Yesterday afternoon as I sat in the sun, I had an epiphany.  

Since my cancer was first diagnosed on August 31, I’ve been able to see the power, and beauty, and truth of my experiences throughout this long and arduous journey:  the flashes of incandescence I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.  Sickness, suffering, anxiety and fear have new faces, new sweetness that I was never able to see until they became the constant companions of my nights.  I knew that my suffering was achieving for me a new perspective, a more refined character, a deeper joy.  And I even described this year as a gift.  But what I didn’t realize until yesterday is that it’s not the year that’s the gift.  It’s the cancer.   The cancer is the bag of gold dropped into my lap to enrich my life.

It’s almost as if those dreams I had last week brought the last of my dread to the surface to dissipate in the light of day, freeing me to embrace the rest of my treatment rather than flinching from it; and teaching me to feel enriched by the cancer rather than robbed by it.

I’m still reeling with the wonder of it all.  

And it might not make sense to anyone but me.  

And it might be the deranged ponderings of a chemo fried brain.

But it might be the truth.  And it might help me make it through the last few weeks of my treatments, because now I think I might be able to walk up the stairs of the hospital without a clenching dread gnawing at my heart.  And on the days when I am away from myself, I might be able to rest instead of fight.  I might be able to surrender myself to the befuddlement rather than struggle for clarity and control.  Maybe this is the last front in my war for control.  Maybe this is where I finally lay down my arms and sign for peace.  Or maybe it’s just another skirmish.

In any case, today I felt lighter than I have in weeks.   On the weekend, I caught my PICC on something, and ripped it out partway.  Today I had to have it fixed, and I couldn’t have my treatment.  I’ll have it tomorrow.  When I went into the chemo room today, I had laughter on my lips.  When I saw the doctor who was going to fix my PICC, I laughed again.  He asked if I was worried about the procedure this time, and I realized I wasn’t.  Even when he had difficulty doing what he wanted to do, I didn’t worry – I prayed.  And I hadn’t been able to do that in the hospital for quite some time.

So hooray for bad dreams.  Let me correct myself.  Tony would say that it was not a “bad” dream; it was a dream that revealed something important.  So hooray for revealing dreams.  Hooray for truth and beauty. 

Hooray for cancer.

I’m having the strangest dreams.  I almost dread going to sleep for fear of what my unconscious will drag up.

Dream 1

I’m in the downtown east-side at a so-called “safe house” for families.  I walk in, and the place is crowded with unkempt, bristly-faced men sporting torn white T-shirts.  As I approach, one man starts complaining about his wife.  He says that the moment he walks in the door after work, his wife abdicates responsibility for the kids, and expects him to “baby-sit.” ( He does not, of course, use polysyllabic words like “abdicate” or “responsibility.”  But he does use an impressive array of curse words.)  He begins hurling abuse at me, and is soon joined by all the other men at the Center who all know my failings and shortcomings.  Apparently the “safe- house” is a safe place for the men, and not for me.  I leave, feeling like a loser.

As I walk down the street, I encounter a woman who begins to harangue me for my failure to address the issue of the prostitutes who have disappeared from the downtown east-side.  She accuses me of being lazy, selfish and ignorant.  I know she is right, and I try to flee, but she chases me hurling abuse at the top of her voice.

I wake up, exhausted.

 

Dream 2

I am in a field in Black Creek.  I have been planting this field every Spring for years, but I have never reaped a harvest.  Somehow, every Fall, a thief steals the crop, and I have never been able to stop him.  My family is starving.  And now, to top it all off, the soil is now ruined – it is thick, heavy and infertile.  As I contemplate what to do, a young bull  approaches,  I am lactating, and for some reason, that seems to annoy the bull. He charges me.  I know that if he touches me, I will die. I escape by climbing a tree.  

I wake up, exhausted.

 

Dream 3

I have to walk to Nunavet.  I trudge along in the snow for months, but I can never reach my destination.  I am cold, tired, and discouraged. Every time I think I am getting somewhere, the scene shifts, and I am lost.  I waste time retracing my steps, and finding my path again. 

I wake up, exhausted, having never reached my destination.

 

 

After two years of seeing my homeopath, I am a little better at finding meaning in my dreams.  I dream often, and vividly; however, during my illness I have remembered very few dreams.  These three dreams are pretty clear indicators of my current state of mind.

The first dream reflects what is happening in my family.  My son has had a very difficult week.  When people ask me how my children are doing, I tend to respond pretty positively.  My children seem to be coping well.  But this week has shown me that it’s all smoke and mirrors.  Because with kids, you don’t really know how it’s going, until it isn’t going at all…and that’s when the s*** hits the fan.  Nathan fell apart this week: behaviour problems at school, rudeness at home, tears, reproaches, fears – a lot of fears that we had never seen before.  Fear of fire, fear of strangers, fear of separation, fear of haircuts, fear of being looked at, fear of being the center of attention.  After a particularly difficult day, he burst into heaving sobs, and cast himself on my bosom.   I felt helpless, and yet I suddenly understood.  ”Nathan, do you think all this is really about me?  About you being afraid that I am going to die?  You see me sick, and weak in bed, and you worry that I am not going to get better?”

“Yes,” he managed to choke out.

I am aghast at my obtuseness.

I see that I HAVE abdicated responsibility, in so many ways.  I HAVE expected my husband to gather up the reigns, and do every thing around the house.  I HAVE turned a blind eye to suffering IN MY OWN HOME!  I see that I am not the only one who is desolate and alone, afraid and unable to fully articulate it.

 

The second dream is a little harder to pin down.  I think it has something to do with my feelings of futility over my treatments.  I keep going for the treatments, but I don’t see any progress: not unlike planting a crop, but never reaping a harvest.  The chemo “thief” robs me, but I can never bring him to justice, so he “gets away with it.”  My family is starved for my attention, because no matter how “good” my day is, it’s not really very good, and no matter how ell I am feeling, it’s always relative.  I fell better than I did last week – but since last week, I was curled up in a little ball on bed, it’s not a very good measure.  I may be able to play for ten minutes, but my daughter really wants me to play for an hour.  Last week, after a pathetic attempt to play Polly Pockets for ten minutes, and then being too exhausted to even be the voices, while Anna acted out the action, she folded her arms and said, “Mummy, I wish you never got that cancer.”

Yeah: you and me both, Baby.

The heavy, infertile soil of the dream, is my ruined, infertile body.  No mater how much fertilizer I fold into it, it’s never going to bear fruit again.

The meaning of the lactating part eludes me.

The bull is cancer.

 

The third dream is painfully obvious.  The trek to Nunavet is my journey towards wellness.  I’ve been trudging for months, and sometimes despair that I will ever reach my destination.  I wander in the dark fog of chemotherapy, seeking out the right path and trying to find my way.  Why I would be going to Nunavet, and not somewhere warm is beyond me.  Perhaps Nunavet represents the farthest place a person can go without falling into the sea.  Perhaps it is farther that I can imagine.  Perhaps it is unattainable.

 

Last night I dreamed I was shopping for the right bra.  Every time I awoke, I went to sleep again right back into the same dream.  I must have tried on a hundred bras from dozens of different stores, but I never found one that fit properly.

Again that motif of searching for something that proves to be elusive.

 

I wonder.  I wonder if it will prove to be elusive, or if one day I’ll find it.

 

I wonder if the destination will be found, or if I will wander in the wilderness forever.

 

I wonder if I’ll live up to my responsibilities again, or if I’ll continue to slough them off on others.

 

But most of all I wonder why I was lactating in that dream, and why it infuriated the bull so powerfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I haven’t written for a long time. My latest round of chemo went better than the last, and five days later, I am shaky and tremulous, but not in despair.  

 

Friday, as usual, was a difficult day – replete with desolation and intestinal cramping – but it is over, and there are only three more Fridays to face.

 

Three more.  People are always trying to encourage me by reminding me how the treatments are passing, and how few I have left.

 

I have a hard time seeing that.  When I’m in the midst of my fog, I can see nothing beyond the moment, and even thinking of facing ONE more treatment is enough to reduce me to a quivering mound of goo.  It’s hard to imagine feeling well again, and not dreading the future.

 

I do dread it.  Every second Monday gets harder and harder to face.  I want to be calm and serene, but I can’t manage it.  Last Monday I cried all the way home.  It’s not that I was feeling that badly, it’s just that I have no barriers left, and every emotion is raw and untutored.  No reserves.

 

And yet… I don’t think I would turn back the clock.  If given the chance to change the past, I don’t think I would. 

 

In spite of the sorrow, and discomfort, and dread – or perhaps BECAUSE of it – my life is sweet.  Every day, or almost every day, contains some flash of incandescence.  Beauty, truth, kindness, generosity and goodness flash out “like shook foil.”  

 

A few examples from just this week:

- a lovely supper delivered to my home every second Tuesday by my kind, loving, generous friend, who has a full life of her own, and yet finds the time to care for us in such a practical way.  This week supper was accompanied by a beautiful basket of spring flowers whose scent made me believe that Spring would come to me again.

- a gorgeous bunch of luscious, velvety red roses hand delivered to my home by my doctor – a woman who loves me and prays for me every day.

- a lavish and sumptuous pizza feast made by a co-worker – a huge delight to my hungry children

- a basket stuffed full lovely of fruit, cards and gifts from two women I hardly know.  We attend the same church, and they have been praying for me and my family throughout the year, and wanted to encourage me with these tokens of their love and encouragement.  Their hugs strangled me, and I felt so humbled by their regard.

- coffee out with a friend.  On Friday.  In the middle of my fuzz and fog.  She loves me.  And even though I could barely carry on a conversation, she thanked me for listening.  It made me feel real again.

 

These are only a few examples of the blessing that have come my way this week.  But my hands are shaking, and my thoughts are beginning to blur.  

 

I don’t write as often as I used to.  Part of that is because my weeks are relentlessly similar:  stretches of recovery smattered with days of laughter and hope.

 

Laughter and hope.  And sometimes, the knowledge that one day I’ll be well again.

About twelve years ago, my brother shamed me into going on a terrifying ride when the carnival came to town.  I like huge roller coasters, and thrill rides, but I’ve never been fond of rides that shake you until your teeth ache, and spin you so fast you don’t know which way is up.  So, I’m not really sure how he got me on The Zipper; but as soon as the ride began, I knew I had made a terrible mistake.  The cage I was in tipped upside-down and spun slowly up as the next cage was boarded; this continued until all the cages were full, and all the while, I gritted my teeth and tried to keep a leash on my rising panic.  And then the ride began in earnest.  I can’t really even explain how it felt except to say that at some point I remember thinking, “This must be what Hell feels like.” A roaring filled my ears, my body was jarred in every direction, with no predictable pattern, so there was no way of bracing myself for the next onslaught; I was disoriented, confused and panicked.  When I left the ride, my legs wobbled, my stomach churned, and I needed to spend the next few hours in bed with the curtains closed against the bright light of day.  It was a hideous experience.

In some strange way, the days immediately following my chemo remind me of that ride.  Obviously my body is not being physically tossed around as it was on The Zipper, but my spirit faces a similar assault.  I have no peace of mind for several days: no rest.  My body curls up, exhausted, on my bed while my mind spins out of control.  A vast roaring fills my senses, and I cannot concentrate on any thought except, “Please make this stop.  I want it to be over.”

I went to church on Good Friday; it was probably a mistake; I was too raw to be in public.  Someone spoke to me, and it seemed to me as though I had to reign in my mind from the farthest reaches.  I could hardly move my lips to give the answers to his questions, and I felt I was in grave danger of saying something that might be deemed very inappropriate for a church foyer, or just inappropriate for the question asked.  I felt I couldn’t trust myself to speak.

We sat down, and I saw a friend I hadn’t seen for a few days.  I wondered why she was at church, because I knew that she had plans to go away for the first part of Spring Break.  I sat there, mulling it over, and wondering if I should ask her why she hadn’t gone away, when I came to the muddled realization that the first part of Spring Break was over.  I turned to Bryan, and said through stiff lips, “Did we have a whole week of Spring Break, and I missed it?”  His eyes filled with tears, and he nodded.  ”I guess I went away for a week, didn’t I?”  He nodded, again.  ”Well, I just want you to know that I didn’t have any FUN while I was gone!”

I’m sort of aghast to realize that those days are gone, and I have hardly any recollection of them.  To me, they are a blur of restless tossing, and roaring in my ears, and spinning thoughts that reeled me into the darkness.  No peace, and hardly any awareness that peace exists somewhere.

I remember wishing that everyone I know could take turns coming over to my house and holding me in their arms, so that I could know I wasn’t alone.  I needed a strong, physical reassurance that I was still here, and that I was going to make it back again.

And then I remembered God.  Why is it sometimes so hard for me to remember God?  I may feel that I am spinning out of control, and heading into the darkness of the abyss, but He is cradling me, and holding me close.

“He reached down from on high and took hold of 

me;  

  he drew me out of deep waters.

He rescued me from my powerful enemy,

  from my foes who were too strong for me.

They confronted me in the day of my disaster,

  but the Lord was my support.

He brought me out into a spacious place;

  he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

Psalm 18:16-19

I do not know, or understand how it is possible for the Lord of All to find ANY delight in me, but I find so much comfort in the thought that He does.  He loves me, and when the cords of death entangle me, and the torrents of destruction overwhelm me, I can cry to my God for help.

And He hears my voice.

I’m back.  Suddenly at seven o’clock last night, I sat up in my bed and thought, “Oh.  I’m better.”  And that was weird, because I had been gone for so long, I wondered if I would be able to return at all this time.

When I have chemo, I feel as though part of me packs up and moves away for a few days.  I don’t know where I go, or how I’ll get back, but I know that part of me is gone.

It’s like I become one of those hollow chocolate Easter bunnies:  part of the ears and feet are delicious solid chunks of creamy chocolate, but the middle is completely hollow, and unsatisfying.  A travesty.

I cannot shake the feeling of unreality.  I cannot clear my head.

Four or five days of dying, ever so slowly.  I can almost feel myself leave.  The first day or two after the treatment are pretty good – I feel only a slight lassitude.  But the third hits hard, and I wake up knowing that I’m gone, and wondering when I’ll be back.  I can’t focus my thoughts; my emotions run rampant; I feel detached from everyone I hold dear.  I feel that I have to work really hard to hold myself together, that I have to hold myself really tightly, or I might fly apart and never come together again; my jaw aches with the clenching.  My thoughts are dream-like and unreal; when I speak, I can never be sure if what I say will make any sense to anyone.  I crave solitude, but I hate to be alone.  When I’m out in public, I’m afraid to look people in the eye, because I might have to talk to them, and I have no energy to talk, no desire  to be dragged into the pool of humanity, no ability to relate to anyone.

I fall away, and I can’t claw my way back.

But, miraculously, a few days later I have a rebirth of sorts.  I’m a new person, with hope, and happiness, and a future beyond my bedroom walls.  I laugh, and talk and embrace life again.  

I lead a double-life.

I had a terrible cold last week: really terrible.  Raw, irritated throat, congested sinuses, racking cough.  Argh.  All I could think was, “Nuts!  This is supposed to be my ‘good’ week.  I’m supposed to feel well, have energy, be happy.”  I was none of the above.

Went in on Tuesday to have my dressing changed, and to see if I could have my treatment on Wednesday.  The nurse thought it would be okay.  Then I asked if this would put me off schedule, or if I would be able to get on track again.

“On track?” she asked blankly.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m just wondering if I’ll be able to have my next treatment on schedule.”

“On schedule?” she asked.

I was beginning to wonder which of us had a problem.

“You’re not putting dates on your calendar, are you?” she asked.

“Um,” I faltered.

“You’re not circling dates of treatments, are you?  You don’t have an end date marked in red ink, do you?”  she demanded, vehemently.

“Um,”

“Because THERE ARE NO DATES!  Remember, I told you the first day we met, that you DO NOT PUT DATES ON YOUR CALENDAR!”

I did not remember.  I had all my dates circled in red.  May 12th circled several times, with little stars and happy faces around it.

“NO DATES!” she reiterated, and I left.

The next day, when I was sitting in the chemo lounge having my cocktail,  the nurse said to the other patient,”Denise, you need to tell Sandy about dates, and why we never circle anything on the calendar.”

So, Denise told me about the day her white blood count plunged to zero and her treatments were suspended for an entire month.

Sigh.  And I was worried about a two day delay.  

Lord, preserve me.  I say now that I couldn’t stand it… but I could.  Of course I could, if I had to.  

But I hope I don’t have to.

I didn’t erase the happy faces.  Or the circle.

May 12th.

A friend of ours died in the night: we heard the news on Monday morning.  We didn’t know her well, but we loved her.  Her daughter, in Nathan’s class at school, is eight years old.

Anna (who is five) said to me, “Mummy, I am SO tired of people getting sick and dying.”

“I am, too, my darling” I answered.

She stood in front of me with her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently, “And I am SO disappointed that this is what God planned.”

Gulp.

“Me too,” I whispered.  And I crouched down, put my arms around her and held her close.  ”But there are two things I know, my child: I trust God, and I know that He loved Sherri more than anyone else in her life ever could.  She is home with Him.”

And it’s true.  I am finding it very hard to be sad for Sherri.  She had a very hard life, full of physical pain and infirmity, and emotional turmoil.  Even though she had a beautiful daughter, and a sweet, loving husband, the burdens of her heart were momentous, and every day was a struggle.  

But now, she is free.  Free from the physical pain; free from the emotional anguish; free to love and be loved.  Completely unfettered from this jar of clay, this weak vessel that cracks at the least provocation, Sherri is now able to know the love of God perfectly, intimately, purely. The tears of all her sorrows have been dried,  And she is whole.

But in the hallway at school, I pass a child without a mother, a husband without a wife, a mother without her daughter, and my heart clenches within me.  I grieve for them: for their empty arms, for their weeping hearts, for their confusion and sorrow and distress.  

And, like Anna, I am disappointed that this is the plan. That the price of Sherri’s freedom and consolation is sorrow for all who held her dear.   I am disappointed that Katelyn faces a lifetime without her mother, and Steve face a future without his wife.  And yet, I say again that I trust God, and I have to hope that this plan will work out for good, somehow.  That God will bring healing, and wholeness and a return to life for them.  That they will laugh again, and find joy despite the pain that will from this moment on, be the constant companion of their hearts. 

“O, Afflicted One, lashed by 

storms and not comforted,

I will build you with stones of 

Turquoise, 

foundations with

with sapphires.

I will make your battlements

of rubies,

your gates of sparkling

jewels,

and all your walls of precious stones.

All your sons will betaught

by the Lord. 

And great will be your 

children’s peace

In righteousness you will be 

established.

Tyranny will be far from you;

you have nothing to fear.”

Isaiah 54

Feeling so much better today, than I did a week ago.  That was a tough round, but I think I have at least learned my lesson: I really must take the extra meds to help me through the really hard days just after my treatment.  So many people have told me that you really can’t let things gets away from you – you may feel fine, but if you don’t take the meds, you crash.  So true.  On Tuesday, I felt pretty well, so thought I could get along fine on my own.  Big mistake.  By Wednesday, the fatigue was so debilitating, I could not function; and along with that came depression and despair.  Silly to think that taking the meds is somehow a sign of weakness; that somehow I should be able to deal with the toxins in my body without any help.  But in all fairness, it is also the fact the the extra meds bring all sorts of other issues along with them, and I would like to give my kidneys and other organs a bit of a break.  However, the MOST important thing is that I be able to function at some level of normalcy for the sake of my family: it certainly doesn’t do my children any good to see their mother in such a state as I was in last week.

I think I also have to reconcile myself to the fact that I will not REALLY feel well again until well after the last chemo treatment.  The first round had gone so well, that I thought it would continue to be fairly easy.  But in this round, I have been so disappointed that my so-called “good” week really hasn’t been so good.  I tire so easily, and I have fewer reserves than I thought I did.  And it’s so frustrating when I  think I have enough energy to complete a certain task, only to find myself trembling and clammy, and in dire need of a nap halfway through the job.  Or, to realize that I MIGHT have the wherewithal to make dinner, or do the laundry, or play for a short time with my children, but not enough to do it all.  I really DO need to pace myself, to choose carefully how I expend myself, to be more self-aware than I have been.

And this, too, is difficult.  For this entire year, I have spent so much time on myself: so much time caring for my own needs, thinking of what is best for me, limiting my focus to me and my family.  I feel as though I have been living this year in a close-up, rather than in a wide angle shot, and it makes me feel uncomfortable, and self-centered: useless,  ineffectual, and unloving.  I know the world has gone on for my friends and acquaintances, but for me it has seemed to stand still, and I know that I haven’t met my friends in their needs and sorrows, that I haven’t been able to be the friend I would like to have been.  That grieves me, even though I know they understand. 

Many people have told me that this year is all about me; that it HAS to be all about me, so that I can get better, and move forward with life.  Ouch.  I don’t like that thought – it grates on my nerves, and makes me very uncomfortable.  But, at the same time, it has made me really look at myself, and determine what makes me happy.  Someone asked me a few weeks ago if my needs are being met.  I paused for a long time, not knowing how to respond.  I said, “I think so.”  He said, “Well, what ARE your needs?”  I paused even longer, and then said, “I need to look after my family, I need to rest, I need to be alone.”  Taking care of my family gives me a sense of peace and fulfillment: resting restores my energy; being alone restores my sense of balance, and helps me understand who I am and how I am growing through this mess.  But it doesn’t leave a lot of room for anyone else.  And so this year has been one in which my horizons have at once expanded and diminished.  

 

Another paradox.

I feel so terrible, and if I don’t write about it, I think I’ll go crazy.  I don’t feel as nauseated as I did yesterday, but just as desperate and unhappy.  My brain is so fuzzy; I can’t concentrate; I can’t think straight; my mind wanders, and all my thoughts are disjointed and unreal.  

And I feel so alone.  

I know I’m NOT alone, but I feel so alone.  Last week, I remember thinking, “Chemo is not so hard… I can do this.”

What was I thinking?  

This is really hard.

I know, now, that it will get better as the week progresses; that by Saturday, I will have returned to myself again.  But that doesn’t help me much today.  

Two down; six to go.  On Monday, that seemed a happy thought – that I was making progress, getting somewhere.  Today, I find no comfort in that thought.  Today, I can’t believe that I can do this SIX more times; that I will CHOOSE to do this again.

But, I will.

I want to be so brave and strong, but I just can’t.  I don’t have it in me.  I’m weak, and unhappy, and miserable, and tired.

On Sunday, Randy said that when people are ill, and worn down, they can’t pray for themselves.  It’s true.  I can’t even pray today; all I can do is cry out wordlessly, and hope He hears.  

Oddly, now that I have splatted  all that out, and have dried my tears, I feel a sense of release.  I’m a little better – as if all that despair was a part of the problem.  

I WILL be better.

This will NOT last forever.

Having just received an incoherent phone call from her hysterical friend, Elvera is now praying for me… and God really LOVES Elvera, so I know He is listening. 

He loves me, too – so I know He is listening.

Last week, as I was resting on the couch, I had a bit of an epiphany. 

I need my friends.  I need them to hug me.  To ask me how I’m feeling.  To cook meals for me.  To take care of my children.  To pray for me.  To encourage me. To touch me.   

I need them; I depend on them.  When I am weak and weary, I need them to enfold me in their arms and whisper my name.   No other words are necessary.  And when that happens, I feel buoyed up by their strength, bolstered by their love.  My friends are fierce, and I need them.  

I think I used to be afraid of that kind of weakness, or neediness.  I think maybe I put walls around myself, fooled myself into thinking I was strong.  Pushed people away.  Didn’t need anyone.  

I loved people,  But I don’t think I let them in: only so far, and no farther.  I was guarded, protective, prideful: fiercely independent, like a child who brushes away a helping hand.  I didn’t know then that, “I don’t need help,” is sometimes interpreted as, “I don’t need YOU.”  

I’ve always been really reluctant to ask for help; reluctant to admit that I couldn’t do something myself; reluctant to admit my inadequacies. 

Even when all this happened, I didn’t want to ask for help.  I didn’t mind asking for prayer, but I didn’t want to ask for help.  Why?   I think I felt I could manage on my own; that I didn’t want to be a burden to my friends; that others were worse off than me, and THEY needed help.  I’ve always been very good at being NEEDED, but not so good at being NEEDY.

I was talking to Tony (my homeopath) about this one day.  He said that when I talked about someone offering me something, my whole body recoiled, and I drew my hands back… and they were clenched into fists.

“Is this how you respond, when someone tries to give you something?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, “I think it is.”

He merely nodded.  And I knew then that I would have to take some time to re-examine this.

I have a friend whose elderly mother lives in a building with other elderly people, all living independently.  Strangely, these people all see the age and infirmities of the other residents, but not their own.  They will leap to their feet to help a friend with his groceries, muttering all the while, “What were you thinking?  You can’t possibly manage these groceries by yourself; they are far too heavy for you.”  And they snatch the bags from the other.  The speaker might be a tiny, frail, 90 year old woman who walks with a cane; the recipient of her attentions might be an 87 year old man who uses a walker.

It seems to be a human condition that we can recognize the neediness of others, but not our own.

I said earlier that I always thought I could manage on my own.  I wonder now, if that might be the real disease that threatens me.  Not cancer.  Pride.  Independence.  A fierce and obsessive need for privacy.  An urge to keep something of myself separate from the God who loves me, who holds me close in the darkness and sings over me like a father over His infant child.

That was the real sin of Adam and Eve.  It wasn’t the disobedience; it was that streak of independence that led them to act without reference to God and His design for their lives.  They held out on God; they disregarded Him.

I think I’ve spent a great deal of time managing my life without God. Disregarding Him.  ”I can do it by myself,” I say with gritted teeth, not unlike my five year old daughter when she brushes me away.

I know I needed Him for salvation.  I admitted my deep need for Him then – all those years ago when I first knew that He loved me.  He accomplished for me what I could never have accomplished for myself.  And there have been many times since then, when I know I have needed him.  But what I’m beginning to see is that I can’t MANAGE without Him: I want to be near Him every moment of every day, walking with Him, talking with Him, comparing notes, chatting, listening, laughing, loving, being.

And maybe that’s why I am where I am today.  God wants my heart.  I want Him to have it; I’ve always yearned for that, but I’ve always been so consumed by my life that I have never figured out how to give it.  How to manage with Him, rather than without Him.  How to let Him in completely, utterly, unreservedly.  I’ve always known that more was possible, but I’ve never plumbed the depths of my neediness to find Him waiting there.  I’ve never taken the time.  But these days, that’s all I have.  Time.

“Take me to you; imprison me for I/ Except you enthrall me, never shall be free/ Nor ever chaste except you ravish me.”  (Donne)

I prayed for something the other day; I needed God to provide something for us.  He answered within a couple of hours, but when it came, I didn’t want to take it from the person who offered it.  I felt badly about taking it.  I had already accepted so much, and I didn’t want to accept any more.  How foolish is that?  To ask for something, but not take it when it is proffered.  Silly, but so typical of me and my dealings with God. When will be able to accept that He delights in me and yearns to fulfill my needs?  I need to open my hands to God: my hands and my heart.

In the same way, when a friend offers help, I need to reach out my open hands to receive the blessing; for if I refuse, I rob us both.