Where I'm At

The simple truth is that I am tired of being sick. I do my best to carry on a normal life, but I am slowly losing that battle, I fear. This infernal disease is insidious. It is like a guerilla fighter. It does not attack me directly, choosing instead to snipe at me when I am weak.

I have often said that no one “fights” this sickness. I am right about that. There is nothing I can do about it, except try to live on. So far so good, but I know that I will fail. Eventually, it will get me. It is one of those situations where your best intentions, willingness to work hard, and the support of friends and family do not mean much. You just try to make it to another day, hoping it will be better. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.

I dragged out of bed this morning at 9:00 AM, already exhausted. It seems so wrong to wake up worn out, but that is how I feel most mornings. Just plain beat. I got dressed and worked on the kayak and went to the library, but that was about all I could manage for the day. I find that I have to stop and rest after doing little things, like walking to my workshop. That is infuriating for someone who, in his prime, was swimming 6 miles a day. On my worst day back then, I could always swim a mile or two, without even breathing hard. I do not think I could swim a length of the pool now. Pathetic.

So I try to do other things.

I find myself spending a lot of time reading, which is one of life’s pleasures. I never spent a lot of time reading when I was working. Now I read, not only for pleasure, but because of a love of literature. I marvel at the talent of great writers. They are artists. I have reread every novel written by Ernest Hemingway. (He killed himself, some say, because he was worn out with living with endless pain from injuries received in an aircraft accident. I can understand that.) I just finished On the Road, To Kill a Mocking bird, and The Catcher in the Rye. Simply magnificent. Each in its own way. I finally read War and Peace. Les Miserables.

Then, my Charles Dickens Week: Oliver Twist. Great Expectations. David Copperfield. Followed by John Steinbeck’s East of Eden,

Grapes of Wrath and The Pearl and everything written by Pat Conroy. These are just a few of the books I’ve read. I thought I read most of these books in high school. I do not know what my English teachers were thinking, because these books are for adults. They should not be wasted on hormonally charged teenagers.

I’ve fallen in love with playing music. Few things in life can give a person such pleasure. When I get to walk out on the stage at Oakbrook Church and play in front of 1000 people, I am still thrilled, even though I have done it a hundred times. Making music with other band members, a vocalist and back-up singers is a completely engrossing experience. Last Sunday, I played acoustic guitar instead of electric. I had a substantial part to play, backed up with two other acoustic guitarists. As we played, I turned and smiled across the stage at one of the other guitarists and the bass player. Both nodded and smiled back. Three guys who love music, playing for an appreciative audience. It does not get better than that. Period.

I am teaching a class at IVY Tech. I find such joy in teaching. My students are generally older and displaced from their jobs, so they are trying to get degrees to be more marketable. They are there to learn and it shows. My students come prepared for class and ask intelligent questions about the material. They joke and kid constantly. The class is lively and, so they tell me, entertaining.

I give my students a writing assignment every week with an assigned topic. I have had them write about their worst day, who their heroes are and their best meal, among other topics. To my astonishment, some of their writing is publishable. Much of it has broken my heart because they often write about extremely personal matters, allowing me a glimpse into their lives. It is painful sometimes to look at the class and know how hard life has treated some of them. Some have terrible loads to bear. It has made me appreciate the many advantages I have had in my life, which I have taken for granted. I have such respect for them. They are remarkable.

I hope I am healthy enough to finish the semester. Some days, I doubt I will make it. Some days, I think I might. I owe them that for what they have given to me.

It is about 3 AM as I write this. I look over at my Ducati motorcycle which shares my bedroom in the winter. (I have a very tolerant wife.) I hurt and the pain keeps me awake. I wonder if I will get to ride silver Duckie again, because that is also one of life’s little joys. I love throwing on my leathers, helmet and gloves and going for a ride which has no destination or return time. Just the sound of that magnificent, snorting motor that only Italians can build and the rush of the slipstream by my helmet gives me a thrill. Pure pleasure.

I look over at my wonderful wife, who excels at taking care of me. She is peacefully sleeping, recharging for tomorrow. She is so strong and seems to never let my sickness get her down. I do not know how she does it. I often wonder how much time together we have left. It can’t be that much longer, you would think, but it has been three years. That is a lot longer than the previously predicted 90 days . The unexpected extra time has been a gift to us both. We are still in love and have grown closer these last years. I wish we could grow old together and be that old couple who toddle along holding hands as they go for their evening walk. But that is not likely to happen.

I am not the same man I was three years ago. I have changed. I like to think I have changed for the better. I value relationships with other people as most important in this life. Spending time with my wife brightens even the worst day. I do not worry like I used to about things I thought were important. Like clients and work. Nearly all of my worries were about unimportant things. When you live with sickness and death around the corner every day, almost everything else is silly. Who cares if you get a flat tire, or the roof leaks, or the dining room needs painting? It’s just not important. My wife matters. My friends matter. My children matter. Just about everything else is superficial. I should have learned this years ago. I would have been happier.

I am going to try to make another day…and one more after that. I am not going to quit, or give up, although I am sometimes tempted to throw in the towel. I am going to ride this life down to the ground. I owe that to my family and friends. And to Dr. Moore and my nurses. All of these people have given me so much that I can never repay them. All of them do their best to encourage me and to hope for the best. I am a lucky man to have so many friends. I am indeed rich in friends. You could do a lot worse.

Mike out.

In Everything Give Thanks?

As a veteran of Baptist Sunday School, I have memorized (for prizes!) little snippets of scripture. These early bullet points were designed to plant seeds in the hearts of children; the hope was that they would flower in later life. It was and is a good plan.

When those seeds pop up from time to time, I often discover that the context altered the meaning of some of those verses. And, without context, some of God’s promises and direction seem odd, mean, impossible, you name it.

For example: I Thessalonians 5: 16 – 18.

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. (I believe the bullet point was “Thank God for everything.”)

ALWAYS? CONTINUALLY? In ALL circumstances? Really? With all the troubles in the world, in my world, surely Paul included a context, something that would excuse you (me) from these absolutes. So, I grabbed my Bible and gave 1 Thessalonians another read. And all you Bible scholars know what I found out. In this early epistle, Paul writes to encourage a church. And this passage, near the closing, is NOT surrounded by a context that excuses you (me.)

So, I am to REJOICE. PRAY. GIVE THANKS in ALL circumstances.

Ok, thanks Paul. Nothing like the impossible. Of course, I know that this is what God wants me to do. He wants me to try. I need to break a spiritual sweat trying to please Him in this way.

Thank God (really) that He puts models and teachers in my path.

Way back at Wheaton College during our sophomore year, Mike and I took a literature course together; the professor was fresh and new the classroom: Dr. Joe Hill McClatchey. He warmed to us. Mike was a well-read guy who followed most of Joe’s allusions. I was charming and Mike’s girlfriend. Dr. Mc. became our good friend. Later, he tried to turn me into a scholar but even as that failed, he remained our great friend and mentor.

Dr. Joe’s traveled a fascinating spiritual journey: He was raised as a holiness charismatic. Over the years at Wheaton, he traveled on and, at the end of his life, he was an ordained minister in the Episcopal Church and the Church of England. We shared many interesting discussions where he pointed out scripture that could be interpreted as supporting glossolalia, the speaking in tongues. I assume he was a practioner, believing that this gift was a necessary sign of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. And I doubt that his later acolytes participated.

Joe and his wife Barbara also served as examples to the college community that marriages consecrated to God can take many forms. She was a pre-Renaissance scholar. Joe loved the Victorians. Dinner guests might find themselves within the never-ending debate about GREAT LITERATURE. We would exchange glances across the table.

At any rate, one time in the midst of his/my frustration at ‘not getting’ deeper meaning in Victorian literature, our conversation turned to praise. He told me that he often had to practice praise, that when he felt really down, he knew what he must do: He would get on his knees in a private place and begin thanking God. He would name specific things that he was thankful for, even as he might be grinding his teeth about some other aggravation. Sometimes, he told me, his thanksgiving was pretty lame. “Thank you that the floor is not cold. Thank you that my wife laid out the corduroy trousers today. Thank you that the custodian cleaned my office and emptied my trash can last night.”

He said that sometimes it took 5 minutes. Sometimes it took 50 minutes. But eventually, by thanking God for whatever he could, his heart would open and he could thank God for those things that had him grinding his teeth. (hopelessly concrete students?)

I’ve tried this. It works.

Another lesson came, unexpectedly, amid the tweets and twits on Facebook. One young mother wrote:

“THANK GOD for poopy diapers.”

That certainly fits the bill of ‘in everything.’ Except this is NOT an exercise. Her young son, now 7 months old, is a living miracle. Since his birth, he has been bathed in prayer for God’s intercession in multiple problems. Born with many challenges, the latest was some sort of problem that required an stoma and a by pass for his bowels. Mom (and Dad) had to learn how to care, clean, and tend to this new development.

No one seemed to know if this was going to be permanent, but it seemed (to me, at least) as just one more huge mountain that God was expecting them to climb.

Apparently, baby's colon healed, doctors rehooked his plumbing and, I mean it, Mother’s joy jumped off the page with “Thank God for Poopy Diapers.” She, by the way, has two in diapers so she really IS in a mode of praise.

Then, I look around here. We continue to face challenges. There have been some bumps in the road. And we don’t have any idea where this road is heading or when it will end. But God makes it easy for us to praise Him. He shows me clearly (and concretely) how the situation is made simple for us.

Also, there is so much joy in my home. Last night, the boys were up in the middle, sitting in the kitchen, and making music. For hours.

So today, I will thank God for mentors and teachers whose lives continue to teach me to rejoice, pray, and praise Him.

I Thessalonians 5: 16 - 18 Verses of the day

Sometimes God Gifts a Distraction

This cancer thing is wearing us out. Too often it’s our major topic of conversation. As Mike continues to astound his doctors, that’s so pointless. So, I believe God directed a new project to take our thoughts in a different direction.

It comes in the form of our cottage. Mike loves it. He has always loved it from the day he first walked inside. He loves it like the new boyfriend: he see no blemishes, he smells no mildew, those cracks in the ceiling? Laugh lines.

I’m less of a fan. You can’t keep the outside OUTSIDE so lake goo and insects get in. And, since the cottage has no insulation, we write some hefty checks during the coldest of the winter, to keep it just warm enough so the pipes don’t freeze. It’s 80 years old having been built on a slab, on a very shallow piece of ground. Over the years, similar cottages have settled and been razed or have received a completely new foundation. We talked about it. We got estimates. We planned to do the work and then Mike got sick and, well, it fell way off the radar. I mean, even with its cracks and creases, it’s a great place to stay.

Last summer, we finally moved up there and lived, only driving back to Kokomo occasionally. It was glorious. So what if the windows stick and there’s no central air and torrential early rains had ducks swimming in the yard? We had a great time. We have great friends on the lake. Mike loves his cottage. More importantly, when he’s there, it’s healing. It always has been.

The cottage has hot water heat which, I must say, is very effective. When we drop by in the winter, just 5 minutes of turn up and the place is cozy. Or that’s always been the case. This fall, I noticed that the upstairs was not warming up like it should. I also saw some weird blue stuff on a pipe leading to a radiator. Oh well, I figured, it’s just another old thing.

I paid a large water bill in October. I remember thinking that it must have included September when we spent our weekends there.

I paid another one in November. I knew we had not been up to the lake so I called Mr. Water Company Guy, who drove right out to investigate. He reported that he found no leak but it looked like we were using the amount we might use if a toilet was left running. We drove up, jiggled the handles, and came home. The next water bill was less. So, that must have fixed it, I figured.

Then, the NEXT bill came and it was higher than October. We needed to figure this out. Nephew Caleb, a man with amazing fix-it instinct and skill, investigated. He reported that the floor in the kitchen was all bowed and sunken. He decided to check the crawl space under the house. Oh. Uh-oh.

He found that the entire crawl space (12 inches deep) was filled with steaming hot water. He had to drain it before he could move further. Then, he found a break in a water line, under the dining room. By now, the shift of the house had caused other things to happen. In the upstairs, it was raining. Leaks and pools of water were all over the place. With it, mold was flourishing on walls, clothes, bedding, you name it.

Down in the kitchen, Caleb tried to check the plumbing and when he bumped into the major cabinet, it broke loose from the floor which fell into the crawl space.

How much more do you want?

Reports were flying between Winona Lake and Kokomo. And Kokomo and Insurance Ville. And Insurance Ville and Winona Lake. Reports were flowing through Mike (who, let’s face it, is not a detail person) and me. And, of course, Mike was seesawing between Week On, Week Off of chemo. On those ON weeks, he got so tired, he might be deep asleep when I got home and awaken after businesses were closed.

We connected (again: we’ve had two other clean up adventures) with David Lee, a Servicemaster genius who was ready to start work as soon as we determined what needed to be done. Mike tried to figure out what our insurance would pay. One real consideration was that if, we needed to pay over a certain amount, it would make more sense to tear it down. Honestly, that would have been my vote on the first day of this adventure. For Mike to arrive at that assessment, well, that was heart breaking.

The bad news kept coming. (I promise I’m almost done.) It turns out that the floor joists are rotten, have been rotten for quite a time and must, MUST, be replaced. Tearing up the entire first floor. Mr. Insurance Guy says that our coverage does NOT cover that. So we waited for a number. More discussion of tearing down the cottage. And, another chemo week with all that THAT brings.

Then, we got the number. Yes, we can afford it. But SHOULD we? We paused. We prayed.

Then, my question to the hub: Do you think we might get another summer?

He: Maybe.

Me: Then, let’s do it.

So, that’s what we’re going to do. More than that, I believe that’s what God wants us to do. I spent several hours yesterday going over the estimate from Mr. Lee. I checked off or wrote questions in the margin and we will clear those up on Monday.

The work begins this week. That coincides with Mike’s decision to take a vacation from chemo. And although we would think these two decisions were separate, I believe it’s all part of the Coordinated Plan for Mike and Lynne.

Early on, Mike's first idea was that I would oversee the work. (“from Kokomo?” I don’t ask such questions out loud.) His new plan is that HE will oversee the work. So much better for both of us. Isn’t that just like God?

No matter what else occurs, the Lake Cottage will be fresh and new and ready for summer.

A Day Off: A Day to Note

February has been busy around here. And tomorrow, being Presidents' Day, I get a day off from school. I really love what I do but sometimes, well, it consumes my time and then I drop into bed and sleep very well. I have 4 drafts of blog update, in long hand, that I plan to translate, hopefully tomorrow.

Tomorrow also marks 3.

3 years ago, 2/20/09, was the day that Mike first checked into the ER at our local hospital, feeling that something was amiss. Within 6 weeks, we had our diagnosis and the surgeon's data-guided prognosis.

"Get your affairs in order. Statistically, this will take your life in 6 - 8 months."

Well wishers love to spout aphorisms like "Doctors don't know everything." And although that's true, OUR doctor understood that Mike operated a very busy law firm and cared for 1000+ clients. He had employees. He had legal obligations. OUR doctor's advice was purposed and helpful.

Within 2 months, the office was closed successfully and Mike and I prepared, as best we could, to untangle the rest of our daily lives. We held each other close and outlined whatever else we thought needed to be done.

As we say, often, how weird it is, to be living like this, living and having shelved all those POST-Mike agendas.

So many of you continue to stand with us. We thank you. We pray that God's purposes will continue to be done in us and through us.

No, we haven't fallen off the edge of the planet...

It's been a busy two weeks here. I have updates but for now, let me call on you to remember us in prayer during this next week.

Monday, Mike will get his next chemo treatment and then return to the week of oral chemo. During the last two cycles, this wiped him out for much of the week.

Although we really do love each other, we're good if Valentine's Day involves naps and cuddles.

But, Mike is putting the finishing touches on his next talk: he'll be speaking at The Kokomo Huddle on Wednesday. I'm taking 1/2 day off so I can attend.

Then, he continues to practice as he will be joining the band at Oakbrook Church next Sunday.

So, while you await all the other news, please pray for us this week.

Here we go again

So this week, Mike is back to the chemo place for treatment. In addition to that, he takes the 6 horse pills for 8 days. He finds that these treatments hit him harder as the number rises. So far, he says it's worth it.

I mentioned that it seemed to me that Good Days/Bad Days are about even. He says that no, the Bad Days are more numerous. But it's not time to give up. There's a kayak that's almost finished. There's the dream of another summer at the lake.

The treatment is Monday. Then, on Friday, we drive back to University Hospital for the 5th ERCP. Quite a week.

Central Indiana is a buzz. Next Sunday, it's SUPERBOWL Sunday in Indianapolis. Our papers and new shows are wall-to-wall stories about what's going on, what's going to go on, and how to the action. This is especially important for all those fans who can't pony up the ticket price but want to 'be close to the action.'

Superbowl Sunday has not been on our calendar. But I realized today that our route to the hospital is the northern boundary of Superbowl Traffic patterns. I'm assuming that the hospital will restrict its parking; otherwise Friday morning will be interesting for us.

Routines help. Scheduled events help. Expected agendas help. But more than anything, our greatest help comes from the Lord. And, dear friends, when you pray for us, you call upon that help. So thanks.

We are surrounded by His protection and by your spiritual care. I know that I get down sometimes, but God is quick to remind me of His presence. And, He needs to prod me a bit because I have such a short memory.

As 2011 began, I laid a specific request (for me) on my Heavenly Father. A really special friend of mine -- funny, bright, attractive, employed -- had had not so much success in our local dating scene. And although she was probably ok with that, I decided that it was time for her to meet a nice young man. Not Mr. Right, necessarily but Mr. Nice Guy. I sealed my request by sharing it with a Christian friend. Soon after, Mike's cancer returned and I forgot about it.

But guess what? She met Mr. Nice Guy. When I heard about it, well, it wasn't who I might have chosen, for no specific reasons. She was enjoying Mr. Nice Guy when he became Mr. Right. Yup. In love. Engaged. Date set. Woooo hooooo.

When I mentioned the engagement to my Christian prayer friend, she reminded me. "That's what we've been praying for, don't you remember??"

Hm. Well, no it had slipped my mind. But God honored my weakly presented case anyway.

I'm so thankful that God included those Bible stories about the forgetful Israelites. I used to think, "Wow. They forgot how God had taken care of them. Wouldn't you think that after watching the Red Sea part, after eating the manna, after drinking from the rock in the desert, they'd remember?"

But, no, about the time they wiped their mouths, they forgot.

I hope I'm not ungrateful but I DO forget. God answers my prayers faithfully and then often sends in one of His saints to 'knock me upside the hay-id' to recall that I had asked Him for this and that.

I don't know if this is the modus for all, but in our case, a terminal diagnosis jerked a knot in the tail, made us turn around, reorder, and come up with what's really important. In our case, we have been able to live with that understanding.

Powerful Truths: The God who made heaven and earth: take your request to Him, the Father. He knows what you need. He will supply all of your needs.

In our circle of praying friends, we join together to pray for a baby who was born with many needs. He's 5 months old now; his parents, grandparents, and friends are traveling with their arms around The Father.

Our sweet sister-in-law, Janelle, received the dire diagnosis in August: glioblastoma. No one wishes for a brain tumor but this one would be last on your shopping list. Initial treatment seemed to have no effect. But Janelle and Ken, along with so many friends, prayed for and continue to pray for healing. At her last report, the doctor told her that the tumor had shrunk 40 % and was less inflamed. Janelle has been able to reduce her steroid medication and concentrates on enjoying life.

At my school, our prayer circle continues to pray for so many with physical needs. God continues to flex His muscles and beat back fear.

Here at our casa, we will continue to live our lives, staying open to God's leading. Mike has been asked to speak to The Kokomo Huddle again. He will be playing with the church band in mid February. I am about to drag yet another group of high school juniors through my favorite book, The Scarlet Letter.

Much joy here. And peace. And hope.

Arming the Knight for Battle

Many of you who read this blog knew my father. If you knew Dad you probably know my mother. They were married for 46 years, which is quite an accomplishment in this day. Now that the evil Lynne and I have passed 38 years of marriage, making us scarred veterans of the marital wars, I sometimes think about how my parent’s marriage worked and compare theirs to mine.

Most long term couples evolve ways to get along with each other and to help the other person with shortcomings or inabilities. (For a lengthy and comprehensive list of my marital inadequacies please feel free to consult the evil Lynne. Make sure you have at least a couple of hours.) This was certainly true in my parent’s marriage. Most of you know that my father was a lawyer and was always impeccably dressed for work. What you probably did not know is that the man never dressed himself even once in his married life.

Dad did not have a clue about how to dress. When it came to colors, patterns and styles of clothing, he was hopeless. He knew it, too, which was good, because my Mom, while not a “clothes horse,” has a very refined sense of fashion and color.

So every night before my parents drifted off to sleep, my mother laid out what my Dad was to wear the next day, down to socks and underwear, as well as his suit, shirt, tie, belt, shoes, tie tack, cuff links, watch and handkerchief. Mom left nothing to chance. All Dad had to do each morning was to take his shower and put on whatever Mom had laid out. This is why he always looked so professional.

Every morning my parents each had roles to play in two long-standing rituals. The first ritual began when Dad was finished with breakfast. He would head to the door to go to work. Mom would say, “Let’s see what you look like.” Dad would stop and wait to be inspected. Mom would walk around him, adjusting his tie or collar, maybe straightening his lapels, or pulling out his cuffs to check the cuff links. When she was satisfied, she would say, “You look good.”

Then their second marital ritual would play out.

Heading toward the door, Dad would say, oftentimes mimicking the voice of a very, very bad Shakespearean actor, “I am going forth to slay the dragon.” This would be followed by Mom's response, “You are my hero. My knight in shining armor.” And out the door he would go.

At 6 o’clock my Dad would come home from work to a formal dinner in the dining room. The table would always be set with crystal, china, linen tablecloth and napkins, and the chandelier would be dimmed or the room lit with gold candelabras. This was a nightly event in their house. Dad would sit at the head of the table with Mom at the other end, us children on the sides. After the prayer, my Mom would inquire, “Owen, did you slay the dragon today?” Dad would respond saying, “I got in a couple of solid hits, but he got away, again.” Mom would follow his response by counseling, “Well, there is always tomorrow. You can slay him then. You are still my hero.” And the dinner would proceed.

I loved writing this piece, because it brought back memories about my parents and my childhood. Their marriage wasn’t perfect. They had their ups and downs, like all marriages do. Somehow they made the decision to stay together because the relationship was worth it.

These two schmaltzy rituals seem quaint and outdated to me. Yet my heart is warmed when I recall them. If nothing else, my Mom dressing my Dad, inspecting him before he walked out the door, and the “slaying the dragon” skit offered some regularity and solidity to the marriage. Good for them. But there is more to it than merely accommodating or adapting to each other. My Mom knew what is maybe the most important thing a wife can know about her husband.

All good wives know that their man, perhaps above all else, wants to be a hero…their hero. I think God wired men that way. Every man wants to be known by those that he values as being courageous and brave, because that is what makes a hero. Courage and bravery. And you know what else? The hero does not always have to win, either. The true hero has but to try his best.

As I was writing this, the evil Lynne reminded me of what Harper Lee wrote in To Kill a Mockingbird. She said that true courage was present when you knew you were beat before you started, but you took up the fight anyway, because it was the right thing to do. That is what knights in shining armor do, you know.

Mike out.