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.

This summer, we…

…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…

…and that we spent every moment of it together!

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.

James’ family came to visit today. His sister had flown from Arkansas to Ohio where his brother lives and the two of them had traveled to Michigan together, picked up their mom across the state and then they all drove here to see us. We had a very nice visit together, but true of everything right now, there were moments where we all struggled due to the circumstances. His mom has survived the death of two husbands and the loss of one of her children already. His sister, whom he sees annually, left knowing she might not get the chance to hug her brother again. His brother, who took all of this on himself to make happen, wishes he could do far more to help his little brother. And James, exhausted long before he should have been, tried to keep his game face on and join in the usual familial antics, but wasn’t able to fool anyone. Our hearts all ached for him.

His mom wanted to see the garden and we happily obliged, knowing how many times we talked with her and Henry about what was working and what was not each year. She was amazed at the peaches growing down the lane and we promised to pick some to send home with her. There were several everbearing strawberries waiting for her arrival in the garden. The tomato plants have grown a foot in the last week and are overshooting their supports, much to her delight. While there are weeds aplenty, she was only focused on all the things that were growing and the abundance the garden contained; we smelled the basil, admired the carrots and even spotted the start of a pumpkin growing. We showed off the grapevines, abundant with fruit and talked about the gamble of gardening and how you just never know what will grow or how well. She left for home a few hours later with eggs, peaches and a belly full from cobbler made with our first ever homegrown peaches.

Tonight, despite an afternoon nap, James headed to bed early, in need of extra rest. I left Trudy in the house and went to collect eggs, noticing how green the farm looks with all the rain we’ve had. I rounded the corner to the coop when movement caught my eye. A doe and her two fawns were racing across in front of me. She and I both froze in our tracks and stood watching each other. The fawns raced into the woods, but the doe took a step towards me and stood for a good long glance before snorting and snuffing and racing after her precious babes. I smiled and treasured the encounter, savoring the motherly moment shared with something wild.

Inside the coop, I had hens and eggs waiting for me. My broody hen clucked quietly to me as I removed her once again from the nest and shoo’d her out the door. I filled the feed tubes and collected a bounty of eggs all while Gabby, my aptly named hen clucked and clucked at me, before latching the door for the night and heading back to the house. On the porch, Charlotte lay curled up on a chair, content as a cat can be to watch the rainy evening in front of her.

While we pray daily, hourly, for miracles, today I was reminded of the small beauties and blessings that surround us. Family, a home, a bounty of flowers, fruits and vegetables as well as creatures of all kinds filled our hearts day today. We will both sleep well tonight knowing that we are surrounded by beauty and love and the blessings of a summer afternoon spent together.

“What were you laughing about?”

Our house doesn’t lend itself to privacy. Not that my conversation was a secret, I just felt badly when I crawled into bed later and worried I had kept James awake.

“So many things,” I replied. “You know how conversations with Jacob are.”

He knows exactly what I mean. It isn’t just one thing, or one topic. Jacob just has a way of phrasing things or of relating to a topic that makes us smile and often laugh out loud. He is articulate, smart, well-read and yet self-aware enough to be able to good-naturedly poke fun at himself and life in very appropriate but hysterical ways. Conversations with the kid always do my heart good and tonight was no exception.

Jacob can discuss any topic well, he can disagree respectfully, he can communicate not only what he thinks but also how he feels and he demonstrates compassion beyond his years. He is also able, quite accurately and somewhat deftly, to relate a recent Star Trek episode he had watched with something I philosophically mentioned during the conversation. And I am certain he felt my smirk when he described himself as having been a “good student growing up.” True, if you add in all the frustrations that his teenage self put me through to get to that point. This, is my child.

For all the ways that the world feels wrong and hard and backwards and evil and forsaken and corrupt and perhaps even despairing right now, talking with Jacob gives me immeasurable hope. I hope he always knows, deep in his soul what a blessing he is.

The frogs are quiet tonight. Instead of the loud chorus that pulses during the first part of July, we are down to just a couple throaty croaks out back. It always humors me this time of year to hear the few remaining hopefuls out in the marsh. I liken it to the people at a bar during last call – still hoping to maybe, just maybe find a mate before closing. The bats are flying in the twilight and I can hear a quiet chorus of what sounds like cicadas in the woods. The house itself is dark. Except for the glow of the monitor, the only light is what is left of the day outside, leaving the world in black shadows and outlines.

James has gone to bed. His energy from last week and the week before seems to be waning; he is up later each morning and heads to bed sooner at night. He has even gone back to taking naps the last couple of days. There are other symptoms of some concern, ones his doctor has already prescribed some new medications to help with and some we will talk about more with her next week at our appointment.

This rollercoaster of hope and optimism followed by fear and concern seems like the general map of what is to come. This may be as sure of footing as we will ever feel we have and we are doing our best to help each other navigate this new landscape.

We have been sorting. Both of our families are coming for visits and some part of me thought it would be easier to go through some things now, to ensure they get into the right hands, but easier is a misnomer for sure. Nothing is easy. The process is certainly an emotional one for James, but it leaves many of the same questions for me – How do you detach your feelings from tangible mementos? We have boxes and boxes and china cabinets and closets and hope chests and trunks full of memories from our journeys through this world and yet, what becomes of them when we are gone? They do not hold meaning to anyone else. This process of letting go is emotionally draining, mentally crippling at times and heartbreaking at others.

As I sit here in this hour of twilight, knowing I cannot stop nor slow down the impending darkness, I struggle to find stability traversing this shifting road we are on. And yet, I am reminded by the frogs and the bats and the wind in the trees, that this is all part of the cycle. I am reminded to not hold too tightly to the tangible things of my life, but instead to hold fiercely onto the people, places and creatures that I have loved in this life, for it is that love, that will remain. Long after I am gone, after all my closets have been emptied, all my boxes sorted, all my belongings distributed to charity or even the trash, long after all my mementos have lost their significance, it is the love we have given into this world that will remain.

I am blessed by that reminder. I am blessed to have the love of those who came before me still within me. I am blessed to have the strength of that love within me.

James and I enjoy traveling the most when there is a only a rough itinerary, with very few pre-determined times or places. Beyond the doctor appointments in Ann Arbor that served as the launching point for our travels, we had only a general sequence of places and events for our mini-vacation for the days following, which is how we came to find ourselves in Lexington, Michigan with time on our hands.

We had spent the morning in James’ hometown, sampling doughnuts from the bakery, driving past all the homes he had lived in, circling the school parking lots as he reminisced about his days there, driving past the baseball fields he played on and stopping in to one of the more significant places he had worked during that time. James had been to the nearby town of Lexington many times growing up, but in addition to the sentimental value it held for him, he drove there thinking I might enjoy walking the pier on Lake Huron like we do sometimes on the west side of the state near our home. In addition to the restaurants James could remember from his childhood, Lexington also has a small but thriving downtown area with a handful of cute shops – just the type of places I enjoy strolling around and browsing through on beautiful summer days. And so we found ourselves milling about in perfect seventy degree weather, under nearly cloudless blue skies, bopping into this store and that, as we walked down the street towards the lake.

The pier itself was perhaps the most beautiful one I had ever seen, even in its simplicity. Built up with boulders on either side, the pier extended out and away from land, forming a crescent-shaped cove in which boats were docked. The sight from shore was beautiful, but once out on the pier the expanse was breathtaking, with nothing but deep blue water as far as our eyes could see. What we love about being near great bodies of water is never the beach or being in the sand, however. What we love about the water is the sound of the waves, and, in addition to the view, this pier was also one of the best I had ever been on for the sound. We stopped to watch a couple of freighters way off in the distance and then I climbed out onto one of the boulders and sat down with James joining me in silence.

The water below and right in front of us was the truest turquoise I have seen this side of a box of Crayolas, but not far out from the pier it turned into a deep yet bright blue, giving easy evidence for why the bridge by our hotel was called the “Blue Water Bridge.”

Sitting out on the rocks, we both were reminded of our trip to Maine several years ago. That was the first time we had heard waves on rocks together and we had enjoyed it as much then as we were now. With absolutely no where to be for hours, we lingered right there, savoring every piece of the moment – the warmth of the summer sun, the cooling effect of the breeze off the water, the smell of fresh but deep water, the sight of boats so far on the horizon they appeared blue or grey and with little to reference them against, they seemed hardly to move at all. But for both of us, overwhelmingly, we savored the sound the most. Steady, rhythmic, soothing- waves upon waves upon waves. A sound as eternal as time.

Just two days prior, we had been reminded by James’ oncologist of the limitations this disease dictates for us, and of the increasingly finite number of days that are perhaps left for us to share together. But here, on this rock, under the afternoon sun, with nothing but vast water in front of us and the crashing waves at our feet, time didn’t just slow, it seemed to just stop. There was nothing more to the world, no worries, no stress, no sorrow, no disease, nothing but peacefulness and joy. We aren’t beach people, but if I could live on a lake where that sound existed every day I would readily have signed the papers still sitting on that rock.

We did eventually leave the rocks, of course. We moved no more than a hundred yards to a table on the patio of a restaurant where we had delicious seafood and soaked in as much of that same panoramic view as we could. Over the next couple of days, we spent time near or around Lake Huron and the St. Clair River, but nothing came close to the peacefulness we savored that day on the pier in Lexington.

A few weeks ago, James and I had a very sudden realization that I was done with school and we were in between treatments and within 24 hours we had the car packed and we were headed south to Tennessee to see Dad and Judy. Our intention was to stay several days and hit an appointment at U of M on our way home but we didn’t make it several days. The trip was more than James could handle and we only realized that once we made the 10 1/2 hour drive and he was in bed nearly the entire time we were there. He really tried to be social, but he was in incredible pain and he was completely exhausted and so we left earlier than we had planned and made the difficult journey back home where he could get slightly more comfortable and sleep without guilt.

The most recent scans were discouraging at best. Tumor growth and spread, which made the decision to stop immunotherapy and switch to BRAF inhibitors easier – at least as far as wanting to suppress symptoms was concerned – but incredibly difficult when you know that immunotherapy is a way to get more years (when it works) and the inhibitors can only buy us months at best. But we knew James needed pain and symptom relief and to get that we had to use a treatment that was going to effectively shrink the tumors, even if that treatment didn’t have the longevity of the other.

We saw improvement almost immediately. Within just a few days he had his energy back and within a week he was eating almost normal meals. We took advantage of the change and headed to the east side of Michigan to visit friends and family and his hometown.

While the trip only lasted three and a half days, it felt like weeks of pure bliss and delight. We crossed over to Canada to see relatives and had a wonderful afternoon talking, reminiscing and laughing together. We spent a day in his hometown, pointing out places and talking about childhood memories. We capped off that great day with friends that were so instrumental to James’ early adulthood – people I felt an instant connection to despite never having personally met before. We spent time around the lakes and rivers, we spent time eating amazing food, we spent time just sitting on a balcony watching the freighters go by. And we capped off our trip with good friends who filled our hearts with such support, encouragement and laughter! We got to enjoy the company of children and of friends that last a lifetime.

We returned home to peaches nearly ripened on the trees, to fresh zucchini, a handful of blueberries and raspberries and a thriving garden after much-needed rain. Best of all, we returned home with plans to see more family in the coming weeks, including another trip to the water in August where we will spend more time watching boats, laughing and eating amazing food with amazing company.

We are learning to live in the moment and to expect nothing from tomorrow. We are learning to say what is on our hearts and minds and to make sure the people we love know how deeply we care about them. We are learning to do more than just sit, relax, and breathe together – we are learning to savor – for these are the moments we want to store in our hearts.

We know this energy and health won’t last forever. We will continue to pray that it does, but we will also listen to his oncologist and to the data and science behind this disease and we will continue to prepare for that inevitability. But, we will also take as much time out of every single day to find, celebrate and savor joy. To everyone we saw along our trip this past week, a deep and heartfelt thank you – for all that you mean to James and because of that, for all that you mean to me. Your love is deep and generous and unconditional and that is such a blessing to us both.

Trudy went with me to water the garden. We could have been weeding. We could have been mowing. We could have been weed-whipping. We could have been doing a hundred productive things to shorten our to do list but Trudy sat and I thought it looked like a good idea, so I sat as well. She was right. Sitting was good.

We got up every twenty minutes to switch the water – James’ PVC watering system in the garden is to be admired and appreciated – but otherwise, Trudy and I just sat.

From our vantage point we could see parts of the pond. We could see a fraction of the pasture, but it’s where the cows happened to be, so we watched them. We could see the garden and we could hear the birds singing all around us.

We sat. For about an hour. Until the garden was well-watered and Trudy was getting fidgety and we decided we’d better get back to the house and make sure James took his next dose of meds. But for that hour I tried to just be still. I tried to just know. I tried to just let everything fade away but the here and now. And I was blessed by that stillness.

For people fighting Stage 4 melanoma, we are not sun people in the least. As a fair-skinned redhead (is that redundant?) I only own SPF 50 or higher and we use it anytime we are outside for any length of time. Our ideal vacation is the mountains, never the beach and we would both much rather lay in a hammock under huge shade trees than in a lounge chair poolside.

That said, when I asked what he wanted to do today, James said, “Let’s go for a drive. I’m not sure exactly where we are going, but I see water in my future.” Fortunately for us, we live near a great big lake. And within an hour of his proclamation, he had his toes in the water.

We’ve been to Lake Michigan numerous times. We have never once taken beach chairs and sat in the sun. We have never take a boat out and we have never donned bathing suits and gone into the water. But the lake still has tremendous appeal. It is remarkably ocean-like (minus the salt and sharks) and has the same eternal sense to it that I find in an ocean.

We walked the pier, took a few photos, people watched and then walked back to the car and headed to our favorite restaurant. I teased several times that I wasn’t sure who the man was beside me, but it wasn’t the husband I was used to during the last couple of months. He felt good enough to walk further than he has in a long time. He had enough energy and pain suppression that he was funny and he was not just out of bed, not just out of the house, but he was very nearly knee deep in nature. If I thought the walk last night did our souls good, today was several rungs up the ladder.

He let me drive on the way back and he crashed the moment we got back to the house and was out for the night, but for four or five hours today, he wasn’t just awake, he wasn’t just aware, he was alive. A not-so-small blessing indeed.