Try-Outs

A few weeks ago, my daughter tried out for the high school's volleyball team. She's a freshman this year. Both my daughters had decided to switch and are now attending the public school instead of the smaller, private one. Melissa had reasoned that one of the best ways to fit in, and to quickly become acclimated to a new school, was to try out for a team sport, namely volleyball.

The first scheduled day for try-outs was a particularly humid Monday morning. Melissa awoke at the crack of dawn, changed her clothes, and stuffed half a banana into her mouth. She had proudly donned her new sneakers, spotless white knee pads, and loose-fitting, comfortable mesh shorts. I drove her to the high school, and noticed her trembling slightly as she walked into her new school. Watching the door to the gymnasium close behind her, I said a silent prayer and drove back home.

Four hours later, I picked her up at the back of the school. What Melissa didn't realize was that unlike her, the majority of the other girls at try-outs had played volleyball competitively in past years. Along with their ultra-competitive style, the first thing that she noticed was their perfect attire, which also screamed of confidence. Melissa conveyed to me that all the other girls wore matching flat shoes designed specifically for volleyball and knee pads that had obviously been worn for several seasons and were now gray and tattered. The general look was completed by each girl sporting the same type of small, tightly fitting lycra shorts, that according to Melissa, "showed everything!" She said that she was "terrible" and stood out like a sore thumb. Every serve, according to Melissa, fell short of the net.

Disappointed, she had relayed to me that she just didn't fit in. Sobbing, she had told me that some of the other girls were mean to her, often yelling at her when she hadn't mastered the detailed "patterns" that came so easily to them. Her confidence waning with each sentence, I listened and put my hand on hers to try to comfort her trembling body as I drove. I wasn't sure if her red face was a result of the heat, or of the humiliation she was trying so desperately to hide behind.

My heart broke for he as she spoke. I told her that she didn't have to go back to the second and final day of try-outs. I also said that I would leave the decision totally up to her, but that she would most likely run into those girls in the halls at school. If that happened, how would she feel? We talked about her going to the final day of try-outs. If she dropped out now, did she want the others to remember her as the "new" girl, who couldn't do the drills, and who dressed in long baggy shorts when every volleyball player knows that those are no longer in style?

The next morning, I heard Melissa's alarm go off, just as it had the day before. And she came downstairs for breakfast, dressed for try-outs.

I drove her to the school for the second day, told her I was proud of her, and watched her walk into the building. Just as before, the door to the gym closed behind her. This time, however, my prayer was followed by a lone tear.

That afternoon, she informed me that she didn't make the team. But she said something that surprised me. She looked at me in the eye and said, "You know, Mom, I'm glad that I went back. Now I know what to expect for next year."

Melissa may never try out for volleyball again, or perhaps, with a little practice, one day she'll surprise herself and make the team. But in my book, she's not only a courageous player in this game called life, she's mastered one of the toughest drills of all: perseverance.

Mature and Complete - Not Yet, But Still Learning!

It's been FOUR years! February 20th, 2006, was the day I found out that breast cancer was a part of me. A big part. Never, not ever, did I imagine that it could possibly happen to me - a runner, a healthy mom of three young children, and a woman with no risk factors normally associated with the disease. Words cannot describe my emotions when I found out. Like all of us who've been through it, I think we can all agree that hearing, 'You have cancer,' are words that have affected us beyond our imaginations.

Ironically, some survivors proclaim that their cancer has actually been a blessing to them. Unlike those individuals, I cannot (and never could) tie the words blessing and cancer together. Oh, I tried, believe me. I remember numerous conversations with many sympathetic, well-intentioned people, when I valiantly tried to link the two nouns together as I spoke. But my attempts failed miserably at this ruse, numerous times. Sadly, I couldn't help but sense that oh-so-familiar, knot-like feeling growing stronger within my stomach each time I heard myself using those two words in the same sentence. I just couldn't proclaim it - and really mean it - that cancer was a blessing to me.

Initially, a big part of me actually felt embarrassed or even somewhat guilty when I was unable (or perhaps, unwilling?) to see the journey as a blessing. Yes, I realize that there are countless scripture verses that encourage us to view our struggles as blessings and to actually find some joy in them.

One of my favorite verses is found in the book of James 1:2-4: "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

Those verses, especially the last one, have made me ponder long and hard about the nature of becoming mature and complete. Just imagine how wonderful it will be when we find ourselves so fulfilled and spiritually whole, that we lack nothing! In other words, there will be a day when we will continuously practice courteousness, humility, selflessness, altruism, forgiveness, and sacrifice, without fail. Sounds a lot like the attributes of Christ, don't they?

So, over the years I've begun to think of cancer in a different way: I may not feel blessed by cancer, but I know that I have been changed by it. And I've listed a few of these changes below:

First, I've learned to believe in the old adage: "Never say never."

Second, people generally love the opportunity to help you when you need it, so I've learned to swallow my silly pride, at least for a little while, and ask for assistance when necessary.

Third, life is way too short to hold on to anger. When you stop and think about it, it's generally not worth it, so I try to let it go.

Fourth, birthdays will never again be days that I dread. Each birthday I celebrate is a true blessing. I can't stand it when people bemoan reaching the age of 40, or 50 or whatever birthday they happen to be celebrating. (That old "knot" starts to tighten up once again!)

Fifth, I have learned to take each day as it comes, the good with the bad. Only God knows what tomorrow will bring, and I need to constantly remind myself that He is in complete control. Fretting on my part is unhealthy, unproductive, destructive and time-consuming.

I know that I have long way to go in order to being fully mature and complete. It's been four years, and I still feel like an infant when it comes to mastering spiritual maturity. But really, when I stop to think about it, maybe the blessings that I've been unable to uncover within the word cancer have been there all along. I just need to view this struggle through Christ's eyes, not my own. Because when I do that, it is then - and only then - that I will truly be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

I am just curious, friends: How has cancer - or for that matter, any trial - changed you?

I Hate This Part

There's a song that my thirteen year old daughter occasionally listens to on the radio. It's not one of my favorite songs, but the title captures my thoughts completely -- right now. It's called "I Hate This Part."

Tomorrow I'm scheduled for my third MRI scan, a test that I have every year (for a total of five years). And this is the part that I hate; it's the time when you are simply anticipating having the test or scan the following day. I wish I could just wave a magic wand, or blink, or just close my eyes and not have to think about this part -- this part of cancer. The tests, such as this one that requires an I.V. to be inserted into my nearly invisible veins (thanks to the effects of the chemo three years ago), will determine if there is any "suspicious activity" in the breast tissue.

After my poor arms are poked numerous times with the I.V. catheter in search of a "good" vein, I will walk into the cold, sterile-looking room and lie on my stomach, while positioning my small breasts into two, neatly cut holes in the table. My breasts will just hang there, suspended oddly through the holes. If they had brains, I'm sure that by this point my breasts would be very confused.

Then the technicians will push a few buttons and I'll feel the table moving into position within a tubular-shaped machine. Within a few minutes, the clicking and banging noises will begin, all the while my arms must remain "locked" into position above my head. I'll stay this way for about 30 long minutes, trying to remain as motionless as possible. And I'll also be trying to ignore the unrelenting ache in my neck and shoulders that I know I'll experience as a result of maintaining this position for so long.

The banging noises around my head will continue and I'll pray throughout it all. And I'll continue to pray some more until I run out of things to say to God. I'll be the only human being in the room; the technicians will have already scurried out to sit in their chairs which are located behind the glass enclosure, and they'll be watching me through the window, pushing more buttons, and at times talking to me through my headphones. The only thing that gets me through this part is believing that God will carry me through, and that He hates this part, too, because He loves me and doesn't like it when I suffer. He knows my thoughts - even before I think them. And He cries when I do, too.

But I don't have that wand, and closing my eyes won't change a thing. I do have cancer, however. And I do have the Lord's assurance that He'll get me through this part. But I still hate it. And there are some days when I'd do almost anything to hold that wand, even for just a little while.

Is there anyone out there who hates this part, too?