Weeds are always a good metaphor for cancer. We are backed up against scans in my home, and the comparisons are unavoidable. We are being vigilant, in case a seed was left behind and a new tiny shoot needs to be plucked. I welcome your prayers, because I don't know if I can yet form my own. God and I have had some bewildering interactions of late. I have always struggled with faith and asking for what I need, but since Brent died, it has been even harder.
I have never presumed to know the mind of God, assumed any sort of quid pro quo, nor feigned understanding about the purpose for our suffering. But I do believe that it is an act of faith, to try to create something good every day, especially out of adversity. I have been working hard at this, and it serves as both my promise and my prayer. It is an affirmation of what Brent demonstrated over and over: that life is always worth the struggle.
I continued to pull the onion bulbs and replant the irises. The morning was a beautiful, glorious and warm. A pair of geese squawked loudly as they passed overhead, reminding me of my son, and a poem that I taught all of my children: Something told the wild geese.
There had been a different pair of geese yesterday, making the same noisy announcement of their arrival to the pond outside the Cleveland Museum of Art. Liv was so excited to bring her friend Maggie with us. We had a picnic of fruit and cheese while the girls sketched and explored the lagoon. The weeping willows had just begun to leaf, dressed in their delicate pale lace, and the cherry trees seemed to float like pink clouds. The hospital beyond was unseen from our picnic site, but I felt its presence nonetheless.
The girls chatted about the "must do's:" visiting the armor court, the enormous Monet that we call 'Brent's painting,' and the new interactive art exhibit. They scampered off to climb a tree and examine the garden sculptures as I looked on. They were most taken with Rodin's Thinker and the twelve sculptures of the zodiac. A church bell tolled the quarter hour and I focused on the sounds of the songbirds. It was a bucolic moment, even with the Peter B. Lewis roof line undulating in the background. The whole scene reminded me of the mother I had once been, before it had become so complicated.
"Why is Cancer a crab, mom?" I was brought back to the present and the cause of our perennial complication. I sighed, then explained to Liv that cancer is Greek word for crab and spreading tumors sometimes looked like crabs. Long ago, when the ancient Greeks first noticed this, they called the disease 'cancer.' I added that crabs, offended by the comparison with a horrific disease, probably asked to change their name and preferred instead to forever be associated with melted butter and deliciousness: a re-branding for the ages. I walked though the series of frescoes with the girls, telling the myths that I could remember, and connecting them to things that they could relate to.
I cannot deny that cancer has had an impact on our family. Alex is studying biomedical Engineering, Lauren intends to study pediatric oncology nursing. Olivia told Maggie in the car about how she wants to be an art therapist. Brent...I struggle to mention how cancer impacted him, lest the grief tumble out and the words never stop.
Prayer is difficult for me these days. I still cannot seem to form the words to ask for Lauren's health, as much as I desire this. It is not so much a lack of faith, I think. But I recognize that what I want is immaterial to what will happen, otherwise Brent would be with us and he would be strong and healthy. I do have faith that there is purpose in our struggle, even if it is unclear to me from my current perspective. To give meaning to our difficulty, I sometimes take painful steps, trying to make the world better. Faith, defined in this way, is how I get out of bed.
I took a graduate class on the renaissance several lifetimes ago, before Olivia was even born and when we only had one cancer under our belt. Rather than focusing on the beautiful art and architecture, my research focused on the plague and poetry, which might suggest to some that I have always been kind of a downer. (I am not.) Yesterday, seeing the beautiful paintings from that era, I was reminded of this piece that I wrote some time ago:
Find your inspiration wherever you can
Faith is not so much a feeling, but a decision to act positively. To build. To rebuild. To make the world better, however you can, despite having a life radically different than you ever imagined, despite struggle, despite disappointment. Faith is the belief in and commitment to something bigger and more enduring than ourselves. It is the belief in the unseen, in something that we cannot always understand.
Notre Dame took generations to build, and those who laid the foundation never saw it completed. There are scores of people unknown to us and long gone who contributed this beautiful treasure. Some offered physical strength, some brought ingenuity, other executed sublime artistry. But together, they created what is considered the finest example of the gothic architecture. The cathedral burnt this week, but there is a commitment to rebuild. This honors those who came before, as well as those who are yet to come. This commitment to repair by the French people, rather than to simply despair, is an act of faith.
Today, I was weeding but tomorrow, God willing, I will be planting.
After Lauren's scans.
No comments:
Post a Comment