Waiting ... Again!

Okay, here we go again! Ten to twenty more inches of snow are predicted to fall tonight and continue on into tomorrow! School's already been cancelled for my children. Didn't we just go through this?

I know I sound like I'm complaining, and I guess that I am. Really, though, it was less than a week ago that I raced to the store, along with more than the usual number of grocery shoppers, stocked up on the essentials, and braced myself - both with my groceries in hand and with a positive attitude - for the upcoming storm.

And I did it all again today. I waited. And from where I stood in my queue, I noticed numerous other slow-moving lines as they snaked almost endlessly through the store, filled with grumpy people, waiting for their turn. Waiting for what seemed to take forever to pay for their groceries.

Suddenly, another cashier turned on her "light" above her, which signaled that her line was open for business. The woman standing in front of me noticed that I had only a handful of items. She immediately smiled to me and motioned for me to go in front of her, to that newly opened line. Imagine that! Someone actually took the time to be considerate! Her gesture was the "sun" that made me feel warm. And it was contagious. Others smiled; they seemed to be more relaxed.

Finally, I paid for and gathered up my bag of items, thanked the kind woman standing behind me once more, and made my way to the car through the blowing snow. Ironically, I realized that today it all felt oddly different from the way it had felt three days ago. Today, instead of mentally wrestling with the thoughts of being snowbound, of shoveling my sidewalk again, of making sure that we had enough milk, it hit me: This won't last.

As much as I dislike this present struggle, it all felt so strangely familiar, and almost like I was actually getting used to it. I'd done it all before, exactly three days earlier, and I'd survived it. When the storm hit last time, Brian and I cleared the driveway, one hour at a time, one shovelful at a time. Throughout the following days, the snowplows geared up and rumbled through our development, making wide sweeping passes numerous times. The sun eventually came out, and its blessed heat actually began to melt the leftover snow which covered the roads, one tiny degree at a time.

Sometimes we focus too much on the now. We want things to be back the way they were - immediately. No waiting. No patience. We've no time for that!

So here I sit, looking out my window, feeling that odd wave of familiarity washing over me as the snow continues to fall, and the sky is thick and gray, all over again.

But I rest in the idea that this storm will eventually pass, the sun will come out once more, and slowly, very slowly, I will again see the road stretched before me. And I will continue on, just as I did before. I just need to wait ... and keep waiting ... for the warmth of the sun.

One Small Snowflake

Five degrees. I woke up this morning and sleepily peered at the thermometer, which recorded only five measly degrees as the outside temperature. Surveying my landscape, two feet of snow blanket my world. I also had just finished listening to ALL the local church closings that were broadcasted from my radio. One hundred nineteen of them, all churches whose doors are closed today, resulting in thousands of parishioners staying indoors, and undoubtedly sleeping in longer than usual, perhaps for the first time in weeks.

Five little degrees, more than 119 church doors closed, thousands of people affected. And to think that it all began with one ... little ... snowflake. Quietly, but oh, so powerfully executed. A little ripple effect.

Sometimes, the smallest things in life add up to monumental outcomes, affecting thousands of people, all across vast regions.

Make it count. Make each day count: smile to a stranger, leave an extra tip to a harried waitress, or just do something out of the ordinary for a lonely individual.

Just imagine the ripple effect that might occur. Powerful ... way beyond my (our?) comprehension.

Fruit Salsa with Cinnamon Chips

A good friend invited our family to a Super Bowl Party tomorrow night. She's making chili, which I love, and so I thought I'd bring along something fruity and slightly sweet, a cooler side dish that will undoubtedly counteract some of the heat from a hearty cup of chili. I received this recipe while I was at a breast cancer support group a few months ago. One of the survivors made this dish and shared it with the gals sitting at our table at that particular event. It was a BIG hit, so I thought I'd pass it along to you! Let me know what you think!

*Note: Although it calls for a lot of "chopping," the smiles and compliments you'll get later will be worth the effort!*

Fruit Salsa with Cinnamon Chips

1 cup finely chopped fresh strawberries

1 medium navel orange, peeled and finely chopped

3 medium kiwi, peeled and finely chopped

1 (8 oz.) can unsweetened crushed pineapple, drained

1/2 peach, finely chopped

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 1/2 teaspoon sugar

In a small bowl, combine the first seven ingredients. Cover, refrigerate until serving.

Cinnamon chips:

10 flour tortillas (8 inch) - (I might try wheat tortillas this time)

1/4 cup butter, melted

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Combine sugar and cinnamon. Brush tortillas with butter. Sprinkle with the cinnamon/sugar. Cut into eight wedges. Place on ungreased baking sheets. Bake at 350 degrees for 5-10 minutes or until crisp. Serve with fruit salsa.

This Time

A few weeks ago, I began preparing for this coming Saturday, the day when I was supposed to drive to Penn State University. Penn State is my alma mater, and my family had planned to enjoy watching my son's college swim team (Lehigh University) compete against PSU. In preparation for this event, I'd made all the necessary arrangements: the dog was going to be placed in a good home for two nights, I'd cancelled all other commitments for that particular weekend, and I'd previously purchased a cute valentine and lots of bagged candy to give to my son when we'd see him and chat together after the meet. As the last several days crept by, anticipating seeing Patrick and watching him compete from the tall bleachers inside the "nat" (the abbreviation we used to use for the natatorium, or pool) were images that I'd happily replayed in my mind several times a day. I was so ready to go!

I hadn't been back to PSU in more than 25 years, since graduation. The student life I enjoyed back then seems like a different age in my life; I am definitely a different person now than I was at that time. Lately, and in an odd sort of way, I'd found myself really looking forward to seeing Patrick compete at the school where I studied, ate, slept, (yes, even partied) walked to classes, and lived for four years.

Now, due to the predicted storm which is supposed to dump anywhere from one to two feet of the snow beginning tomorrow morning, I find myself once again preparing, preparing not to go to the swim meet. The extra milk, bread and eggs are tucked away, just in case the blizzard makes traveling impossible. My husband's already stowed several gallons of water in the garage, just in case the pump's electrical system which delivers the energy to our well (yes, we obtain our water via a deep well, as antiquated as it may sound) is frozen again we're unable to get water. Plenty of food's here. Heat's not a problem; our propane heater works fine. I think we've got it all covered.

We're as prepared for this "blizzard" as anyone can be. Normally, I'd be feeling a sense of childlike happiness, or just plain joy, in waking up to find layers upon layers of snow. This time is different. This time I really longed to see Patrick, to watch him compete, to cheer, ironically, for the "away team," (or Patrick's team), and to relish in the college memories that I have tucked away in my brain from days gone by.

Maybe the swim meet will be postponed. But the chance that it will be rescheduled to take place 0n a weekend when we're all available to travel the two-and-a-half- hour ride is slim.

So now, as I prepare for something quite different, namely this inconvenient storm, I also need to prepare myself for missing out on a weekend of memories.

This time will be different, however.

This time, as disappointed as I am in not seeing my son compete at my alma mater, I'll remember to thank God that I am here, right now, with my two daughters and my husband, and that we are all well. We're all well, and although life throws us a curve ball sometimes and it smashes our plans, I need to keep in mind that as trite as it sounds, I'm just happy to be here. Right now, and at this time, I am so very happy to be here.

So, bring on the snow. I am as so ready!

The Good Snowfalls

That's Melissa, my 13-year-old daughter, screaming down the hill as her sled glides effortlessly beneath her. I remember those carefree childhood days of anticipating the good snowfalls. There were the good ones, which are represented in the picture, and then there were the ones that were only a tease, a light dusting, in other words. Not enough snow to do anything more than create a little annoyance, in my mind, or simply lead to wet shoes and slippery school hallways.

When I was younger, it was the early morning phone call that signaled the good snowfalls. It meant the cancellation of school, since my mother was a school teacher and she was one of the first people to be contacted regarding poor road conditions and subsequent school closings. That 6:30 AM phone call was the one thing that would make my heart race, even as a child, as I waited anxiously from beneath my warm comforter to hear her response, which was usually something like this: "Okay, thanks for calling, and I'll pass the message along to Miss Fritz now." Miss Fritz was the name of the teacher who was next in line on the phone chain. My mom's words immediately signaled images of frolicking around in the snow for hours, warm hot chocolate, grilled cheese sandwiches, snow-capped sleeves, cold toes, and echoing laughter.

I smile as I look out my window these days, from my world of paying bills, doing laundry, cleaning, checking the calendar for any upcoming doctor's appointments, and just simply taking care of my family. I smile because I appreciate the fleeting moments of time, moments that are quietly captured in a photograph, but they live on - miraculously and full of life - in our minds. Moments that I often wish would last - just exactly as they are - forever.

I relish the good snowfalls, and all that they represent. To me they represent happy childhood memories. I make it a point to not take those good snowfall days for granted, because I need to keep in mind just how quickly they can melt away.

But in my mind, they never really do melt away, not entirely. Even today, I still thank God for the good snowfalls. And if I really concentrate, I can still hear the echoing laughter...

I'm Only Me

You know, sometimes life has a way of taking your breath away, but in a good way. Yesterday, I walked into the house after running a few errands and noticed the little blinking light flashing on my answering machine. I normally conclude that it signals yet another doctor's appointment, or maybe I'll hear a little girl's voice on the other end requesting a play date for one of my daughters.

No, this time the message was humbling. "Karen, I'm in charge of the women's ministry at my church, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to speak about your breast cancer journey. The event is in September, 2010. We'd love to have you come. Are you interested?"

*Beep.*

The church is located 100 miles north. It's the one our family attended seven years ago, before we relocated to our present town.

The message ended, while my feelings of insecurity and inadequacy quickly commenced. They want me to speak about breast cancer? Why me? What can I possibly offer? Surely they must be able to find a better speaker, someone who's more polished or someone who, I don't know, is famous or something! What can I possibly offer them? I'm only me!

And then the darkest of thoughts invaded my little world: September is eight months away. A lot can happen in eight months... What if there's a problem ... What if ... What if I receive that awful news in the interim that no one wants to hear ... What if there's a recurrence.... And ... What if I can't travel to give my speech, so I have to cancel at the last minute, and ...

You know, I could ruin my life by focusing on the "What ifs." Instead, I need to concentrate on the "What is..."

What is true is that today I am a breast cancer survivor. I am strong and I am a believer. I believe in Christ and his dying on the cross to save me from eternal death. What is true is that I might just have something positive to offer others, perhaps some insight that God's given me that I wouldn't have right now if I hadn't gone through this trial. No matter how small I feel my contribution is to others, it just may turn out to be a big thing to someone else. I may help only one other person at that women's conference in September, but it just may be the one person that God has already preordained for me to encourage.

Humbled. That's the only way I can describe how I'm feeling. I'm only me. But I am determined to be the best me that I can possibly be.

Whatever comes my way, with God's help, I'll get through it. I'm only me, but what a strong me I am.

Innocence

Kids are funny. No, there's a better adjective: perceptive. Kids are perceptive. Last evening while I was folding laundry (a task that has plummeted to the very bottom of my top 100 things I love to do list), my youngest asked me if I was cured of cancer. Just like that: an out-of-the-blue, knock-your-socks-off question.

"So, you're done now, right? You're cured of cancer, aren't you?" Caroline is ten years old. Her questioning eyes shown brightly in the dim evening light, and her auburn hair framed her soft cheeks in a way that reminded me of her innocence. Through her innocence, I'm able to see her childlike grin. I can almost hear her laughing at the little things that adults no longer find humorous, like silly cloud pictures, or a leaf that sticks to the hood of your jacket and you don't know that it's there. Her unassuming remarks allow me to step back - and to live in her simple little world - for a brief moment. Caroline's innocence is one of the things that keeps me going; it keeps me pressing on through the dark days, and it keeps me focused on God's purpose for my life.

Cured. There's that word again, that word that literally takes my breath away. I instantly stopped folding the towels. I took a deep breath, as if somehow the rush of air would give me more wisdom or, I don't know, maybe it would just give me a much coveted nanosecond of precious time. Time that I needed to put the right words together for soothing Caroline's questioning eyes.

"You know, there is no real cure for breast cancer," I began calmly." But I did as much as I could do by taking the medicines to keep it from coming back," I answered, not wanting to recreate thoughts of chemo, surgery, radiation, as well as the resulting hair loss, nausea and monumental fatigue that I'd experienced almost four years ago. I determined to keep those images from her mind. She was six years old at the time of my diagnosis, and she might not even remember many of those details now. At least, I'd hoped she didn't remember much of that time - not now. What good would it do for her to rehash and replay those gloomy events, the ones that I am often reminded of, sometimes on a daily basis?

The hair loss. She remembered the hair loss. Even before she mentioned it, I could see it in her eyes. We talked about the hair loss, and I told her how lucky I was to have her there with me to make me laugh during that difficult time.

"It will be four years in February since I was diagnosed. Four years! That's a pretty long time, don't you think? " I smiled and tried to sound upbeat; however, my comment hung lifelessly in the air between us.

She looked at me, thought for a moment, and followed my remark slowly with, "Wow ... it still must be scary for you."

She gets it. My ten year old gets it. And in her eyes, I see innocence slipping away. Forever.

I encouraged her by telling her that God has been so good to us all, and that He loves us and will not take us home to be with Him until He's absolutely ready to do so. He knows exactly what He is doing in our lives, and we need to put our trust solidly in Him, for He promises never to leave us. Not ever.

She continued to help me finish folding the laundry, and I told her that I was proud of her for helping me and encouraging me when I was going through cancer four years ago. Maybe, just maybe, when she thinks of that rough time in my life, she'll remember how brave she was. More importantly, I hope she remembers how faithful God is, each and every day of our lives.

Innocence is so short-lived. Kids can be so perceptive.