We spent three days in the hospital this week. James’ kidneys are struggling and the doctors at our local hospital, with agreement from his oncologist pumped him full of constant fluids and did scans and x-rays to determine what they might do to ease his pain and help his organs function better. Turns out, the cancer is solely to blame and the new treatment just isn’t able to work fast enough to fix the problem.
By the time we returned home, the slightest exertion caused him such shortness of breath that it scared us both. We took a long look at our options and came to realize that hospice is the only thing that will bring him comfort, and so we made that heartbreaking call.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing that can prepare you for this moment. When you say, “For better or for worse,” or even, “In sickness and in health,” you don’t envision watching you beloved sign a DNR form, or watching cancer take away their ability to move without pain. We both were present when one of our parents went through this same process and yet we still feel emotionally ill-equipped.
The service coordinator for hospice was here this afternoon and they have already coordinated with their physician and changed several of his medications to bring more immediate relief from all of his pressing issues. Tomorrow, all the equipment will arrive and we will set up the bed near the bedroom window where he can watch the snow fall and the deer frolic and the birds on the feeders.
This time of year is about peace and joy and love. My prayer now is that all the joy we have created together and all the moments of love we have savored between us will be enough to bring him peace. For there is nothing that I want more for him right now than peace.
We are waiting. Last week, James started a new treatment. It is most likely our last treatment option. It’s a treatment that comes with very high risk of complications, complications that can be major issues. It’s a treatment that comes with a low chance for working, especially for James, considering all we know and all that hasn’t worked to date. But, it was an option and we weren’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.
These treatments don’t function like chemotherapy. There aren’t predictable side effects, or even a predictable timeline for having side effects. Every patient responds differently and every patient has a unique set of side effects on a unique, unpredictable timeline. Treatment itself went fine. No immediate issue arose and we came home that afternoon. But we never know when something might arise.
He has been extraordinarily tired. Like he was in May. He barely eats, and when he does it is mostly all-liquid, so we are focusing on high protein drinks as well as those with extra electrolytes. He sleeps nearly twenty hours a day and has a very hard time getting comfortable just about anywhere but in bed, and even there it is sometimes difficult. He can feel the pressure around his abdomen from the tumor growth. I can see the difference in the shape of his body over the last month. It is frightening how fast these tumors can grow.
Our doctor and her team of nurses always remind us that we need to contact them with any changes. It’s the any that’s empahsized. From head to toe, side effects come in an array of variants, and they want to know as soon as we start to see or feel anything that is different.
Which is why I have become a persistent nag during the times he is awake. I want to know how he is feeling, how is his discomfort, does he feel like he can eat anything, how much liquid has he had? I’m all questions and nagging suggestions and I listen and I watch and I’m sure I drive the man crazy, but we feel like we are on hightened alert, waiting for something, something that could be catastrophic.
Tonight, I was updating his weekly medicine schedule that we print out and check off. He has been recording how many of the “take as needed” pain meds he takes a day in addition to all the other meds that he is prescribed to take at certain times of the day. We had intended to call the oncologist today, just to touch base and let her know that he was maxing out that “as needed” dosage and still in discomfort most of the day, but the call didn’t happen. As I typed up and printed this week’s schedule, I asked how many of those pills he had taken today.
“One.”
“One?”
“One.”
One and only one is something. Or maybe it’s nothing. But when the answer has been four, four, four, four for the past week or more, to hear him say, “One,” felt remarkably like something. We both noticed the change in the air. We both stopped and looked at each other. “That’s something,” I said.
This treatment can take weeks and multiple doses before symptoms start to subside or the cancer starts to shrink or to stop growing. Some people can react sooner, but we didn’t have our hopes set too high. And this may just be one good day, and not a true indicator that anything has really changed.
But when you live in the reality that we live in, everything feels like something.
Forgive me. There are no pictures of fluffy cows on our card this year, no stories of chicken antics, not even a picture of the dog or the cat. There are no poetic verses about the wildlife, the neglected garden or the joy of porch sitting. This entire year has felt like Narnia – always winter, but never Christmas.
The carols have begun, in stores, on the radio and in my car, but there is nothing merry or bright about our year and peace and joy are elusive at best. My favorite Christmas carol is “O Holy Night.” The crescendo of words and song and meaning and message floods me everytime, “…fall on your knees, oh hear the angels’ voices, oh ni-ight divine, oh night divine…”
This has been a year of falling on our knees – sometimes being knocked down to them. James’ diagnosis of Stage 4 melanoma last March has taken away our strength to stand most days. It has pushed us to the ground and robbed us of our light. We have spent countless hours asking for, begging for, praying for a voice from above to guide us, console us, to heal James, to help us. We speak with God and Mom and all those who have gone before us, hoping their angelic voices might comfort us, but the heavens feel silent.
The latest treatment, which we hoped would buy us a year, has ceased being effective after five very short months. We will keep trying other options and keep praying, but there is also a reality that we live within, one that reminds us what Stage 4 means, one that forces us to face a terminal illness head on with our eyes wide open.
In this blackest and most silent of nights, however, when our knees are bruised and our hearts are joyless, I am reminded that this night, every night, even this evil night that we find ourselves living in, this still, like my favorite carol sings, is a night divine. God is here. God is here in this darkness. He is with us. Our faith is fragile at best and at times absent altogether but we are forever blessed by those with strong faith who pray on our behalf.
We are trying with all our might to recognize the blessings around us and in us. We are blessed with great doctors, blessed with living within driving distance of the Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan. We have been blessed with good insurance and support from far and wide. But, at the end of the day, they are all blessings I wish we never had the need or use for. We try to savor the moments, the time, the love. But my beloved is tired, and hurting and we are powerless to stop this evil, incurable disease. We will continue to fall on our knees and pray for a cure that only God can provide. And we will try to believe that there is an eternity where any of this makes sense.
And so, forgive me. For not being merry and bright. For not feeling peace or an abundance of joy. Forgive me for not finding a way to write a message of optimism and hope. Forgive us for leaning on all of you for faith that is stronger than ours, while we lean on each other, holding on to the only thing we feel with confidence – love.
Ten years ago, James drove me to a park downtown Kalamazoo where he had expected Christmas lights, decorations and festivities to be in full swing. Instead, we walked around a decorated but not lit park, and we stopped by a nativity that only had a few sheep and he shared portions of a speech he had practiced but now in nervousness forgot, and he proposed.
Ten years ago, in that park, we promised each other forever, both of us knowing there were no promises as to how it would go or where it would lead.
Today, we drove to the store. Unlike ten years ago, there is snow everywhere today, so much so that school was called off for the day and since we already had to be out for his weekly blood work, we decided to face the store before the holiday shoppers got too overwhelming. In all honesty, I had tried, several times, to convince him to stay home. Just yesterday, he was exhausted just trying to put the damn sheets back on the bed, a process that took him two hours to complete for all the breaks he had to take. But he was having none of it and insisted he go along. He’s always been the shopper, and even now, he feels like it’s a contribution he can make.
Unlike ten years ago, we didn’t walk hand in hand together. I convinced him after our brief stop at Menard’s that about did him in, that he would at least ride a cart in the grocery store. And so, he drove around the store as we got all the ingredients, snacks and meal prep items for the kids’ visit later next week. Instead of talking about our future together, instead of talking about our plans, we talked about what we needed, what we already had and what we would need to get later.
But just like the park, we stopped many times and just breathed together. I wrapped my arms around him in that damn cart and we both struggled to keep the tears at bay. At one point, I went ahead a couple aisles just so I could cry before he caught up to me.
He was whipped long before we were done, but he was a trooper and helped me finish the big shop. He reluctantly got in the snow covered car and let me unload the carts and put them in the corral. I sat, engine running, wipers pushing away the snow, for longer than was necessary to warm up the car, because I couldn’t drive for all my tears.
And when we got home, he went from passenger seat, to the bench in the mud room, to the seat at our counter and then finally to the bedroom to sleep.
We didn’t know ten years ago, the battle ahead of us. We knew there would be battles, and we knew life wouldn’t be easy- we both lost a parent in our early twenties- but we didn’t expect that our tenth year might very well be our last.
Today was a gift. After a week of struggling to be at school when all I want to do is be home with him, today was a day to do just that. And as hard as it is for both of us to navigate through this grief and this frustration and this anger, we both felt grateful for this day.
Ten years will never, not ever, be enough. But every day that I can spend with James is a good day. Today might just have been grocery shopping, and the walk in the park ten years ago might have felt like anything but spectacular, but we don’t need fanfare or photographers or even festive lights to make a day together a blessing. We know our days are numbered and we know they all count. Each and every one of them.
It’s conference week at school, which means I’ve been stressed and working even longer hours than usual. I’m overdoing it, according to my co-teacher, but I know parents want to see examples of what I’m discussing, and so I’ve been collecting work and giving assessments to have the most current data and evidence to share.
I’m out tomorrow, the day before conferences, for our monthly oncology appointment at University of Michigan, which doesn’t help my school load. So, as usual, I was at school early, worked through my lunch and planning period and still didn’t leave until 5:30, nearly two hours after the students left. I’m more ready than I was, but I still have a stack of writings that need feedback, so I brought those along to work on in the waiting room(s) tomorrow.
I texted James to let him know when I was finally leaving school and he texted back that he would get dinner started. He’s always so understanding of my need to stay late or go early and he has never complained about holding dinner until I arrive home, whenever that might be.
On my drive home, I noticed the moon. The time change made it just dusk enough to really notice it’s huge glow low on the eastern horizon. I voice-texted Jacob to let him know it might be a beautiful night to see the moon over Chicago from the top of his apartment building. I pulled into the drive, past the empty pasture which reminded me of a conversation I had with a new colleague at school this morning. She was talking about loading cows this past weekend and the long and short of the conversation left me having to briefly explain why we no longer have any. The long day, the full moon, the empty pasture, the whole thing didn’t help my tired heart as I arrived home.
I pulled into the garage and grabbed my lunch bag, leaving the papers right where they were for tomorrow. I glanced at my phone to see Jacob’s text back and was responding as I walked to the back door. At first, all I heard while I texted was the air fryer through the stove vent, but then I heard the sound that just shatters my heart every single time. James was vomiting. I stood with my hand on the doorknob and cried.
This disease feels like the worst rollercoaster a person could live on. We were filled with optimism after our last oncology visit – more hope than we’ve ever had. And James had a couple great weeks where he feels really good and seems his normal self, if just a much skinnier version, but then we plummet again. This nausea and vomiting has been going on fairly steadily, but without an obvious cause for nearly three weeks. He is tired again, going to bed just after dinner, which he barely touches, and the reductive changes to his pain meds last month have left him in more discomfort. Tomorrow we will meet with the doctor who will remind us once again of the reality of this ride. It’s torturous.
And I will sit with families on Wednesday and Thursday nights and I will discuss what feels to them like the most important things possible, but which in reality don’t matter at all. And then I will go back to the business of teaching. All while wondering, what difference does that even make?
He is my beloved and he is suffering and there is absolutely nothing I can do to make any of it go away. He stood on the ground and held the ladder while I climbed on the roof to blow leaves and clean out gutters, neither of us happy with our position or task. He has run the mower and the leaf vac several times this fall, keeping up with the leaves, assured that I would lug the blower and clear out the beds and the backyard on the weekend, but both of us knowing how worried I am that he is overdoing it, and how worried he is that I will be trying to do it all alone next year.
Tomorrow, doc will adjust his medications, hopefully finding a new combination that eases his stomach and helps him eat so he has more energy and a combination that will also makes him pain and discomfort free once again. And, tomorrow he has a follow-up CT scan of his neck, looking more closely at a section that gave the doctor pause in October. There is just always something. Always. Something. Always.
When people ask how we are, or how is James doing, there just is no simple answer. I usually say, “We are hanging in there,” and while I never elaborate, it would be more accurate to finish that with, “…by a gossamer thread.”
Ever since the trailer arrived ten days ago, we have been struggling mightily with the reality of the situation. Our beloved cows are leaving.
I have cried at some point during every day since, including several times yesterday during professional development meetings, when a colleague asked what he believed was a safe question, “How’s the farm?”
The departure of the babes in the pasture is a harsh bookend to a dream that began over a dozen years ago when we saw our first Scottish Highland at a pumpkin patch and said, “Someday…”
Even when the reality of James’ diagnosis became tangible to us, our intention was to keep the herd until after- to allow James every moment possible with the creatures he has cared for and tended to. But James worried heavily about the burden of their care and about putting the work of selling them off on me during what will already be a difficult time. And so, when an opportunity presented itself, we chose instead to face this task now, together.
The buyers are a family just as sweetly innocent about the care of cattle as we were. And they are just as excited to bring these bovines home to their pasture as we were to bring Samson and Delilah to ours. James bought hay from them a few times and one day the man casually mentioned that he and his wife wanted to get Highlands some day. When James told him ours would be up for sale at some point, the man replied, “Well, send me some pictures and I’ll see what my wife thinks.” James chuckled and replied, “You might as well write me the check now,” and sure enough, his wife fell in love at first sight and a deal was made.
Over the past ten days, James has positioned the trailer at the shelter and moved gates and posts to help facilitate loading cows who have never been trailered. He has been out there every day coaxing all three into the shelter in preparation for today. Feeling like the worst kind of traitor, he has gotten them comfortable with the strange metal carrier and with all three of them being in the small shelter together. But, the fact that none of them would ever set even one foot inside the trailer, even with tempting lures of cornstalks, carrots and sweet feed, caused us both much anxiety about what kind of rodeo today would be like.
Neither of us slept well, as you can imagine. I spent far more time than is reasonable last night alternating between studying YouTube videos of “How to Lead Stubborn Cattle Into a Trailer” and praying for the safety of every person and creature involved. At first light, wanting to get them at least into the shelter before all the help arrived, minimizing some of the anxiety for the cows, we got out of bed to face the day. We called off a couple of our helpers, realizing there was no way that many people could actually be beneficial to the process and we put on our boots and headed out the door.
I walked down the drive alone, ahead of James, who needed to grab a dozen eggs and a couple jars of homemade jam – the only payment his dear friend David had requested when he was asked if he could help. The air was brisk and I scanned the pasture for the cows, always delighting in these kinds of mornings when you could see their breath and the heat rising off their backs. They were over at the gate, checking out an early visitor. An hour and a half before anyone was set to arrive, David was already here, getting acclimated with the cows so they might not see him as a stranger when push literally came to shove. I was relieved beyond words to see him standing there, knowing his life of working with cows would be the biggest asset in our plan for today.
James arrived moments later and had all three in the shelter within minutes after. Those babies would follow that man (and his red bucket of grain) anywhere. This time, he latched the gate behind him and we let them feed and hopefully relax a little before we pushed even further. And then, an hour before any back-up help arrived, the two men decided to see what they could do to load them up.
As much as he wanted to be right in the thick of it, I had made James promise to help from the sidelines today. While I dreaded a trip to the ER for anyone, an injury for him would be catastrophic and it just wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. He had already done more work than he should have with his tired body, but I also know how hard it is to stand back and let someone else do what you know you used to be very capable of.
But David is a natural at this, and other than the inherent and scary complications that horned cattle bring to the game, he was as gentle and sweet with our babies as James would have been. He tough-loved them when necessary, but he also coaxed and gave welcome scratches and sweet-talked until we had two safely secured inside and just one to go.
We did not anticipate Delilah being the stubborn one, but she was the most reluctant to go. David finally got her close enough to the trailer with me providing minimal back up, he pushed and squeezed until she was three hooves inside. James held gates from the safety of outside the pen and I held the trailer door as shut as possible while we waited for her to lift her last stubborn hoof up and into the trailer. The moment she did, David shut and latched the hinged door with a clang and in that same heartbreaking instant, James’ alarm sounded, reminding him to take his morning dose of cancer meds. The “what” and “why” of this terrible moment resounding in our ears. As the boys walked away, I stood with my head against the trailer and sobbed.
As James took his meds and helped David clean up in the barn, I stood with head against the trailer and offered up my prayer of gratitude. I spend so much time praying lately that it felt good to have one feel answered in a way I had wished for. The babes were all loaded, no one was injured and the process had been calm and quiet with just the three of us working together.
Eggs and jam will never be payment enough for what David did for us today. We have worried and fretted over this day and all that it symbolized and he stepped in with grace and compassion and helped us do what James and I could not do alone. We are forever in his debt.
A half hour later the buyers arrived and it seemed like forever before they left. James and I both struggled to contain our emotions as the trailer pulled away and were thankful that David and my sister and her husband -who had arrived to help, not realizing it was already done- quickly followed down the drive.
James and I walked solemnly back to the house, crying with every step. Watching the one you love let go of their dreams is a heartache of immeasurable proportions.
We walked up the lane where we will never again be greeted by big horned, fluffy cows. Before heading on up to the house, we stopped once more to look back over a now empty pasture that held our dreams for the past several years.
Today, we closed a chapter on our story. A chapter that began long before the farm even existed, with an innocent wish in a pumpkin patch, “Someday, let’s have one of those cows!” and ended as another family took over caring and adoring Mabel, Elliott and Delilah.
This isn’t the end of our story, though, and as we sat for hours on the porch today, looking out across the dream that still remains, we are so very grateful for all that we’ve been blessed with and all that we’ve enjoyed building together. And while the heartache of their absence will be long felt for both of us, we are most grateful that we found each other all those years ago and that together we not only dreamed crazy dreams, but we turned them into reality. We didn’t listen to the people who said, “You’re going to do what?!” We listened, instead, to our hearts and we built our little farm out of those dreams. And because of that, we’ve been able to sit here, in these chairs on this porch for years, living that dream and cherishing everything it has to offer.
We were planning on cleaning up the garden, but James suggested we go for donuts and cider at a local orchard and who am I to suggest chores over sweet autumn treats? From the gravel parking lot we could smell cinnamon and apples and as we approached the farm buildings, the crisp fall day was full of activity. Pumpkins and mums decorated the area, local craft vendors had set up tents displaying their goods and creations and kids were in abundance running, laughing and riding in wagons.
I’ve always loved fall; the way God paints the trees, the way the woods smell, the way the air feels crisp on the skin, and the apple, cinnamon and pumpkin flavors delight my taste buds. We started at the bakery where we indulged in half a dozen fresh made donuts. A quick stop at the cider press for a half gallon of cider and then off to a picnic table to enjoy our late breakfast.
There was a folk music quartet playing acoustically and we enjoyed every moment of guitars and voices. We watched kids running up the hill and flying down the slide on inner tubes all giggles and smiles shouting to their waiting parents and grandparents, “I wanna do it again!” before they were even on their feet.
Don’t let our happy faces fool you. I tried to soak up their joy, tried to embrace the simplicity of their folly, but the tears came despite my best efforts. A man singing, “Marry me….marry me…” made my heart struggle to beat and my lungs fight for air. This amazing man next to me should have held his own children in his arms, but that never quite happened. He would be without a doubt the world’s best grandfather, but that isn’t in the cards for him either. This will be my last fall with him; our last time watching the colors, hearing the migrating cranes, listening for owls through our bedroom windows and soaking up the sun on cool autumn days like we did today. All this joy around me, and I sat at a table unable to stop my sorrow.
People say, “At least you have time together, at least you can do all the things you want to do before…” but there are days when we wish that wasn’t so. There are days when the man holding onto me has to watch me mourn before he is even gone.
We ate all the donuts and listened to the men sing Buffet and Cash and Taylor and every other song that made my heart break. We walked back to the car hand in hand, watching the kids ride the ponies and pet the goats and mothers and grandfathers wiping caramel off small faces. We walked together soaking up the day yet feeling the weight of our shared grief at all that isn’t fair, all that feels cruel, all that will never be.
I don’t know how to survive this. I really don’t even want to survive this. I do not want to be in a world where he is not. Just last night we went out with friends – a last-minute, anywhere-there-is-music-playing kind of escape. We ate nachos and pizza and most of us sang “American Pie” while James cringed and altered the lyrics to express his extreme dislike for the song. And we laughed. We laughed until we cried.
On the drive home James struggled to find the words to express how hard it was to think about how painful this process is for me and I struggled to stop crying long enough to tell him how unfair this is for him. We laid together in bed, crying so hard together we couldn’t even speak. We are angry. We are hurting, we are struggling to savor the joy when the grief is tangible, the fear of the loss is enormous and feels insurmountable and the absurdity of it all is astounding. I am losing my beloved.
I pray, every single day, for miracles. I pray for complete healing. I pray for a cure. I pray that somehow he will be spared the future his oncologist tells us awaits him. I pray.
But James and I have to live with our feet on the ground; we have to face a hard reality and we have to truly understand that horrible things happen and there is nothing we can do to stop them.
We celebrated James’ 51st birthday today. It was hard to know just exactly how we should celebrate. I had originally planned a large dinner with friends and family but the thought of it all made me feel uneasy. Surely, it would be appropriate for me to give a toast. I did so a year ago at a very similar setting, but the thought of the words I said just a year ago, words about surviving a cancer scare and all the dreams we’ve created together and the years still ahead of us – well, I knew there just weren’t words for our feelings about this year and the path ahead. The worry that people might share favorite things about James made me worry that it would, for him, feel like attending his own memorial service. And so, I changed the plans.
We spent the day in Chicago, with the kids. The day included a bucket-list item – the mob and crime tour of Chicago, as well as a stop at a nature center and then dinner at the Chicago Firehouse. The tour was everything we could have hoped for, with a very animated and knowledgeable tour guide and only two stops where we had to get on and off the bus, an important limit for a man with limited strength and energy.
The nature center was a last minute add-on, with hopes to see the migrating monarchs. We didn’t see a single monarch, but the butterfly room was just enough of a slice of heaven to bring us fleeting peace and a chance to exist in a space with such innocent, delicate and delightful creatures.
The Firehouse was in homage to James’ years as a volunteer “back home”, and the staff made him feel celebrated and appreciated.
The weather was sublimely cooperative, the kids were lovely and everything went off without a hitch (well, except those pesky monarchs!)
But the day was equally heartbreaking and excruciating and agonizing. Every moment we have feels weighted, feels tarnished, feels complicated. Trying to savor the joy is a great notion, but in practice, it is nearly impossible to remain in the joy without recognizing why you are forcing yourself to savor it so greedily. I cried silently listening to stories about mobsters. I cried watching my beloved be enchanted by butterflies and I cried at dinner knowing that barring that unlikely miracle I pray for daily, I will never get to share a birthday with him again.
A year ago, I gave a toast, wishing James another 50 years, “…to find places not yet dreamed of…” and “…to have people beside you that help lift you up, keep you humble and surround you with love.” Today, just 365 days later, I pray for 50 more weeks, 50 more days, 50 more memories, 50 more moments of joy together. I pray. And I cry.
…played games! Whether it was Jenga at the winery, Play Nine with the young’ns, mini-golf, air hockey, Cascadia or playing cards with Jacob and Carissa, we had a blast every single time!
…spent time with loved ones. We saw every family member and nearly every friend we have over the course of the season. Thanks to everyone who traveled to see us! Thanks to everyone who allowed us to come visit them and thanks to everyone for sharing with us your time and love!
…we spent time with animals! From the wildlife on the farm, to the creatures in the coop and the pasture and inside to Charlotte and Trudy, we loved spending time with all of them! (The sweet little puppy on the bottom left we just got to love on, she’s not ours!)
…spent a lot of time near water! We saw three of the Great Lakes as well as countless smaller lakes, rivers, canals, creeks and ponds! We took the backroads as much as possible and got our toes in the water countless times. Our favorites included Lexington, MI and Leelanau State Park and lighthouse.
…ate some amazing food! From doughnuts to desserts to crepes and even oysters (well, one of us had oysters!) we enjoyed delicious food and often at places with beautiful views! Crab cakes on the lake, ice cream at the locks, and drinks on the rooftop, we spoiled ourselves!
…we enjoyed our garden, although it was far more neglected than normal. Our counter has been adorned with flowers whenever we’ve been home and our taste buds have been delighted with tomatoes, zucchini, asparagus, peas, carrots, onions, corn, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and many herbs as well! We’ve canned three batches of salsa with more to come!
…have all been entertained by James and his antics!! Whether it was becoming the obstacle in mini-golf, or making us laugh with his inability to ever be embarrassed, he kept us all laughing!
…made sure James got to rest. Fighting the fight is exhausting so we made sure he could stop and rest whenever he needed to! We appreciated the understanding and flexibility of everyone we were with who allowed time to just stop for a bit so he could rejuvenate!
The best part of my summer was definitely who I spent it with…
You know how it is, you don’t notice something that you drive by every day until something actually makes you stop and take full notice of it. So it was with our peach trees in our little orchard alongside the lane. We were so excited this spring when we saw the starts of peaches on both of the peach trees. We’ve only ever had a total of three peaches on the trees before and so this was reason to celebrate and cheer for sure. But then we got busy and we stopped noticing the peach trees when we would come or go from the farm (mainly we were just watching out for the extended family of Canadian Geese that have taken up residence near the pond).
Until we noticed.
The second tree had smaller peaches than the first, but it had zillions of them. Zillions might be an exaggeration but coming from none last year, abundant peaches sure looked like zillions. And while a zillion peaches sounds delish (cobber, jam, with yogurt, did I mention cobbler?) there were so many peaches that despite being half sized, they were weighing down the branches something terrible. Which is exactly what we now noticed.
So today we headed out to harvest our first ever peach crop, only the peaches weren’t quite ripe enough. We feared they would break the branches if we left them on any longer, so our happy harvest was not nearly so exciting when you realize that we just dumped a zillion half-sized peaches in the woods for all the local critters to enjoy instead of having cobbler tonight. Sigh. Next year, I promised the tree, we will thin out the blossoms long before they become heavy fruit.
To everyone who knows us, James and I are an SOS flag waving in the wind. The words “Stage 4” are all anyone needs to hear before they immediately offer help, support, encouragement – absolutely anything at all. We have an army of friends, family and strangers praying for us, and we know we could have a crew here in an instant if we needed help with anything at all.
But it occurred to me today, while up on a ladder, picking peaches and tossing them in the bucket, that most of the time when we need help in our lives, it isn’t obvious. There isn’t some two-word code phrase that people easily say when they need or want help, unfortunately. People ask, “How are you?” and we say, “Fine,” even when we are very far from it. We all might have an army of support willing to help at any moment, but as far as anyone can tell, we are doing great, we are feeling good and our lives are full of blessings.
So was our peach tree. It was blessed with fruit and we were excited and we celebrated but we didn’t notice until it was literally weighed down from the effort of all that work that we realized it needed help. And it needed a whole bucket full of help! I suspect that many times when we say we are fine we are very much not fine but we don’t know how to say so, or we feel like it speaks badly of us if we can’t just handle it all on our own.
People have said to me recently, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” It’s not my favorite thought, certainly not right now it isn’t, but today, I changed my thinking about that phrase by just tweaking it slightly. Perhaps, in that phrase, the word “you” is meant to be plural. Maybe God doesn’t give us – the collective us – more than we can handle. Collectively handle. I don’t know that James and I could handle all that we have on our plates right now alone. But we don’t have to. And I know our little peach tree couldn’t have handled that load much longer without great injury to branch or trunk. It needed help. It just couldn’t ask for it.
I hope that little tree always serves as a reminder to me to notice the people in my life who have SOS flags waving, and to do whatever I can to lend a hand. But I hope even more so, that it reminds me of all the people around me, people I know and people I don’t know yet- that need my help but who can’t ask for it for whatever reason. Maybe it just looks like their life is full of sweet blessings. Maybe I need to really see it for what it is and realize they are weighed down with burdens and to provide support in whatever manner they need most. Maybe I need to wait a beat after they say, “Fine,” to be certain that’s really how they feel.
I am not blessed with a belly full of cobbler tonight, but I think my heart was blessed with a lesson I needed to learn. God doesn’t give any of us more than we can handle – with His help and those who share their love with us, whether we are able to ask for it or not.
Blessed Little Things 