Silence of Daffodils

I heard something on the radio yesterday that made me think. The guest speaker was Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Although I typically don't agree with all her comments, she usually provides a strong argument for adherence to basic truths. The one thing that she said was this: "We won't remember the words spoken from our enemies, but instead, the silence from our friends."

I remember how helpful people had been to me during my cancer diagnosis and treatments which began nearly five years ago. I remember receiving encouraging, out-of-the-blue cards and phone calls from friends, neighbors, or my husband's coworkers whom I'd never met before. I recall people bringing home-cooked meals to my doorstep and hearing the doorbell ring as I rested my head on pillows, feeling too nauseated at the time to even roll over in bed. I can still hear the footsteps of my kids - my cheerleaders - as they ran to the door and said "thank you" to the person standing there, and then ushered them into the kitchen and placed the dinner on the counter top. I remember the woman who offered to plant yellow daffodils along my front walkway. "They symbolize cancer and new life," she had told me as I watched her and my girls dig into the dirt and plant each bulb. I remember feeling too fatigued to kneel down and help her dig.

And I wait each spring in anticipation of seeing the first new shoots pop up through the soft dirt. And oh, how beautiful this picture of silence can be!

Yes, I remember all the kind words, both spoken and unspoken, provided to me many years ago. But as difficult as it sometimes is, I try not to focus on friends who might not have spoken much to me, or called me, during my trial. People who I would have expected to hear from, but didn't. People who, for whatever reason, didn't step up to the plate. Because focusing on those people, takes time away from my real focus: the people who blessed me in so many more ways than I can comprehend. Those are the people I'll choose to think about and remember well. I'll not dwell on the ones who were silent during the hard times. Life is too short to remember the "silence from our friends." It's just too short.

Instead, we all need to wait patiently for our own "daffodils" to bloom each season, because that is the type of silence we should try to remember.

Twenty Miles

Twenty miles. That's how far I rode on my bike this morning with three other women who live in my neighborhood. Our journey commenced at 8:30 A.M. and we finished up about two hours later, feeling tired, our legs somewhat shaky, but definitely empowered.

It's funny, but as I rode along, I was a child again. I could hear the birds singing cheerfully overhead through the trees, see the squirrels darting quickly across the lane in order to get out of our way, and smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle bushes that seemed to be bursting with their yellow color and intoxicating aroma. The overall picture reminded me of when I was a ten-year-old girl, peddling my bike and humming to myself, and wondering what I'd be like as an adult. Where would I live? Would I get married? Have babies? As a young girl, I'm sure I'd never thought it possible for someone at my age to ride a bike for twenty miles!

We stopped only briefly, and only twice, to quench our thirst. Then it was back to cycling again. Like a jet engine, the time just flew by. The warm wind that whistled past my ears and tried to evaporate the droplets of water along my forehead was a much needed bonus as we pushed forward in the rising temperatures. While peddling hard and feeling the small bumps in the road that popped up almost without warning beneath my tires - keeping me ever vigilant and always on my guard - I was that little girl again. Back then, I held on tightly to those handle bars.

And I held on ever so tightly today, too.

Today was so incredibly freeing, and uplifting, and it provided me with a gift: to laugh with others, to enjoy the scenery, and to just let go for awhile. For a period of time, this child was without any cares or worries. And you know, it felt extraordinarily good.

As we finished up the trip and were just a few hundred feet from our starting point, the cars which had been parked in the parking lot became larger with each peddle stroke. We'd completed our twenty miles, and even though there were some bumps along the way which made me grip the handle bars a little tighter and slow down at times, I'd made it. The journey was over, and instead of feeling like that child who wonders about her future, I was the grown woman who cherishes each moment. Twenty miles may seem like an impossible distance to travel, but as I prepare for the days ahead, I know that there will be the warm breeze that I'll need to propel forward and face the challenges. And I'll stop for a moment at intervals, to get my bearings, and more importantly, to rehydrate my parched and shaking soul.

The wonderful thing is that I'm ready to get on that bike and do it all over again someday real soon, one peddle stoke of life at a time.

Bittersweet Day

One week ago I celebrated my birthday, the fourth one since I became a "cancer survivor." And each birthday makes me realize how I need to celebrate each day of my life, not just the special ones. For all of our days are special, all are meaningful, and all are blessings.

For some reason, however, April 15th was one of the most difficult days I'd had in quite some time. It was the first birthday I'd celebrated without my father present, and my heart mourned. I missed him. A bittersweet day, for sure. I don't think that my family quite understood. I tried to smile, to laugh and pretend like nothing was wrong.

The next day while out for a nice run, I happened upon a neighbor who was also jogging. She had lost her mother around the same time that my dad died. We both stopped running, smiled and gave one another a hug. She asked how I was doing, and before I knew it or could stop myself, I said, "I'm fine, but you know, I just had a birthday yesterday, and Ann, it was a very difficult time for me."

Her eyes got huge and she said, "My birthday was on April 8th, and it was one of the hardest days of my life!" We both shared our feelings and before we knew it, a few tears fell. But it was a good cry, as they say. And we both needed to do it.

In a way, even the bad days are special, because they force me to pause, take a deep breath, and look upward instead of focusing on my immediate circumstance. The difficult times continually remind me that God's hand is in all of my days, and He will keep me going, through the good and bad, no matter what.

God's always present, each and every day. He's there, even in the midst of our bittersweet ones.