Tonight I got to do something I’ve been eagerly looking forward to for quite a while: collect daughter Linnea and 3 month old Isaac at Midway Airport. Traveling with a young baby can be problematic, but for Linnea it was like a vacation. That’s because she left the other 3 (ages 5, 4, and 2) home with daddy.
We have these two only for a weekend, but extended family will get to meet Isaac, and I’m thrilled for this unique time with “just them.”
Tonight’s blog is one Linnea wrote for her web site (Only One Thing) on March 4, after learning of her Aunt Mary’s cancer. Because Isaac was born with an unusual little hand, she blends the disappointment of both events in what she writes, below:
* * * *
Two weeks ago my family got some bad news. Some very bad news.
I was getting ready to take Isaac for a walk when I noticed a message from my mom on my phone. My heart sank. My mom is not a phone person and she never calls me unless something really major has happened. I strapped Isaac into his baby carrier, stepped out the front door, and nervously called her back.
“It’s Mary,” my mom said, explaining that my aunt had gone to the ER when her fever spiked, which led to extensive testing. “They say she has—” My mom choked on her words and I could tell she was crying, “—pancreatic cancer.”
I burst into tears. “No!” I said. “Not pancreatic cancer. Anything but that… That can’t be right! How can that possibly be?”
See, my family knows all about pancreatic cancer. It took my dad’s life just 42 days after his diagnosis.
Naturally, we initially reacted to Mary’s diagnosis with total panic. All except for Mary, that is. At the end of that long, dreadful day at the hospital she sent my mom a text: “God is good,” it read.
Whenever I remember the last six weeks of my dad’s life, Mary always comes to mind. When my mom refused to leave my dad’s hospital bed, Mary was there at her side. When my mom “slept” night after night in a chair, Mary did too, spending those long hours on a hard stool in the corner. But when I said she must be exhausted, she chirped back, “No, I feel fine!”
Later I asked my mom if Mary was always this way—always cheerful, always sure of God’s goodness, never complaining. “No,” my mom said. “She’s grown into it over time” (Best answer ever.)
No one is perfect, including Mary. I’m sure she has her off days and her own private struggles. She wouldn’t be human if she weren’t anxious about the cancer in her body and what it will mean for her future and for her family. But in that crisis moment, when the doctors said “pancreatic cancer,” Mary chose to respond with a statement about God’s goodness.
Since Isaac’s birth, Adam and I have talked many times about the power of our perspective. Sometimes when I’m feeding Isaac, I look at his left hand and find myself praying over him: “Lord, let Isaac be a person who makes the best of things, who’s slow to complain, and doesn’t care all that much what people think. Let him be a happy kid, a thankful man. Give him an overcoming spirit.” I find it significant that Isaac’s name, which we chose before his birth, means laughter.
But the other night I said to Adam, “I’m praying Isaac will have qualities I’m not so sure I have myself.” Do I always make the best of things? Am I thankful for the body I’ve been given? Or do I put it down and wish it were different? How much time do I spend worrying what people think? When I go through something hard, am I watching to see the good God is going to bring out of it? Or am I mostly worrying?
Right after Isaac’s birth I wanted to know Mary’s thoughts about his different hand. She said it will be an important part of Isaac’s story and that God will use it for His glory. She reacted to her own cancer diagnosis the same way—without a trace of self-pity.
Mary has been through a lot of tests recently, and so far, her version of pancreatic cancer seems very different from my dad’s (thank you Lord!). We’ve all stepped back a bit from our initial panic and we are filled with hope that she will live a long time.
This postpartum stretch has been hard for me. There are days when I’m naturally filled with joy and gratitude. But there are other days too. Days when I feel like I’m fighting a battle against a dark sadness that sits at my feet and wants me to sink down into it. For some reason, it tempts me. But then I think of Mary and the kind of wife and mother she is. I think about the way she’s determined to believe God and make the best of things even in the worst circumstances. And I get up, wipe another messy face, change another diaper. I put on some music, bake cookies with the kids, and pray I’m following in Mary’s footsteps.
“The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything.” (Philippians 4:5-6)
Mary’s Prayer Requests and Praises
- For the decision about which hospital to use for chemo (So far, each hospital has agreed about treatment.)
- For safe travel tomorrow as Luke and family drive to Chicago
- Praise for visits and prayer time with old friends