baby sister-her stress level is 1000 times more than mine right now! If she can be here and do this, I need to do more. My body made it through the walk, but I huffed and puffed as my best friend, Olga, pushed me. And Jen just kept walking. After that, I whole-heartedly decided to keep up a walking regime-walk at least every other day. I need to be healthy for me, first and foremost, but I also need to be healthy for my sister.

The 5k was Sunday. I walked Monday. On Tuesday, I didn't walk, but I started thinking about my hair. What if I just cut my hair really short (Hey, I love my sister, but my hair is very fine. If I buzz it, it may not grow back!) and keep it short until Jen's hair begins to grow again? I talked to my friend, Amy, about it that night. She thought it was a great idea. Maybe I'll wait until Jen finishes chemo, then cut it. Amy reminded me that Jen doesn't have any hair now.

I wake up Wednesday morning and that's all I think about. I realize that if I don't do this now, I'll lose the nerve and not do it at all. I call Amy, thinking we'll go when she gets off work. Then I see my mom at Target and I tell her that I think I should go right at that moment (it was about 1pm) and she offers to go with me. On impulse, I just do it. I tell the stylist the story. She cries. After she cuts it, I cry. Hey-my hair is gone, what do you expect me to do!

So, it's time for life changes. Get more exercise. Be active. And get a hair cut every 6 weeks to keep it super short until Jen's hair starts growing back. I may need to get a job just to keep up with the hair cuts, but it will be worth it.

Yes, I love being impulsive.

4 days of nothing...

Today is a good hair day. Simply due to the fact that I had much leisure time this morning and was not rushed into a quick flat iron or pony tail.

Every Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday are completely open. Well, not completely, but it's not like I have kids to rush to games, or school, or work...Ok, ok. It's not all nothingness. I do have a ton of reading to do (English major, duh!) and Geography of China homework. Yesterday, Friday morning, I went on a field trip with my Geo class-a Buddhist temple, but when I arrived home, there was no one there and I reveled in the solitude. Quiet.

This morning, like most Saturday mornings, I woke up to my neighbor's phone call to either make sure I was up so she could come over for coffee, or have a quick discussion over plans for the day. I drank coffee, finished reading a book for a class, and contemplated my weekly schedule. I joyously listened to the silence, and loved the nothingness. Most of the time, these 4 days are just nothing. Studying, laundry, cooking, solitude. I started reading Shakespeare's Tempest.

Now it's late Saturday evening. After spending the day reading, hanging out with my neighbor, I am now sitting in an empty house...again. My hair is up, Netflix is on.

Sundays are great. Church, lunch with my boys. But this Sunday I'm off to Jen's. A breast cancer walk.

Monday I'm going to try a monkey bread recipe I found online. Read some more Tempest. And Ben Franklin's Autobiography. I definitely prefer Shakespeare.

(By the way, British Lit is my favorite class. In the last class meeting, I got a little excited about what we're reading and my classmate joked that I was possibly born in the wrong century.)

Ok, so there's a few somethings, but I guess it feels like nothing.

I am truly blessed.

Raw

I am in the swing of the fall semester and my hands, or book bag, is very full.  After all, this is what this blog is supposed to be about, but if you've been reading, you know my life has been over flowing with, well...stuff.

Since June 24th, practically every single person I know has been going through the grieving process. I have been grieving. I've grieved the death of loved ones before, but if you've lost a parent, you know how it's different. Especially my dad. I always joked that he was "a pain in the butt," but the impact of his finishing this life and going home is felt everywhere I turn. The grieving is prolonged.

I feel...raw.

Last Spring I sliced off my finger tip. My dad was there after the fact-he just shook his head and, with a little grin on his face, he wrapped my up my finger. He joked that it would be at least 8 months before my finger completely healed. At the doctor's office the next day, the nurse unwrapped the bandage and I almost fainted from the excruciating pain surging through the exposed nerve endings on my finger. It was raw and painful for a long time. I had to keep a padded bandage on it for two weeks. Even now, because the nerves are still healing, it feels like a sharp needle going through my finger if I'm not careful and bump my finger. You can see the dent on my finger, and although it looks healed, it isn't.

I am learning that grieving is the same. I look fine, even feel good most of the time, but sometimes I'm not, and I have to accept that process, because it's not just going away. I am learning that this is going to be a long healing process. In this healing, the grieving will get better, but there will be times when I have a bump and it will twinge my heart. I need to accept that, even embrace it.

I have two more points that I want to share with you:

1) A friend was telling me about friends of hers who are dealing with a terminal illness in the family and she had been wanting to write to them, but was in pain as to what to say. What could she say?

Normally, it would be very easy to relay my personal experiences and help my friend. I would have told her that in my grieving I have loved and appreciated every single person who has said "I'm sorry for your loss," "he will be missed," or "my condolences." But in all of this comforting there were quite a few that stood out. The ones that didn't really say anything. One was a pastor's wife who just came up to me, put her arms around me and with tears in her eyes said, "I don't know what to say." We hugged for a number of minutes. That same day, another friend from church, a young man, walked up, stood next to me and just put his arm around me. For a few minutes he didn't say anything, just hugged me. Finally he said 2 things: "How are you?" and "I'm praying for you." I could go on, but my point is: Don't worry about what to say, just go with it from the heart.

2) Unfortunately, I couldn't tell my friend. I choked. I felt myself wanting to help and comfort my friend, but aching inside as well. Those grieving nerves were reminding me that they were still there. Fortunately the other friend that was sitting with us at the time picked up on it and comforted me-that just blew me away! I am learning that I need to pace myself. That I can let others take on the load that I usually carry. Yes, I need to keep going, keep living, but I don't have to overburden myself either.

Because of this, I have decided to go from taking 5 classes this semester to just 4-just 12 units. I hate admitting defeat, but all summer I was overwhelmed with grief and 10 weeks of summer school. That overwhelming feeling gets exhausting! It's not a matter of whether or not I can do it, but whether or not I will do well. I need time to breath, and thinking about my 27 books, 10 page term paper and 3 other essays due this week won't help.

I am still raw.

I need to let the padded bandage of time, my friends, family and life help me continue to heal.

What does a picture say to you?

I am not a photographer, but I do now how to use a good camera. I've even framed a few pictures-the flamingo below is one. I've decided to make this blog my photo blog...because...well, I'm on vacation so I don't have any college stuff to write about. Let's see if this works...

The Letter 'A'

I have come to love the letter 'A'.

There are many uses for the 'A':
A is for apple.
A is always, always, always the beginning of the alphabet. (duh)
A is for the ants that keep invading my house this summer-I think we've finally conquered them.
"The Scarlet Letter" was an 'A'. (Good book!)
A is the Health Dept. grade we want to see on a restaurant. (What goes through the mind when you see a 'B'?)
Ah...the 'A' grade-that's why I love the letter 'A'.

10 weeks of summer school (something I will never do again, hopefully) 2 intense classes, plus all the family stuff. And I get an 'A'. I give myself an 'A' for getting through it (yes, I am patting myself on the back) and my college transcripts will show an 'A'. In case you're wondering, I've earned quite a few 'A's lately.

Especially when I was so extremely close to throwing in the towel, giving up, and crawling into bed and never getting out, but no, I sit on the couch, or at the table, with laptop in front of me and keep on the college work.

And I get an 'A'.

Right now, I thank God for the letter 'A'.

Driving force

For many reasons, I love to drive. One particular reason I love to drive is: I don't like to cry. See, when I'm alone in my car, I cry, when the need arises. When I earned my first A on an algebra test, I cried happy tears in my car. I've been crying more often lately, for good reason, since my dad's passing, but usually not in my car. I've cried in my son's arms as he held me and kissed my cheek. In my brother's arms, in my mom's arms. In the arms of a few friends. Today was especially difficult, so I cried in my car while picking up pizza.

The day began marvelously as I drove to church this morning. No crying yet. I've been a volunteer in Vacation Bible School at church this week, and I am having a fantastic time with the 4th graders, friends, and just being at church. Then it hit me-my dad is not here at church. He is not here. He is not here. It felt like I was playing catcher (I played girls softball when I was 13) and a girl accidentally hit me in the head with the bat. I just had to get out of there. I may need to apologize to the few people I bumped into-I wasn't very nice. I didn't cry, though.

I cried a few hours later, thinking about church. And I cried in agony-I prayed. He is not here. But Jesus is here. Jesus is here. Jesus is here. And so am I.  So...what now? I get up, keep driving, and go back to VBS.

John Welty: December 25, 1941-June 24, 2011

Today's blog is a conglomeration of thoughts about my dad so just bear with me as I work this dedication to my dad.

My dad was a warrior. Even in the hospital bed he never stopped working for Christ. I thought it was unfinished business. Talk to this person, make sure this person knows that, plant the garden, take care of this, go, go, go. Then I realized, when a warrior's battle is over, it's time for him to go home, but until he goes home, he just keeps going, he just keeps working, because that's what he's supposed to do. Dad kept gardening, he kept telling people about Jesus, even the nurses and doctors, he kept going to school, he kept going, going, going. Because that's what he's supposed to do. It's not about unfinished business. It's about doing Jesus' work until it's time to go home. Dad worked until God called him home. Dad was ready. He was done.

"Legacy-n. Something handed down by a predecessor."
My dad's legacy is too enormous to describe in a blog-I think the best place to begin is his 4 children. I am the oldest with 1 sister and 2 brothers. We are all here comforting my mom, taking care of my mom and each other. Consoling, comforting, and loving each other. Dad's legacy to us is our family. We understand that through thick and thin, no matter what, we are a family, and families MUST love each other, accept each other, think beyond the stupid little things, put our crap aside, don't squabble or gripe. We stick together. Growing up, Dad wouldn't let us fight or be angry with each other for too long. I remember him telling me: "You are sisters and brothers-you treat each other right because someday they may be the only family you have! You get along because that's what you're supposed to do!" As the oldest, my dad always told me it was my job to be responsible for my sister and brothers, I had to take care of them. The last few weeks I've watched my sister and baby brother reach out to help me, take care of me. I can see my dad in their comfort and care.

What my dad taught me: Do something. "It doesn't matter what you do, as long as you do something." "You can do whatever you want, but you must do something." I taught my kids the same thing, but this lesson has helped me in another way:
A few weeks ago I went through the feelings of, "how in the world am I going to be able to get through my dad's illness and finish my college classes at the same time?" I mentioned this to 2 classmate friends and these 2 sweet young women immediately reminded me that I had to keep going, that dad would be proud of me, and I couldn't just give up because this is my life and I would regret giving up. Then I heard my dad's voice. Something like: "this is life, you just keep going, just do it. Life doesn't stop, you gotta work, you gotta finish." and "I didn't raise any quitters." How am I going to get through my final this week? 5 more weeks of summer school.  I'm going to just do it. Just keep going. My dad won't be at my graduation next year, but I will finish.

In everything you do, do your best. In whatever you do, you put your best foot forward, no matter what. Because of this, I can't just do what I can to get by in college. I strive to get the best grade. Take that extra minute to make my assignments perfect, get that A. I'm an English major. Math makes my head explode, but I had to take 3 math classes before I could transfer to University. Dad knew I was horrible in math, but you should have seen us explode in joyful tears when I told him I got an A in algebra. I did my best, I did the hard work and I worked hard, because of what he taught me.

That reminds me, I have homework I need to finish. I may add more stuff to this later.

warrior-noun. a brave or experienced soldier or fighter

I love the Oxford English Dictionary.

I've been using the word "warrior" lately to describe most of my dad's visitors during his hospitalization. I'm glad I chose that word. You see, these visitors proudly, joyfully and willingly hold my dad's hand and pray with him and whoever else is in the room. They are brave soldiers and experienced fighters using the best weapon in the fight against cancer. These warriors pray, pray, and pray some more. They pray in love, in admiration, in adoration of our heavenly Father and in their deep felt love for my dad.

The warriors just keep showing up for the fight. Especially today. My dad took a turn for the worse. Right now he is in ICU with a respirator, low blood pressure, anemia and fighting an infection. I emailed a friend at 6:30am and the wildfire of praying warriors began. The text messages and emails poured in. By 8:30am a warrior walked into my dad's ICU room to pray for him, whisper in his ear, comfort my mom, my whole family. A few more warriors showed up. And they prayed. Men and women who willingly fight the brave fight for my dad. (At this writing he has had a blood transfusion, his blood pressure is slowly improving and still on the respirator)

I thought I was done crying. I guess not.

I tell you, if I am loved half as much as my dad when I'm his age, I will be truly blessed.

These warriors have reminded me what a difference being a prayer warrior makes.

I am glad I chose that word.

Family Vacations

Did your family take those long vacations when you were a kid? You know the kind: mom and dad pack up and get the kids in the car and we're on the road before sunrise to go to somewhere for a family vacation that took what felt like forever to get there. We inundated dad with questions like "are we there yet?" "How much longer?" "what time is lunch?" "When are we stopping?" and so on...Every two years we took a vacation to Washington and the drive (back then) was three days. Three stinking long days. It was the longest three days in the entire world! 

I find myself feeling that exact same way when thinking about my sister and my dad and the road they both have ahead of them. My sister will begin a six month regimen of chemotherapy in 2 weeks. Six stinking long months. My dad's recovery from surgery has faltered a little, but we already knew it could be a long recovery; 4-6 months plus when he eventually begins his chemo. This is going to be the longest year in the entire world!

There were two great things about family vacation. Finally getting to the destination and having a blast where every it was and finally reaching home at the end of vacation. That feeling of "we're here!"

There's quite a few variables in what's going on with my dad and my sister. The journey is going to be alot bumpier and treacherous than a family vacation road trip. But the destination. Finally reaching home. Finally getting to say "we're here!" no matter where that "here" is. Either our heavenly home (which to some of you may sound morbid, and it puts an ache in heart to think that way, but with Christ as my redeemer and comforter I celebrate that) or cancer free, in the end the destination makes the journey worth it.

Cancer

Wouldn't it be great if Cancer's only definition was an astrological sign? (Ironically, it's my sign) Unfortunately, it's not.
Two weeks ago, my father had what I think is called the "Whipple" surgery for pancreatic cancer. 1/3 of his pancreas was removed. The 2/3 pancreas that is left is cancer free, but he will undergo chemotherapy in a few months to combat cancer found in two lymph nodes.

On the morning of my father's surgery, my younger sister had a doctor appointment. She was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is still waiting for a couple of tests. It may be genetic. If that test is positive, my father will be tested, then the rest of his children and so on. She will begin chemo soon and prepare for a mastectomy in a few months. At this point the prognosis is good. The hope is she will recover, but she has a long road ahead of her. I thank God for her husband. He is a wonderful man.

Thus begins this family's battle with cancer. The un-astrological kind.

Now what? What do I do now? I pray. I be the tough, big sister. I pray. I be the attentive, supporting daughter. I pray. I didn't allow myself to cry for a long time. This last Sunday, while I held my sister's hand, she informed my parents. She cried, mom cried. We all sat in dismay, shell-shocked. My dad, weakened by his surgery, and humbly dependent on his family to take care of him (his recovery is going well, by the way) finally had a small opportunity to take care of his family as he ordered us to come around him, hold hands and he prayed for my sister, for himself, for our family and for God's will to be done. I still did not cry.

The next day I'm driving in my car and the first song I hear is "Our God" by Chris Tomlin (click you-tube below) and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I was in agony. I begged God to take away the agony, take away the fear. I thanked Him for His strength in my life and for being greater, higher and more powerful than cancer. A friend heard the same song while reading the email I sent with the news of my sister. God did that for some reason.

Have I ever shared with you my favorite bible verse? Psalm 147:3-"He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." An email from a pastor at church reminded me of this verse. God heals. Many of my friends reminded me that He is the Great Physician. Whatever the outcome, we will be ok. We will be healed, heart, body and soul.

I don't know how, but I think this will be some kind of testament from our family to...whoever. For now, we wait and see. Take one day at a time. We love each other, comfort each other, care for each other. We pray.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlA5IDnpGhc&feature=share

Midterms

Well, I'm half way through my first semester.

I love it.

So silly, being nervous about university. It's really not much different than city college. For one thing, I'm still older than most of them. Just a few weeks ago I noticed there's actually an old guy in my grammar class. I have noticed that because of my age, I stand out to my professors and, considering I strive to be a good student, so far this is a good thing. They remember my name and listen when I have a comment or question. I don't know why I didn't notice this, or realize it while I was at city, I guess it just seems different now.

Midterms: tons of writing. I'm an English major so what do you expect? Scan-trons? Nope. I guess my professors like to read as much as I do. Anyway, I got B's on all my midterms. Good start. I'll take it.

Here's to the next half.

Kindergarten

I know this is so ridiculously silly, but I feel like I'm starting kindergarten all over again! I am very excited about jumping into finishing my English degree, but I'm also feeling more nervous about my first day at a a new school. A bigger (HUGE!) school, all new people, new professors, new...everything! Yes-it feels like I'm starting Kindergarten all over again! Wait, didn't I just say that?

Ok, ok, I know what you're going to say, so let me thank you before you say it. I know I'll be fine, I know that once I get there I'll do well, and I'll meet new people, and it will be great!

Isn't that what our parents said to us before our first day of Kindergarten?  On the plus side: At least I'm not 5 years old again.

Do you remember your first day of Kindergarten? I remember when all 3 of my children started Kindergarten. None of them cried, and I didn't have to reassure them either. My daughter had been in preschool before and she's the kind of person that just looks at someone and is instant friends. I gave her a hug and a kiss and she ran off. My oldest son couldn't wait to go to school just like his big sister. He wriggled out of my arms and wouldn't even kiss me good-bye. My youngest son-the same thing: wanted to be like his big brother, but at least I got a hug and a kiss before he ran off.

Ok, now I'm really getting nervous. Maybe I can get one of my kids, or my mommy, to take me to my first class and drop me off with a kiss and hug.

What is a Titan?

In case you're wondering, I finally decided which university to attend. I had the pleasant surprise of being accepted to all 3 CSUs that were close by-pretty cool. In exactly one week from today I will be attending classes at CSU Fullerton!

Go Titans! Yep, I am a Titan. So, I was thinking-what exactly is a "titan?" In my Mythology class last spring I was fascinated by the history of Greek mythology and the small role the gods-the Titans-play in mythology. My favorite is Prometheus. I even wrote a paper on Prometheus for my mythology class-and got an A on it. I could go on about the story of Prometheus, but I'll leave that for another blog, if you're interested.

One day I just googled: "What is a Titan?" and came up with some interesting information, especially on wikipedia:
Did you know:
There a Star Trek novel series titled "Titan."
Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 1 in D major is nicknamed Titan.
The USNS Titan is a ship in the U.S. Navy.
The Titan Beetle is the largest beetle in the Amazon rainforest.
Titan is a variety of sunflower.

Here's another interesting tidbit: CSU Fullerton's mascot is not some gorgeous hunk of a Greek god. It's an elephant. Something to do with some elephant race many years ago. If you're interested, here's the link to the elephant story:
http://www.fullertontitans.com/trads/csfu-trads.html