Special for the boy trying to fix up my son who is (in my opinion) years from being old enough to superheroes and capes and then make you a cape and give it to you as a gift. It takes a special kind of friend to still be willing to admit they're your friend when you are running around the church with a cape on. And that is just the beginning.

During the last few weeks when I was really struggling mentally and emotionally , God sent person after person to me with words of encouragement. Right around the time I figured we've become old news and people are probably not remembering to pray for us anymore, I got several messages from people saying, "You've really been on my heart this week. I'm praying for you." In those moments I see the way the God of the Universe stops and takes time for me. And I see that he has already given me the strength I need.

We are better together. God has given me incredible friends (and in some cases sent incredible strangers) to encourage me and sustain me. So when I feel not so super, the Body of Christ rallies around me, carries my burden, and helps me to soar. My friend made me a cape. My friends are my cape.

I've lost my cape

It's been a little more than seven weeks since Jake's diagnoses. He's been admitted four times and I have gone from barely knowing how to get into the hospital to becoming an expert on what elevators go where and how to get to 11G from almost anywhere.  We're through two rounds of chemo and headed back to the hospital for round three on Wednesday. I think I've gotten to sit through two church services in that time, but I can only clearly remember one.

Usually I'm really disappointed to be missing church, but this morning when I dragged myself out of bed I immediately (and hopefully) asked if anyone was too sick to go to church this morning. It's not that I'm mad at God or unhappy with church or anything like that. It's just that I've been having a hard time finding the motivation to do anything lately. All I really wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the blankets over my head, and forget about life for a while. I'm not sharing this because I want your pity or attention. I feel compelled to be honest and transparent about my journey for a couple of reasons. First of all I always strive to be authentic in hopes that the people who look at me will see the real faith of a sinner who rests in the hope of God's grace. And secondly, I don't want to appear unapproachable, "all together," or some sort of superwoman.

A year ago I wouldn't have felt the need to dispel myths of my togetherness, because I am painfully aware of how disheveled and scattered I am. I have one dear friend who has jokingly referred to me as superwoman on several occasions, and it's always good for a laugh. But after we found out Jake had cancer that friend pointed out to another friend how getting me to ask for help would be the hardest part of helping me. And nobody argued in my defense. Not even me. At that moment, I became aware how un-super I really was, and how okay it is to un-super because no one can do it all.

Admitting that I was in need of material help was difficult. I'm still struggling with sharing the burden, even though so many have come along side of us to help shoulder it. It's been difficult, but nowhere near as difficult as the emotional battle. When that sweet resident walked into our ER room and delivered the toughest news I've ever heard, I didn't cry. My mom cried, my friend Meg cried, my son was tearing up. After looking at all those crying people I decided I would have to stare exclusively at the doctor if I was going to hold it together. And she was choking back tears. So I stared at the wall and listened. "Advanced, treatable, biopsy, good cancer, chemo, oncologist. Can I call someone? A pastor? Can I pray with you?"Ok, I did cry when the resident prayed with us, but chalked it up to God not my emotions and quickly regained my composure.

If you are a momma, then you probably have some idea where I'm coming from, even if you've never dealt with something like cancer. We don't have time to lose it, we don't have time to break down and be upset because too many people need us for to many things, so we soldier on. That's not to say I haven't cried at all since January 3, or that I haven't had many conversations with God about our situation. There was a moment in the first couple of weeks (probably around the time Jake's shoulder pains started) where I cried to Todd, "I think God mistook me for someone else. I am not strong enough to bear this. I am not superwoman, I can't do it!" But I haven't ever allowed myself to park there. Dry your tears and get it together, you have 5 kids who need you!

I never allowed myself to park there, but this week my emotions have decided to park illegally. All of the anger, doubt, and fear that I thought could be managed with good theology and strong faith have been taking up residence in my head. And let me be clear, those things are not winning in my mind, but they are making a run for space that I would never want to give them. When you're up all night fighting the fear and the anger it's hard to jump out of bed with any sort of motivation in the morning. And my poor, sweet husband was perplexed as to why I was crying and overwhelmed in the Wegmans Cafe when he took me out to lunch last week. "Everything is going well, Jake is responding to treatment, and he even feels pretty good right now. Why are you upset???" My response was something about how now there is finally time for me to be upset.

I have three days to get myself together and rested enough to survive round three of chemo. I am comforted by the things that I can see God doing in my family, how this has forced all of us to come together and to listen carefully to his voice. I am amazed that God saw fit to bless me with such an incredible family and put me in a community of people that are so loving and helpful. Last night I had a dream that I was watching Jake's first JV football game. I can't wait for that day. Until then, I will rest in the shadow of the Almighty and see if he has a cape I can borrow.

Recent events in my life have reminded me how therapeutic writing can be. And I feel like I can't ignore that need to write anymore. I've come back to my long abandoned blog to write because it seems so appropriate. On January 3, my oldest son was diagnosed with cancer. His diagnoses has taken my faith in and dependency on God to a whole new level. The need for me to put myself aside and let God be God is far greater than it ever was before. So the caringbridge site will continue to be a place for updates, but my view of our journey will be chronicled here. 

I'm sitting here watching Jacob get a massage, and over and over again my heart cries out "God, heal my boy!" The atmosphere here is so serene and peaceful...it seems so contrary to life as we know it right now.  That's not to say that there is no peace in my heart, because there is. The day he was diagnosed, before we knew exactly what was going on, I said to Jacob, "No matter how good or bad it is, God is still God, and he's still in control." And three weeks later, looking cancer in the eye, I still stand by that statement. 

But serenity has been nearly nonexistent. I feel like I am constantly being pulled in a million different directions. There are doctor appointments, visiting nurses, case workers, meds to manage, more doctor appointments, tutors, visitors, phone calls, and on and on it goes. And then there are 5 kids who need me. Each in there own way, and on there own schedule. And I'm supposed to somehow maintain my marriage (I fear that's not getting enough attention these days). At the end of the day, my heart is longing for communion with God, but my body is too tired to pick up my Bible most days. 

I am confident that He rescues and He saves, but I fear for the heart of boy. Will he be able to rest in God's faithfulness in the same way I do? Are the roots of his faith deep enough to weather this storm? And, oh that he could be spared the pain and the sickness! So while I rest in shelter of the Almighty my heart cries out, "God, heal my boy!" I recently came across this quote while learning more about goju-ryu, the style of karate I study:

 "At all times accept life as the willow tree accepts the wind. Rather that fight the inevitable by being immovable as the oak tree, the willow will bend not suffering any hardships, whereas the oak will fight and fight and in the end will be destroyed by its own stubbornness . Tomorrow after the wind has calmed the willow will bounce back to its original straightness, whereas the oak will bear the unhealable scars of the day before. 
Meet hardness with softness and softness with hardness." 

As I contemplate our current circumstances, I pray that I will be like a willow tree not just in my karate training, but in my life. And, God, make my boy a mighty willow.