What Is in a Word?

May: Brain Cancer Awareness Month

Eight years ago: May 2017

Diagnosis:

Ed has headaches.

(But he has always had migraines; surely they aren’t serious.)

Ed has a brain tumor.

(It is in a safe location for surgery; surely he will recover.)

Ed has brain cancer.

(He is young, hearty, and strong; surely he can fight this.)

Ed has glioblastoma.

(What?)

I open Google.

Definition:

Glioblastoma glee-ow-bla-stow-muh

(The word struggles on my tongue.)

GBM

“Glioblastoma is a malignant brain tumor that invades and destroys healthy tissue.”

Aggressive, fast-growing, fatal

Villain, monster, murderer

“Those with untreated glioblastoma live an average of four months.

With treatment, those with glioblastoma live an average of fifteen months.”

(Lord, have mercy.)

Oh that I had never heard/seen/felt/smelled/tasted this word.

Glioblastoma means no hope.

No hope from Google, no hope from doctors, no hope from science.

Glioblastoma produces loss.

Loss of personality, loss of mobility, loss of vitality.

Glioblastoma brings death.

Death of a father, death of a husband, death of a friend.

I feel desperate, despairing, defeated.

I open God’s Word.

Deconstruction:

“I will not leave you”ⁱ

(Promise?)

“I will wipe away all tears” ⁱⁱ

(When?)

“I will destroy the death enemy.”ⁱⁱⁱ

(Even glioblastoma?)

“I came to give abundant life.”^iv

(Now?)

Dominion:

Choosing to believe a diagnosis is not final,

words have power,

but the Word prevails.

“O grave, where is your victory?

Death, where is your sting?^v

Thanks be to God for victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”^vi

(Amen.)

i John 14:18

iiPhilippians 1:22

iii 1 Corinthians 15:25-26

ivJohn 10:10

v1 Corinthians 15:55

vi1 Corinthians 15:57

With Us

Each winter, I attend a widows' retreat where I relish connecting with other widows. Some have been widows for many years; others are beginning the journey. Some are grandmothers and empty nesters; others have babies and preschoolers. Some lost their husband after a long illness; others faced the trauma of sudden death. But regardless of the specific details, we bond on the common loss of our husbands.

I have many many caring friends and family. I am surrounded by people who I can connect with in many ways. But I'm always surprised how I feel understood when I gather with this group of widows. These ladies never met Ed, and they don't know my children. They've never been in my house and don't know my church family or my siblings. But they understand me in ways that surprise me, because they are walking the same road. 

This winter I worked through a study of the book of Matthew using God With Us, a Bible Study published by Daughters of Promise. It was fascinating to delve into what it means that Jesus is called "Emmanuel, God with Us" and the wonder of His birth, life, death, and resurrection as God in human form. 

God created the human race, but He didn't walk away from His creation, even when they broke his commands. He continually reached out to humans. He walked with Enoch, rescued Noah, talked with Abraham, called to Moses in a burning bush, and led the Israelites with a cloud. Again and again, God met His people - in dreams, by angels, on mountains, in a quiet voice, in thunder, by priests, by judges, and by prophets. 

Then came years of silence, barren times, with no recorded messages from God. But the silence is broken with a startling proclamation from an angel. 

You shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins...they shall call His name Immanuel,” which is translated, “God with us.” Matthew 1:21,23

God, the Son, on earth. With us. Startling. Unbelievable. 

In a human body, Jesus battled temptation, suffered hunger, faced rejection, and became tired – like us. But unlike us, He never sinned, he never complained, he never gave in to self-pity, fear, worry, envy, or hate. He was holy, perfect.

But in His perfection, He didn’t stand aloof from the problems and pain of this world. He walked beside hurting, limping, broken people.

Reading through Matthew, I was struck with how often it specifically mentions that Jesus touched broken people - lepers, blind, paralyzed, even the dead. These were people who were shamed, shattered, outcasts, marginalized, and considered hopeless. Each were separated from others because of their needs - a disease, handicap, or failure. But Jesus reached out and touched their broken bodies to prove that He could heal the ugliness of sin inside each of us.

At the widows' retreat, I feel understood and loved because others are walking the same road I am. They gave me a tiny glimpse of what it meant for God to come to earth and walk this earth with humans. God with us, God who walked with us, ate with us, died as a human, and rose again - this is a God who can transform our brokenness today. 

Jesus didn't leave us alone when He returned to heaven. He sent His Spirit to continue to walk with us. And it is His Spirit at work in us that allows us to reach out to others today.

The book of Matthew began with a proclaimation of Christ's birth - God with us. Matthew ends with another proclaimation from Jesus.

Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen. Matthew 28:20

Life can feel heavy. This past week I've watched a number of people that I love face hard things. I need reminded of the living power of God who is working in and through the lives of His people. I need to reread the Gospels and rejoice in the revelation of God shown in its pages. I need to spend time with God's people and hear how God has walked with them. I need to allow God to use me to touch the brokenness around me.

Emmanuel, God with us. Today and always. Until the end of the world. All praise to Him.

The photos on this post are from the Inn at Sabbath Rest in Altoona, Pennsylvania where we held our widows' retreat. If you are looking for a lovely old home for a gathering, I highly recommend this Airbnb. The setting was perfect for a time of reflection and sharing.

Half of One

 Thoughts After Attending a Wedding

Image by prostooleh on Freepix: Image by p

In my five years as a widow

I’ve attended many weddings—

siblings, nephews, nieces, friends.

I’m grateful to be included,

invited to celebrate,

part of a community that values marriage,

honors commitment,

assumes permanence—

“until death do us part.”

But weddings are hard.

My presence feels like a pallor,

rain on a picnic,

a reminder that marriage isn’t forever.

It only lasts until death,

and death comes for all.

(Sometimes to the young.)

I wish death would take us together,

but usually one is left to walk alone.

The wedding service comes to the holy moment.

Hands clasp, vows spoken, promises made—

a mystery.

Two people, two individuals, two humans—

now one flesh

for life.

I said “I do.”

I’m still living,

but Ed is not.

I was one flesh, but now...

What is half of “one flesh”?

No wonder it hurts.

Should there be a ceremony

to signify the end of a marriage?

Something more than a funeral—

all dead have funerals.

Something more than a trip to the bank

to remove his name from our checking account.

Something…

but what?

I watch this love-struck, starry-eyed couple

say their vows.

They won’t feel any different

the moment they become one.

What happens in an instant,

takes years

to grow into oneness.

My marriage was rent

the moment that Ed breathed his last,

but maybe it takes years

to grow into a single person again.be I’ll limp for the rest of my life.tooleh on Freepik

: Image by prostooleh on Freepik

: Image by prostooleh on Freepi

: Image by prostooleh on Freepik

More in Number Than the Sand

I remember the day I realized that the world didn't revolve around me. 

Of course I knew in my head that I wasn't the center of the universe. I knew that only a tiny number of people on earth even knew of my existence. But somehow I viewed my life on center stage, with the spotlight on me, with my dreams, my griefs, my plans in the forefront and everyone else circling around me.

On that day, I was shopping and looked at the many people, and realized that, just like me, their lives were consumed by their dreams, their griefs, their plans. I wondered if others also had a ridulous sense of self-importance. Maybe each person I saw, and all the billions of other people in the world, also viewed their life as in the spotlight on center stage, with all other people as the extras of the set. Maybe we are all self-centered and wake each morning with our dreams, griefs, and plans as the most important thing in the universe. 

I am responsible for my thoughts, motives, words, and actions, so these things are necessarily important to me. But ever since that day, I've often looked at those I pass on the street, the driver of the car beside me, the strangers I elbow in a crowd and feel small. My dreams and plans, which feel so big to me, are unknown and unimportant to them. As one of the billions, my life is tiny.

Earlier this month we spent a week at the Outer Banks, North Carolina. Each morning I woke at my normal hour, peeked at the alarm clock, and considered my options. I was on vacation and could roll over and sleep a few more hours. But how can a person lay asleep at sunrise on the beach? 

I scrambled into clothes, grabbed my Bible, and headed to the top deck of our rental house, where the ocean was just barely visible. But the pounding of the waves continued to pull me. I popped in my earbuds, turned on my audio Bible, slipped on my sandals, and spent the next hour walking along the surf as the sky was painted pink and orange by the rising sun. 

I'm in awe of the power of the rhythmic waves. They are consistent, persistent, unrelenting. It didn't matter if I was watching or lying in bed. All over the world, day and night, year after year, the waves crash on the shore, moving methodically up and down with tide schedules so dependable they can be made years in advance. 

Sandpipers on twig-like legs, dance along the shore, always staying one step ahead of the wave, poking their beaks into the sand for some morsel. Three large birds (pelicans?) skim in silent procession just above the crest of the wave, disapearing in a silent dive then suddenly reappearing to skim the waves again. Crabs watch me warily, then scuttle into their holes. Each creature is consumed with its life, its survival. In each tiny brain, the spotlight is turned on it. Its life the most important existence in its universe. 

All over the world these motions are echoed - waves, birds, crabs - with a stunning sunrise as the backdrop. Usually no one watches; no one applauds. The astonishing colors exist without help from humans. The creatures follow their created instict with no orders, no recognition.

In the extravagance of the sunrise and the power of the waves, I feel tiny, miniscule, inconsequential. Just as when I was shopping and suddenly knew that each of the billions of people on earth had dreams, griefs, and plans just like me, I feel insignificant.

I believe God created this splendour, the amazing world of sunrises and sandpipers, pelicans and crabs. I believe He created the billions of people who walk this planet. The vastness of the universe and God's power overwhelms me. 

But I'm even more astounded when I read that God knows each sparrow and numbers my hair. (Matthew 10:29-31) He knew me before I was born and His thoughts of me are more than the number of the sand. (Psalm 139:14-18)  I'm only one of the billions, but I'm known.

I walk the shore, gazing at the glory of His creation, and want to weep at the glory of being a daughter of this God. 

***

Here are links to two old posts, both shared when I felt overwhelmed by current events in my own life and in the world. It is a little startling to see how much my children have grown in just a few years. It is also comforting to remember that God is still on His throne. In each post I shared a meaningful hymn.

November 2020 - Dear Lord and Father of Mankind

March 2022 - O Who Is Like Jehovah God

Grief and Trust in April

I love the change of seasons and look forward to each season as it arrives. But spring is my favorite. I enjoy watching the earth awaken from winter, robe itself in green, and burst out with the music of birdsong and blossoms.

For years I worked at a greenhouse. Every day my hands were in the soil, and I talked plants and gardening with customers. It was a dream job.

This spring may be more beautiful than usual, or maybe I just forget. I'm relishing all the spring joys. 

Yet I feel melencholy. I can't help but recall the past several springs.

2017 - Ed had more and more frequent headaches in April let to the discovery of a brain tumor and diagnosis of glioblastoma in May.

2018 - Ed's tumor returned, and he had his second surgery in March. In May he had a grand mal seizure which I veiw as the turning point of his cognitive ability.

2019 - In March we learned that the cancer had spread to the other side of Ed's brain. His quick decline to a wheelchair, then to a hospital bed, cumilated in his death in May.

2020 - Covid reached our area in March and normal life ground to a halt. 

While in many ways Covid didn't change my days as a mom and homeschooler, I feel like I've carried grief this past year. Grief for the misunderstandings and strained relationships. Grief for the loss of life. A grief that continues a year later.

*****

Years ago, when I was still a teen, one of the customers at the greenhouse was a sweet older woman who loved gardening. Many years later I met Ed and discovered that this lady went to his church. Throughout the years, I've enjoyed many gardening conversations with her. She usually sat in the row in front of me at church and at this time of year, she would ask if I had been to the greenhouse yet. I have a gift certificate in my purse that she gave me last spring to the greenhouse where we first met. 

But this spring she is in the hospital fighting for her life against Covid. While I know numerous people whose life has been taken by Covid, this is the first person who I saw often. Will you pray for a miracle for Esther?

*****

As I flipped through the photos I've taken the last few weeks, I realized that we've done many walks in the woods. 

At the end of March, I gathered with 25 widows (most of them strangers) at a camp on a Pennsylvania mountainside. We tramped in the woods that was still stark with winter, ate wonderful food, and spent hours laughing, talking, crying, and singing. I can't describe how soul-strengthening the weekend was for me.

A few weeks later, I hiked with my brother and children to Black Rock on the Applachian Trail. When Ed and I were dating, we hiked here often, but it was the first time I had taken the children. 

Last weekend I walked through the woods with my parents and enjoyed the redbud and other blooming trees. 

I've been thinking a lot about trust and what it means to trust a God who doesn't always answer prayer as I wish. A God who brings us each season despite personal or international grief. A God whose plans are bigger than mine. A God who walks beside us as we carry pain into a beautiful April. 

I'm realizing that I hold God at arm's lenth when He doesn't feel as safe and predictible as springtime. But I'm longing to find new life, renewed relationships, and joy that lasts longer than April blossoms.

And now I can't find a neat and tidy ending to this blog post. So I'll just close with verses that have been meaningful to me in case your April doesn't feel neat and tidy. 

That he would grant you, according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with might by his Spirit in the inner man;

That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, 

May be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; 

And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God. (Ephesians 3:16-19)

Questions Without Answers

In the spring of 2017, my husband Ed was asked to preach on the topic of bitterness. He prepared the message, but that week severe headaches forced him to cancel his commitment. Two days later, a surgeon removed a tennis ball-sized tumor from his brain.

In his sermon notes, Ed had written that bitterness is nearly impossible to self-diagnose. We can see bitterness in others, but it is easy to justify our own grudges. Ed compared bitterness to making a snowball. When weather conditions are right, a handful of snow can easily become a hard ball. When this snowball is rolled, it picks up anything around it, including more snow, leaves, and stones, until the snowball becomes too large to push. Likewise, bitterness grows and becomes deadly.

I didn't think I had a problem with bitterness. I had a happy childhood, a handsome husband, and six healthy children. I had never been abused or deeply wronged. I knew I was blessed and didn’t begrudge others for what they had.

That was before Ed was diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive brain cancer. Despite multiple surgeries and many treatment attempts, two years later in May 2019 I became a widow at age 43. Now when I saw an elderly couple walking side-by-side at the grocery store, the pain rushed in to choke me. I had lost my dream of growing old with my husband. My three-year-old daughter might not even remember her daddy. I wanted to scream, “It’s not fair.”

I had always thought unforgiveness was the root of bitterness, but in his sermon notes Ed had written “perceived injustice or unfairness” at the top of the list of causes. What could be more unfair than losing my husband?

When my children say “it’s not fair,” they hope their complaint will change the unfairness. But my whining won’t bring Ed back. When I say “it's not fair” I'm stating that I don't deserve this suffering. I’m asking God to explain why He allowed my husband to die.

My western mind seeks to protect myself from any difficulty, but suffering is part of the human experience. Living in American freedom, in a hard-working culture with modern medicine, I had been spared the suffering common for most of history and in many parts of the world. Because of my context and my choice to follow the Lord, I thought I deserved a comfortable life.

When I lost my husband, my best friend, and the father of my children, I felt robbed. I was angry and asked why. Why Ed? Why take someone who was active in kingdom work? Wouldn’t God have received glory if He had answered the many prayers for Ed’s healing?

Job also asked why, but in the middle of his questions, Job proclaimed his trust in God. “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” I have something Job did not have because I can read Job’s whole story and see the past and future, the visible and the invisible, and the mercy of God. I’m still sitting in Job’s ash heap, but my story also has a past and future, visible and invisible, and the touch of God's mercy. Like Job, I can’t see my whole story. Maybe someday my questions will be answered, but today I need to accept not knowing the explanation.

I knew my unanswered questions could ferment into bitterness. Because Ed didn’t want bitterness to poison our children, I watched him resist the human tendency of bitterness by accepting cancer and the suffering it entailed. Ed prayed for healing with his hands open to accept death.

Ed wasn’t the first person who found peace this way. Elisabeth Elliot wrote “Acceptance is the key to peace in suffering.” Elisabeth knew hard questions and suffering: her first husband was murdered and her second husband died of cancer.

I wanted the peace Ed had experienced. But for Ed, accepting death meant gaining the glories of heaven. I still had to put children to bed alone, listen to friends tell of their anniversary get-aways, and mark “widow” on tax forms. I hated thinking of living without Ed for decades, but I was even more scared of becoming a bitter old woman.

After Ed’s death I forced myself to push on, to learn to cope, to figure out how to change the van’s registration, and find its insurance information. I took the children camping and planted a garden. Those around me said I was a strong woman, but I knew staying busy wasn’t what I really needed. I somehow needed to accept the pain without being destroyed by it, to remember Ed, and to acknowledge the enormity of my loss without suffocating.

Jesus invites us to “come...and I will give you rest.” Rest? Sounds like what any overwhelmed single mom with six children needs. He promises rest if I come to Him, but bitterness will erect a barrier between us. To live in the restful presence of Christ, I can’t demand answers to my questions. I need Him more than I need answers.

Elisabeth Elliot also said, “If your faith rests on the character of Him who is the eternal I AM, then that kind of faith is rugged and will endure.” I want the rest found in enduring faith. I unclench my hands and hold them open. I ask God to give me a warm heart to melt that icy snowball inside me. I know Who God is (a good God) and who I am (His daughter). After God reminded Job of His creative power, Job accepted that his questions would remain unanswered. I do the same.

Ed had planned to close his sermon with words from Revelation 7:14-17. This passage describes a scene of believers from all nations and tongues. They endured great trials on earth and are now gathered in heaven worshiping before God’s throne where they have no hunger, thirst, or tears.

Heaven is not fair either. Why would God want to share His home with us? Why do I deserve His eternal rest—a gift He invites me to begin to experience now? It is a gift without answers. Whatever injustice I perceive now will vanish in the glories of heaven. The hunger for relationships, the thirst for fulfillment, and the pain of separation will no longer be present. Either my questions will be answered or they won’t matter anymore.

I still fight bitterness every day. Maybe time will fade the pain. Maybe I’ll think “it’s not fair” less often. But I suspect that every holiday, every memory, every new milestone my children reach will require me to open up my hands and give my questions back to God so I can walk into His rest.

I was the one who needed Ed’s sermon, written in his notes and lived in his life and death.

First published in the winter issue of Daughters of Promise.

Photos by Regina Rosenberry.

In His Own Words

A few months ago I found a document in our computer that I didn't know existed. Two years ago, a few weeks after Ed's brain cancer diagnosis, Ed had written these words. 

I edited this a little, changing some verb tenses and sentence order, but otherwise these words are Ed's.

After my tumor surgery, I did not have a lot of thinking power, and I did not spend a lot of time thinking about what caused the tumor. I know others were thinking a lot about it, but it did not concern me in the least. I guess I was still in a fog from the surgery. 

A few days after I was home, the doctor called Gina to let her know the outcome of the biopsy. I remember Gina calling me back to our room and telling me about the report. Glioblastoma meant nothing to me at the time, but she said that it was an aggressive cancer. A few more days went by until I was coherent enough to want to know more about it. I googled it and was surprised to know how serious it really was. Wikipedia said life span was normally 12-16 months. That is when it really hit me, and I did not read too much more that day. 

But through this time, I still felt a great sense of peace and assurance that God was in control. I was waking up really early in the morning because of the steroid that I was taking, so I had a lot of time to read. I read through 1 and 2 Peter and highlighted verses that talked about trials and suffering. Those verses became a footing for me through some of those days. I felt so weak physically, as well as emotionally, but these verses helped. 

Verses like this:

Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations:That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ:Whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory: (1 Peter 1:6-8)

He speaks of trials only lasting for a short time until Jesus appears. Even though we cannot see him now, we still believe that He is using this for our good and we can rejoice in that goodness. We have so many signs of God's goodness to us, not only through our personal peace and comfort of the scriptures, but also physical blessings of my recovery and people blessing us. We have lots of cards and financial gifts, people assuring of their prayers on our behalf, and providing childcare and meals.

I talked to the children about what cancer could mean for me and how I might not have long to live. I told them that we were going to try to enjoy our days together and not be bitter or angry toward God. There are many things that I am not strong enough to do, like playing ball or going for bike rides but we spend a lot of time together at home. Paige and Haven learned to enjoy climbing onto my lap with a book. I cherish those times with them thinking that they might not remember me.

Conversations with people are much easier to turn to a spiritual topics when you share about your limited life expectancy. Even as Christians, we sometimes shrink from talking about death but if our focus is on the eternal reward, it should come natural. I find that I have more time to talk to people as my priorities change.

- Ed Martin (written summer 2017)

This morning I'm grieving with our friends Galen and Patricia. Their teenage daughter Amanda was diagnosed with a rare and fatal heart disease this past winter. Last week they moved to Toronto to be near the hospital so Amanda could get on the heart transplant list. But last night God chose to give Amanda a new heart. 

Ed's Funeral Video

I know there are many of you who wished you could have attended Ed's funeral.

Here is the video of the service. Thank you, Enoch, for providing this video for us.

Do the Next Thing

I've always liked to detect possible challenges and find a solutions to avoid future problems. I like to think that trait is an asset, though it probably caused a lack of sleep in the last months.

I've had several scenarios surrounding Ed's impending death rolling around in my head these last weeks. Now when I look back I see that some of the thinking and discussion with others allowed events to glide smoothly.

I had hoped that Ed could be part of our family life as long as possible. We placed his hospital bed in our dining/living room right by the window to the back yard. I'll always cherish the memories of that last week when we pulled the rocker and the loveseat by Ed's bed and filled them full of friends and family. Almost never was Ed alone, day and night. Until the last day he still had a firm grip in his right hand and often someone was beside his bed holding his hand. In his last minutes on earth both his brothers were by his side.

I have regrets in life, but not about how Ed was cared for in his last days.

On Monday I took the children in to the funeral home to have a private viewing. I had worried that the three-year-old would be upset with burying Ed's body. I had told her several times that Daddy's body was sick, and God would give Daddy a new body in heaven so he wouldn't need his sick body.

The casket was a great curiosity to her. She kept standing on tiptoe and peering in at Ed. I heard her say to herself "That is Daddy's sick body."  I know she understands very little about the impact that Ed's passing will have on her life. Right now she does not know what she has lost. But I was relieved that she wasn't upset at the funeral and burial.

I had thought (worried) a lot about the viewing. I knew there would be many people who would want to honor Ed and his family by attending the viewing. I've stood at the funeral home when long lines zig-zagged across the room and out the door. I dreaded the stress of greeting friends while knowing that a line waited.

Ed's brothers and I had numerous discussions on how to best arrange the viewing. With the help of the funeral director we chose to have longer viewing hours and arranged the room to keep the line moving.

Six hours of a viewing is a long time. The children soon tired of standing next to me shaking hands and joined their cousins. Ed's family and my family were spaced around the room, but I was alone by the casket. I didn't mind. I wanted to stand by Ed, and, in a small way, still be a couple one last time.

I was humbled by all those who made the sacrifice to attend the viewing and funeral. Church family and friends who have supported us through these last two years by their presence and prayers. Old friends and neighbors who knew Ed as a child. My parents' cousins. My cousins. Ed's cousins. Ed's cousins' children. My fourth-grade teacher who saw the obituary in the newspaper. Several of Ed's grade-school teachers. Blog and email friends who know me only by written words. Childhood friends who have known me since birth and could tell my secrets. Ed's work and business associates. Widows who also lost their husbands to brain tumors who have encouraged me through their phone calls. Ed's school friends who helped make him into the person I knew. Friends of Ed's siblings. Friends of my siblings. And Many More.

But never was there a long line. If I wished I could chat with friends knowing there wasn't a long line behind them. When I was leaving the funeral home I stopped to thank the funeral director for how well the evening went. He asked me if I knew that we had 900 people through the line. I was shocked. And thankful. All the planning had paid off, and I wouldn't have changed a thing, even though my eyes felt red-rimmed and scratchy, and my body sagged.

The funeral on Wednesday also went smoothly. It was held at my parent's church since our church is too small. I sat on the front bench at exactly the same place Ed and I had sat at our wedding. Hearing old familiar hymns sung by a full audience and hearing words of worship to our Sovereign God were soul strengthening.

The burial was hard. The finality of the grave could not be ignored. I have no idea who attended the burial. I stayed composed only by not looking at anyone. I knew if I saw tears, my own would flow.

The meal after the burial was a beautiful example of love. Many women from various churches worked together to prepare the meal. Again I was surrounded by the love of family and friends. I enjoyed hearing their stories about Ed and their reminders of God's grace at work in their own lives.

My parents brought us home from the funeral. My dad saw my terribly weedy garden that I've been ignoring and got out the tiller. I typically enjoy gardening, and we spent the rest of the evening pulling weeds. It felt so good to do something with my hands instead of my head and heart.

That night I slept better than I had in weeks.

What does a widow do the day after her husband's funeral? I didn't know the rules, but I jumped into Thursday thinking I would return my house to order just like I had my garden. The house was generally under control (constant company made sure of that), but the corners and cupboards needed attention. Every May when school ends I have a desire to declutter and organize. This year that desire was magnified ten times. Maybe because house cleaning was something within my control. Maybe because the house has been so neglected the past months.

Then my brothers were rained out of their barn painting project and decided to work on our AC project. Replacing our AC means pulling everything out of our attic to remove the old insulation. Soon my dining room was covered with boxes and the house with a layer of insulation dust. It was almost laughable.  My house had went from generally clean to disaster. I started sorting and organizing, glad that at least I was in a decluttering mood. Nothing like a funeral to make one willing to get rid of Stuff That Won't Go With Us.

In desperation to not trip over boxes for weeks, I looked for any empty spots - not easy in a rancher that contains six children. I opened Ed's half of the closet, pulled out clothes, stuffed them into bags, and carried them to the van to give away. I never would have chosen the day after the funeral to put away Ed's clothes, but I would do it sometime, and it gave me a place to stuff boxes. It made sense even if it was crazy.

When I told a friend how I spent the day after the funeral she said that in a thousand years she'd never would have guessed cleaning insulation debris and bagging clothes.

Elisabeth Elliot suggests, "do the next thing," when faced with hard life circumstances. I guess that is what we did.

But the weekend wasn't all work. The children and I planned a short camping trip for next week. Ed's brothers helped us plant a memorial tree. We enjoyed cookouts with various friends and family on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings. Volleyball, S'mores, mountain pies, banana splits, discussions on heaven, and more.

Do we feel relief, grief, or something else all together? I don't know. I won't attempt to figure out the jumble of my emotions. Just holding on to the promise that God doesn't forsake the widows and the fatherless and doing the next thing.

Ed's Obituary

Ed's death was so expected, and I had wondered what I'd feel after he was gone. Not shock, obviously. Relief that Ed is no longer suffering. A little bewildered as I often think I need to go check on Ed. Of course there is grief. But since I've been grieving since October, relief is greater than grief right now

Yesterday all my family gathered at our house. Since I'm the oldest of nine and have over a dozen nieces and nephews, it made a crowd. The weather was absolutely perfect. Originally we had planned to be at our homeschool field day on Saturday so the men must have been in a sport mood. While we women sat under the trees and watched the little ones, the men played hard games of Ultimate Frisbee and Spike Ball with the older children. My children were sun-burnt, grass stained, and weary by the day's end.

If you are a long-time reader of this blog you may remember the sudden deaths of my father-in-law and brother-in-law. I well remember the stunned emotion while sitting in the living room with family planning funeral arrangements.

Ed's brothers had done so much work the past week that most of the funeral details were already made, and there was no panicky decisions to make.

You may read Ed's obituary.

I know that some of you who are my real-life friends are trying to decide if you should make the trip to the funeral. I won't tell anyone not to come, but there will be a crowd, and I won't be able to spend with each friend that comes.

So if you decide to send an email, write a card, call me on the phone, or stop in for a visit, instead of attend the viewing or funeral, I won't be offended.

Thanks so much for all your support and prayers. I feel nearly embarrassed by the flood of riches I've been given through your love. I'm sorry I cannot personally acknowledge each of your kind notes.

Safe

This week we've listened to one of Ed's favorite recordings many times. ("Heaven" by For Hymn) I don't know if he could hear or understand the words, but I could.

Today, in the early morning hours, I turned it on again. At 2:30 a.m. Ed breathed his last breath of earth's air while the song "Safe in the Arms of Jesus" was playing.

730 Days

730 days. 104 weeks. 24 months. 2 years.

Two years ago today Ed had surgery to remove the brain tumor that was causing intense headaches. The preliminary test during surgery showed that the tumor was the feared glioblastoma multiforme (GBM) an aggressive cancer with life expectancy of not more than a year. A week later the pathology report would confirm the diagnosis.

Throughout the last two years with radiation, chemo, radical diet, more surgeries, and clinical trials, Ed was blessed with many good days. We were able to take family trips, make memories, and squeeze the joy out of ordinary days.

But there is no respite from a diagnosis such as GBM. Never do you forget that without a miracle, your days are numbered.

We all know we could leave this earth at any time. I've heard numerous times, "I could be in a car accident tomorrow and die before Ed." I've probably said it myself. And this week this fact became true for the mother of a dear friend.

But I don't live like I expect to die tomorrow. I've watched Ed this past two years and saw the difference in how a GBM diagnosis affected his life. He wasn't morbid, but every decision from buying a new pair of shoes to planning a vacation was affected by the facts of his disease. Sometimes I was surprised by how well he was able to set aside the diagnosis and enjoy the moment, but I know it was never far from his thoughts.

For the last week we have sat in vigil around the hospital bed set up in the living room. Our family surrounds us with their love and presence. My brothers and Ed's brothers take turns staying with him at night so I can sleep. We try to keep Ed comfortable with the help of morphine and oxygen and the advice of our home-care nurse. Sometimes his breathing is labored, but in the last 24 hours he seems to be resting peacefully. Only rarely does he open his eyes, and he hasn't spoken for days.

Life flows around Ed. We sit by his bed and watch out the window as the children play volleyball with their cousins. We pull out the table, fill it full of people, and enjoy my brother's omelets. We gather around for bedtime stories. We laugh, cry, and discuss the latest book we are reading. We say good-night knowing that if Ed would wake in heaven it would be his gain and our loss.

730 days of knowing that this good-bye was coming. I'm not sure if it makes it easier or harder.

But I know we've had 730 days of God's grace, and we haven't used it up yet.

 2 Timothy 1:9 Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began,

 Hebrews 4:16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.

 1 Peter 5:10 But the God of all grace, who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you.

On Zion's Glorious Summit

In the last post I said I wish I could write a different ending to our story. That wasn't exactly correct.

I do wish I could write 2019 differently. I wish I could grow old with my husband. I wish I didn't have to watch Ed grow weaker every day, spending more hours sleeping than awake, barely aware of his surroundings. I wish I didn't have to order a hospital bed, discuss advanced directives, and figure out how to explain to a three-year-old that their daddy is going to die.

But I love the ending that God has written.

I've been reading through the last chapters of Revelations, and I copied few excerpts here for my reminder of God's ending to our story.

I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away...
I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.
 And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain...
And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new...
He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son...
And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it.
And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof...
And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb...and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life...
And there shall be no more curse...
And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.
(Revelations 21:1,3,4,5,7,22-23, 22:1-3,5)

A few months after Ed's diagnosis he found a new-to-him hymn. It was so meaningful to him that he made copies of the hymn and took them to church so our congregation could learn it. I think now is the right time to share this hymn with you.

I imagine that Ed is hearing the song and longing to join the redeemed around the throne of his king.

On Zion's Glorious Summit

by John Kent

On Zion’s glorious summit stood
A numerous host redeemed by blood!
They hymned their king in strains divine;
I heard the song and strove to join,
I heard the song and strove to join.

Here all who suffered sword or flame
For truth, or Jesus’ lovely name,
Shout victory now and hail the Lamb,
And bow before the great I AM,
And bow before the great I AM.

While everlasting ages roll,
Eternal love shall feast their soul,
And scenes of bliss, for ever new,
Rise in succession to their view,
Rise in succession to their view.

Sanctus (after last verse)

Holy, holy, holy Lord,
God of hosts, on high adored!
Who like me Thy praise should sing,
O Almighty King!
Holy, holy, holy Lord,
God of hosts, on high adored!
Holy, holy, holy.

As usual, you can listen to the song through the video below, but if viewing this 
post by email click over to the blog.

In Slow Motion

A friend described my life as a nightmare of being stuck on the railroad tracks while a train bears down on you - and you can't move.

The description fits. I wish there was a way to escape this story. Can't I write my own ending? 

(Photos on this post are from my  walk "around the block." Watching spring emerge these last weeks has been restorative.)

Ed's MRI this week showed significant growth in the new tumor in the center of his brain. Because of the physical and cognitive decline we've watched this last month, I wasn't surprised. Still, it is hard to see confirmation of our fears.

Old barn covered in wisteria

Ed's seizure on Monday left him even weaker on his left side. At first he could not move his fingers or lift his arm. He has regained a little movement, but still can't use his left side much.

My brothers and Ed's brothers take turns coming every morning and evening to help Ed dress and shower. With the children's help, I can move him from his wheelchair to the recliner, but it isn't easy. I'm so glad to have the help of family.

Road-side poppies

In the past two years we've thrown a lot at Ed's cancer including multiple surgeries, chemo, radiation, diet, and experimental treatments. We knew Ed had the most aggressive form of glioblastoma multiforme, which has dismal statistics. But Ed had nearly two years of good quality life after his diagnosis, for which we are thankful.

But now we feel it is time to change tactics. We've stopped all treatment and are focusing on caring for Ed. Brain cancer patients rarely experience pain, and Ed appears comfortable and worry free. Our palliative doctor and home-care nurse have been helpful in giving us the needed equipment and information.

I don't know what the coming weeks hold, but I know that we'll need to hold onto God.

Abide With Me
by Henry F. Lyte


Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour.
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
If reading by email, click over to the blog to listen to this hymn.