I had started writing my last entry at the beginning of the week.  It turned out to be prophetic.

Tuesday night I took my last dose of this round of chemo and much like the first night I woke up around 1 with fears of getting nauseous.  I once again came downstairs and lay on the couch reading and praying and must have dozed off around 4 or so.  I had decided to go into work late to get some extra sleep but shortly after 6 remembered I had a meeting I was leading that morning, so jumped out of bed and ran to the ferry.

It was a challenging Wednesday for many reasons, not the least of which I was exhausted.  I didn’t eat all day and at 4:30 rode my bike down the hill to the ferry.  While waiting for the ferry I had one of the “spells” which were the first signs of my situation.  While visiting my neurologist for a follow up 3 months ago he mentioned, as an afterthought as we were walking out the door that I should not be surprised if I had any more of these episodes.  He said people often panic thinking the tumor has returned but that isn’t the case.  The next morning after that appointment I had an episode and I was so grateful for his words.

Wednesday afternoon it was hard to remember those words from 3 months ago.  It’s my instinct to worry, something wired in my DNA.  That night I had some crazy dreams some of which reminded me of those initial days four months ago.

I stayed home from work yesterday and Lisha stayed home out of concern.  We were talking and I told her that I felt like all the emotions that I should have been feeling and processing in July were rising to the surface.  In July I put my game face on and moved forward with the same determination that I generally take with any challenge in life.  Now all that was crumbling stirred by a variety of things.

I didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner and for some reason decided to take my temp.  I was running a low-grade fever.  Over the past couple of days I had thought I had a fever and had taken my temperature but it was normal.  Now I am wondering if I’ve had a temp off and on over the past few days all of which have contributed to these emotions.

I know it is a normal human reaction when facing a crisis to have fears, rational and otherwise.  But at the same time wonder if it is just weak faith on my part.  I tell myself that my faith isn’t weak now but it can be hard to assimilate into my fiber.

The other day during my daily quiet time I was reading 1 John 3:1 which says “What great love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God!  And that is what we are.”  That picture of a child and father relationship is scattered throughout the Bible.

“Because he inclined his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.”  I love the image of the Father “inclining his ear” toward the child.  Often, I have knelt beside the bed of a sick or sleepy daughter leaning over to get my ear close enough to hear a little voice.

“Though he may stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.”  When the kids were toddlers doing what toddlers do on uneven paths, it was instinctual to hold their hand.  You did it because it was a near-certainty they would stumble on a root, a rock or just their own toddling feet.  Because you knew they would stumble you held their hand to keep them from falling all the way to the ground and getting hurt.

“You are my hiding place.”  When the kids were little and scared of something they had seen or heard they would want to be held closely.  Hannah in her cute little way would say “hold you Daddy, hold you.”  They would want to be hidden from danger.

As I wrestle with these memories and the emotions that were with them but never expressed at the time, I feel like a child.  I need the Father to incline his ear toward me, hold me with his right hand and be my hiding place.  I am so grateful for friends and family that when I fire off the flare asking for prayer and support, they rally to my side.  I have never seen anything like it.

Alisha and the girls are my rock.  Every day, I can’t wait to see them.  I know this will pass but the journey through is mud and mire.

The holiday season is here and with it family traditions that Alisha and I started 20 years ago.  We typically celebrate Thanksgiving with our friends Tom and Lauren, whom I have known more years than not.  I bring the dressing (stuffing for you folks from the north) made from mom’s old recipe.

We get our tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving from the same place each year.  Saturday night I start acting like Clark Griswold from “A Christmas Vacation” dangling from all parts of the roof and trees in our front yard hanging more lights each year.  In the next weekend or so we will do a horse and buggy ride through Poulsbo with the same ladies who offer free rides on Saturdays during the holidays since Hannah was little.

Alisha’s birthday is the 15^th and our 20^th anniversary is the 19^th.  Can it really have been 20 years since we stood freezing in that tiny chapel on Orcas Island?  The temps were in the mid-teens and the winds 40-50, conditions we had hoped would be reversed when we picked that date out of my Franklin Planner at a little bed and breakfast in Western France.

The power went out during our reception at the Turtleback Farms Inn.  Fortunately, there was a warm fireplace and Lisha is crazy about candles.  It was an awesome, cozy way to start our life and continued on our sailboat GRACE where we lived our first 4 years and now to our little house on Lofall Road.

I started the second round of my “maintenance” dose of the chemo pills the day after Thanksgiving.  The strength is almost 3 times that of my original dosage.

I was worried about side-effects with the stronger dose even though my doctor was reassuring since I hadn’t had any problems so far.  The first night I woke up and my mind started wandering.  I wonder why it is that crazy thoughts come into your head late at night, at least they do for me and most people I know.  Fears take on huge proportions; shadows in the room; noises downstairs, monsters under the bed.  It’s hard to quiet your mind.

As I lay there at 2:19 in the morning I started worrying about getting nauseous like I had the one other time.  The longer I lay there thinking about it, the more convinced I was that it was coming over me.  I knew I was going to wake Alisha, so I grabbed my pillow and our journal of Bible verses we’ve been writing down the past four months.  I lay on the couch and started reading and praying.  I didn’t fall asleep immediately and in fact, lay there for a couple more hours before dozing off.

The season is stirring a lot of emotions in me, but I can’t seem to put my finger on them.  Even today at work we had our annual review of our insurance plan for the coming year.  Thinking about insurance and medical bills was a sharp reminder of all that had occurred since July 18 when my neurologist said, “I think while you are here you should schedule a consultation with a surgeon” and the shock and reality that our lives were forever changed set in.

When I was in my 20s I was rock climbing by myself at Enchanted Rock in Central Texas.  It was mid-summer and the temps were over 100°.  I was trying to move from one small ledge to another and in doing so, got myself into a place where there was no escape.  I hung there by my fingers for several moments, knowing that I would fall.  I eventually lost my grip and fell 10-12 feet into what amounted to a pit.  It is a long story for another day, but the impact on me was that any time I stood on the edge of something, a rock, a curb, etc. a paralyzing emotion of fear would come over me.  This continued for several years.

My sense is that there will be times when something will trigger those same feelings I had in July, just like they did when I had my fall that day in Central Texas.

A couple of decades ago I was 2^nd Mate on one of our ships coming up the west coast from Baja California to Portland, Oregon.  On our ship the 2^nd Mate stood what is often called the “mid watch”.  On this watch you were responsible for navigating the ship from noon to 4 p.m. and midnight to 4 a.m.

As we headed northbound with crew only, repositioning for our spring Columbia River itineraries, the weather progressively worsened the further north we sailed.  Nearing the mouth of the Columbia, two separate weather systems were colliding, one to the north of our position and one to the south.  The seas built coming from the north and south resulting in what is know as a “confused sea state.”

The short of it is that the ship pitches, rolls, and yaws violently in no predictable way.  To try and sleep in these conditions is really secondary to just staying in your bunk.  When the ship crests a large wave and dives into the ensuing trough, you literally become airborne and then fall heavily back into bed.  When the ship rolls, you are thrown side to side.  You get out of bed sore from the thrashing.

At the mouth of the Columbia River is a bar you have to cross where it shallows up.  Large ocean swells approach the bar unimpeded by any land for thousands of miles and build steeply at the shallow bar and run into the opposing river current.  During an ebb tide the effect is exaggerated by the increased volume of water spilling out of the river.  Consequently, you want to shoot for a bar crossing at slack tide (the short period of time between the change between ebb and flood tide) when the effect is at its minimum.

On this particular night, I came up to the Bridge at 11:45 to take the watch from the Chief Mate.  I had about an hour sleep in the previous 24 and am sure most everyone else on board had the same.  The trip from the crew quarters up 3 flights of stairs and 60 feet or so to the Bridge is an adventure in those conditions.

I staggered in to the Bridge and the first thing that caught my eye was the radar.  We were about 5 miles off the Oregon coast headed straight toward the beach.  The Chief Mate Jill (who, for the record was one of the best 2 or 3 Mates/Captains I had ever known or worked with) looked pretty haggard and said “Sorry Dwayne.  We have to kill some time before slack at the bar and this is the best ride I could find to keep from breaking anything or hurting anyone. Turn around when you get close to the beach.”

A short time after she left for bed we had approached land close enough for my comfort so I turned around.  Things really started to get tossed around.  I altered course and speed several times, searching for something that was comfortable.  But as it turned out, she was right.  The least uncomfortable ride was going straight to the beach.

I heard the bar pilot boat on the radio calling a nearby ship.  Bar pilots are people with local knowledge of waterways who jump onto large ships in all sorts of crazy conditions and guide the ship across the River bar.  I knew they had just crossed the bar in the pilot boat so called them on the radio to find out what the conditions were.

Shortly after my radio call, my long-time great friend Mark, who was the Captain, called me on the Bridge and asked how it was going.  We talked for a minute and came to the conclusion that it was no worse at the bar than we were currently experiencing.  Mark said let’s go for it and get out of this mess.  He was on the Bridge minutes later.

After crossing the bar, there was immediate calm.  The ship stopped rocking and rolling.  There was a feeling of overwhelming relief.  You realize how hard you’ve been working physically just to stay on your feet.  Finally, peace both mentally and physically.

On Tuesday I had my first post-treatment MRI to see how things were going and to get some indication of how I was responding to the treatment.  As the day neared we battled ourselves mentally, fighting off anxiety and fear.  I repeated a line from a popular song on Christian radio; “fear is a liar.”

I felt a total sense of peace.  Family and friends from around the country were praying for us.  I truly felt it.

Everything went well.  The MRI results were good.  The doctors seemed happy.  Mom had flown into town and I was glad she had a chance to sit there and hear from them first-hand and to meet the people who were there to help on the medical side of things.

That night as we were laying in bed, still processing the day’s events, I asked Lisha how she was feeling.  The thing that came to her mind was Psalm 107.

Verses 23-31 say,

“Some went out on the sea in ships;

they were merchants on the mighty waters.

24 They saw the works of the Lord,

his wonderful deeds in the deep.

25 For he spoke and stirred up a tempest

that lifted high the waves.

26 They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths;

in their peril their courage melted away.

27 They reeled and staggered like drunkards;

they were at their wits’ end.

28 Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,

and he brought them out of their distress.

29 He stilled the storm to a whisper;

the waves of the sea were hushed.

30 They were glad when it grew calm,

and he guided them to their desired haven.

31 Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love

and his wonderful deeds for mankind.”

 

I have first-hand experience of that feeling and having worked on the ship and wrestled with motion sickness, so does Lisha.  This passage for us has special meaning for us now.  Calming peace of deliverance from the storm.  Everyone faces trials and hardships, and certainly we will have more in our future of all kinds, health and otherwise.  I am so thankful for God’s calming peace in the storm.  I am also so thankful for the many friends and family who rally around us in times of trouble and look forward to the day when I can return the love.

It’s been nearly two weeks since my last radiation treatment.  I didn’t realize it but there’s some formality and tradition when you finish.  First, they called Lisha in from the waiting room much to my surprise.  Then they presented me with a certificate of completion and we took a group photo with everyone who had been there with me over the course of the seven weeks with the exceptions of young “Easy Money” Andrew and Susannah, my “Swiss Army Knife” (she’s from Switzerland).  Lastly there’s a bell ringing ceremony where the “graduate” rings the bell three times.  You can be certain I left no doubt that I was done.  I had the wonderful privilege to pray with Alisha and the three ladies that worked my last treatment, got hugs from everyone including Eugene (two “bro” hugs equal one real one Eugene!)  As I predicted I cried.

Phase 3 includes an MRI every 3 months for the foreseeable future and a maintenance dose of the chemo pill for 5 days each month.  I think our challenge ahead will be to keep a one-day-at-a-time mentality.  Even though there are tough things about treatment, you at least feel like something is being done.  Now I can see that there is a possibility of just anxiously waiting for the next MRI, a slippery slope toward fear no doubt.

As I look back on “Phase 1 and 2” it’s natural to reflect on what I’ve learned as a husband, father, son, brother, friend, colleague and in my faith.

The first thing that jumps out at me is the amazing woman lying asleep in our room as I write.  It’s been over 20 years since she said “yes” on a warm night in Puerto Vallarta.  She had jokingly asked me earlier in the evening when I was going to ask her to marry her.  So, a little later I called her bluff.  I am truly humbled by her heart, her strength, her steadfastness and her faith.  What she is doing with an idiot like me, I’ll never know but will thank God daily for keeping her for me.  What a crazy blessing.

As a father I’ve really come to appreciate the simple moments with the girls.  I have a beat up ’87 Chevy Silverado pickup truck that the word “beater” really doesn’t do justice.  I bought it with cash when Hannah was 2 thinking if it lasted a couple of years it would be money well spent.  To Lisha’s dismay, it has lasted 11 years (she HATES that truck).  About 6 weeks ago one evening Chloe said, “Dad, can we go for a ride in the truck?”  That short drive has turned in to a two or three times a week trip that now includes Hannah.  We wander down roads we’ve never noticed, laugh and talk about our day.  Twenty years from now, those are the times I’m sure we’ll remember.  It takes so little effort to build bonds if we just keep our ears open and so little effort to tear them down if we don’t.

As a son and a brother I have watched my family run to my side when we were in distress.  We were never perfect but as a family we were healthy, to steal a line from our pastor.  There was love, generosity, support and faith.  Something that I will strive to leave as my legacy.

My friends have overwhelmed me such that it is hard to talk about them without getting choked up.  From college friends who flew up at a moments notice, stood at my side in the hospital, prayed for me in the OR waiting room, showered us with relentless generosity, lifted me up in prayer, kept me company in the radiation waiting room, and made me laugh.  I can scarce believe it.  It humbles me and leaves me without words.

My work colleagues flooded my inbox with words of encouragement from all over the globe.  I received an outpouring of love from the South Pacific to the Arctic Circle, SE Alaska and New York.  A train of meals showed up at our door every day for 2 weeks.  It started in someone’s kitchen, commuted to the office in Seattle, switched hands to one of two amazing couriers who brought it on a 35-40 minute ferry ride across Puget Sound, then another 18 miles to our front door.

As a Christian I’ve had to take off the training wheels of my faith that I’ve unknowingly been riding around with for years.  There’s really no getting around it, when tested you either find the traction to carry on or you stumble.  The three things that have helped me gain traction have been my bride’s genuine love for God which inspires me, the comforting words of God that have found their way into a journal by my bed, and the prayers of so many people.  I’ve said it before and will say it again, I can feel them in a tangible way.  There are times when I’m having a tough day and suddenly my outlook turns.  I know for certain that somewhere someone has lifted me up in prayer.

There has been such a collective momentum of love sent toward me and my family in so many ways that it has no doubt pooled up in other ways and other places around the lives of people connected in some small way to what has transpired with me.  In my heart I believe the world is a better place.

Every year for the first 10-11 years of marriage Lisha and I would go see Lyle Lovett in concert here in Seattle.  When the kids were young we would bring them with us.  In fact, Hannah’s first Lyle Lovett concert was when she was 3 weeks old.  Concert venue rules permit kids 2 and under to get in free.  The last time we went as a family Hannah was probably 4 and we somehow passed her off as a 2-year-old.

Sadly, Ticketmaster and the venue “Kids Gotta Pay Too” committee conspired against us and we were priced out.

Recently a couple of great friends, Kevin and Adrienne surprised us with tickets to see Lyle again at an outdoor concert.  In spite of the 80% chance of rain forecast for the start of the concert we only had a few sprinkles the first few minutes.  It’s something that I never would have thought possible in my wildest dreams 7 or 8 weeks ago.  We were surely the only people in tears at the concert when it occurred to us.

Last week was a good week.  I am down to one more radiation treatment ending tomorrow and took my last chemo pill last night.  This must be what the marathon runner feels like coming through the tunnel into the stadium for one last lap with the finish line in sight.

There have been a couple of side effects I’ve had to manage over the past week.  The first is that my scalp has gotten itchy and red from the radiation, waking me up several times a night.  The worst however has been a little change in my taste buds; glazed donuts, chocolate covered donuts, old fashioned chocolate donuts , Danish donuts, all have a “chemically” taste.  I was so concerned that I messaged my doc and he said that it may last a couple of weeks after completing the chemo.  TWO WEEKS!

My oldest daughter has started basketball practice.  Friday night I went to pick her up and got there about 15 minutes early as they were splitting up to scrimmage.  They were a player short and the coach turned to me and asked if I wanted to jump in.  Now I haven’t played any basketball other than a game of horse in at least 20 years.  My daughter guarded me and it was a fun 10-15 minutes of intense basketball.  I’m sure the highlight for her, and everyone else there for that matter was when she blocked my shot.  I was as surprised as she was.  Just to make sure I knew my place one of the other kids kept saying “who’s got the old guy!”  At any rate it was supremely fun and no one had to call 911 and have me hauled out of the gym.

There were speed bumps this weekend.  We went to a memorial service for the father of a friend at our church.  It was emotional and challenging for many reason and colored our day to some extent.  We knew it would be tough be it was important to go.

One of the highlights of the week occurred on Monday during my radiation treatment.  They play music during the session to relax you during the 7-10 minutes you are in the room.  Before I started any treatments, I was asked what sort of music I liked.  I told them that worship music was good to help me relax when I was worried.  This particular day when they left the room after securing my head to the large table in the room a song was playing.  A girl was singing solo and playing a guitar.  It seemed a little loud but I didn’t think much of it.  The next song was CRANKED.  It was so loud that the huge bed literally shook.  I could feel the music in my chest.  I have no doubt that everyone in the radiation department heard it.  The words to the song, which I had never heard before, repeat over and over “It may look like I’m surrounded but I’m surrounded by You.  This is how we fight our battles.”  Imagine that as you’re lying there vulnerable on the radiation table bed.  Imagine hearing that as you’re sitting in the waiting room for your turn.  Check out the link for a video of the song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBl84oZxnJ4.

Every time they lock me in place I pray.  I pray for family, friends, the kind people there at the hospital.  The crazy thing is that this particular day I prayed that God would just come into the place.  I had this image in my head of a cloud or a fog coming into the room.  A few minutes later the lyrics shook the foundation of my bed.  Shortly after the song ended they had an opportunity to come into the room and turned the music down (they couldn’t come in until the radiation machine had stopped.)

When the session was over and they unstrapped my head, they apologized for the volume.  I was nearly in tears but told them it was awesome.  I thought about my situation and that of all those who had come in that room before me and after me.  People surrounded by fear, uncertainty and despair.  What a peace to know that we can be surrounded by you Lord.

My little one turned 10 today.  It’s hard to believe.  Friday was the 21^st anniversary of the day I met Alisha as well as a landmark blocked shot that surely will be memorialized in the years to come on September 21.   Life changing events.

Psalm 139 says “You have searched me Lord, and You know me.  You know when I sit down and when I rise; You perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and lying down; You are familiar with all of my ways.”    Another version puts it this way, “You are intimately acquainted with all of my ways.”

When Alisha walks up the stairs, I know it’s her before I see her.  When my children cough or sneeze, I know which one it is.  When they are sick, I know it before I ever kiss their forehead checking for a fever.  I can pick out Alisha’s laugh in a crowded room.  I am intimately acquainted with all of their ways because I love them and spend time with them.  What a comfort that God knows us in the same way.

Last week ended on a high note and Labor Day Monday was a beautiful sunny day.  I went back-to-school shopping with the family, mowed the lawn, weed whacked, lifted weights, and went on a short bike ride with the girls.  That evening Lisha cooked an awesome dinner which included roasted garlic cloves, considered a “superfood”.  I love them so had 5 or 6 spread on some bread and went to bed feeling great.  It was not to last.  I woke up about 12:15 not feeling great.  I tossed and turned the next 4 hours with waves of nausea rolling over me.

About 4 a.m. it hit me full force and showed little mercy.  By 4:10 it was over and last I looked at the clock it was 4:30.

I stayed home from work on Tuesday but still had to make the 2 ½ hour hike in to the city for radiation and an appointment with the medical oncologist.  He was optimistic that it was a one-off event after over-doing it on Monday.

There was relief that this was unlikely to be the new normal although Tuesday night was a fitful sleep with anxiety.  I woke Alisha up with my tossing and turning and told her my fear.  I rolled over and she put her hand on my back.  I knew she was praying for me.  I fell asleep quickly but the rough night on Monday had set the tone for the week.

I stretched out my work days to 5:15 which means that with my 2 hour commute I get home a little after 7 for dinner.  Since I have to take my chemo pills on an empty stomach (2 hours after my meal) it pushes my bed time down the road.  Later bed times followed by longer work days, including several hours on the weekend and I could sense the pressure and fatigue ramping up.

I slept ok Friday night but it wasn’t a good catch-up rest.  I didn’t feel very good physically as my congestion left over from the fires seemed to get worse.  The more the day wore on the more my mind followed my body.

Some good friends and family have been going through some scary, difficult times.  They have really been in my thoughts and prayers the past week.  Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of projects planned for summer that had to be left undone.  When I walked down the streets in Seattle the sidewalks were filled with the smiling faces of people who clearly had no medical issues that made me long for those days that were care free relatively speaking and that I had taken for granted.  I could see how hard Alisha is having to work now and it’s hard for a man who grew up watching my grandfather and father daily toil to provide for their families.  It was a heavy load mentally to bear in the moment.

Sunday was a little better.  I slept well and the congestion and stuff in my chest seemed better.  Lisha and I went for a bike ride in the afternoon and it was a good chance to talk.

One of the things I realized I had lost sight of was the advice of my Aunt, “take it one day at a time and be patient with the process.”  I had journeyed down the road in both directions, future and past.  Fear lurks in the future like a building sea waiting to capsize a ship as it tries to keep a true course.  Sadness chases you down from the past, grabbing at your heels attempting to trip up your progress.  It is a daily, sometimes hourly, challenge to stay in the day.

There is a bible verse that has helped me stay in the present over the past several weeks.  I repeated it over and over in my mind my first week of radiation treatment.  To ensure success in the treatment, a plastic mask shaped in the exact form of your face is pressed tightly against your head and snapped securely to the bed.  This keeps your head from moving out of position during the treatment.  It can also be a frightening, claustrophobic experience.

During the first week of treatment the verse that kept me calm is Isaiah 26:3.

“You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on You.”

There is something immediate and continuous about this verse that helps keep me in the present moment as I search for that peace.

One word in particular catches my attention.  As someone who has lived on a sailboat for 4 years and spent many weeks sailing both the inland waters of Puget Sound and at sea on my friend Mark’s boat, the word “stayed” has special significance.

A “stay” on a sailboat is a cable or strong rope that extends from the upper part of a mast and is strongly secured, or stayed to the deck of the boat.  The purpose of the stay is to support the mast in strong winds or heavy seas.  It keeps the mast from toppling over and disabling the boat.

Mark and I have been on a boat when a stay broke.  The mast of the small sailboat came crashing down when we were well offshore in the Gulf of Mexico.  There we helplessly drifted hoping we would drift to shore instead of out to sea.

As Alisha and I mentally wrestle with how our lives have changed, one thing is sure.  Keeping our mind “stayed” on the firm deck of God helps us keep in the present and provides security when the seas break or a strong wind threatens to disable me with fear or sadness as it did last week and leaves us drifting out at sea.

This week I completed my 3^rd week of treatment.  I’m at the halfway point with a long weekend to celebrate.  Feels like halftime (enter marching band playing a Sousa march).

I’m still feeling good.  My scar looks a little less Frankenstein-ish, my energy is good for the most part and still no side-effects from the treatments.  I’ve had a few long stretches at home where I feel completely normal, to the point that I nearly forgot to take my meds.

I did have a bit of a tough time on Tuesday night into Wednesday morning.  It’s been so smoky around here from the forest fires that have been burning all around.  At times visibility was less than a quarter mile and we woke to find ash on our car.  It was like sitting around a campfire 24/7 for 2 weeks, all of which played havoc on my allergies and made sleeping difficult.  By Wednesday morning I was exhausted from sleeping 5-6 hours a night for several days which also included waking up numerous times and sometimes laying awake for an hour or two.

But, by the afternoon I had come around, buoyed by the prayers of friends and family I had reached out to, a good appointment with one of my docs and a great visit with my friend Peter who had come to keep me company during my appointment.

Lastly, I was back on my bike pedaling to work.  I’ve commuted on my bike for the past 4 years generally riding between 70-100 miles per week.  It felt like a monumental moment.  I was shouting thanks to God and singing as I spun along simultaneously overjoyed and terrified.  I mentioned to my doctor what I had done and got a paternal wince of disapproval.  Nevertheless, I plan to keep riding.

Friday when I woke up I was all set to bike in and checked the weather to see how many layers I should wear.  As I got in my old ’87 Chevy truck I noticed a few drops on the windshield.  By the time I had reached the park-n-ride where I leave the truck and jump on my bike, it was raining pretty steadily.  Only in Seattle have I seen steady rains when the forecast called for a 0% chance.

I’ve ridden in the rain hundreds of times over the past 4 years and usually don’t even think about it.  People often ask if it bothers me, but my mindset is that I only have to be a little bit tougher than the rain.  That seems easy enough to do.

This particular day I took it easy on the hills, ones I typically fly down, rain, sun or snow.  I’m still gaining confidence in my new self.  The rain was a real soaker but not too cold.  I noticed the sweet smell of the rain on the Douglas Firs (only a person in the Pacific Northwest understands this) and maybe for the first time in a long time began to be thankful for the gift of rain.  Thankful because I know it is the life-blood of this beautiful part of the world we live in.  Thankful for the feel of it on my face.

I am all too aware of the fact, having grown up in Houston that rain means something else to others.  It can be deadly, destructive and engulfing.

But this day the thing I was most thankful for is that rain drives us inside.  Inside where we can rest, meditate on a loving God full of grace and mercy, and where we are pressed close to our families and those we love.  When Alisha and I lived on our sailboat, GRACE, we would be only a foot or so from the rain falling on the deck when we were in bed in the V-berth.  It was a soothing sound.  As Fall looms around the corner, and with it many months of rain ahead I feel like I will see the rain in a new light (no pun intended) and will cherish the days when we are forced inside.

Tomorrow I complete my second week of radiation.  One month ago today I had surgery to remove a tumor from my right temporal lobe.

I’m often asked by doctors, nurses, family, friends and co-workers how I’m doing.  The honest response I usually give is that if I didn’t have a huge scar on my head I wouldn’t know anything had happened.  I feel just like I did 5 years ago.  I walk about 4 miles a day.  As soon as I got the staples out of my head and could put on a helmet, at Alisha’s encouragement I went for a short bike ride, 11 days post-op.  Next week I hope to resume bike commuting like I have the past 4 years.

In addition to the radiation treatment five days a week I am taking a chemo pill.  In spite of a laundry list of possible side effects from both, the only thing that might be a side effect is that a few nights after taking the chemo pills I felt like I had just eaten a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream before turning out the lights.  My restless sleep those nights could also be chalked up to other things as well.

To say I feel that God has blessed me would be an understatement.  I returned to work for a couple of half-days two weeks ago, stretched it to three last week and this week will have four 7-hour days, good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise as we used to say when I lived in the south.  It is difficult to effectively articulate but I can tangibly feel the prayers of those earnestly lifting me up.

As is surely no surprise, this is a transforming event.  I was trying to describe it to Alisha the other night.  I’m the same camera looking out from the same vantage point that I have for a very long time.  The difference is that I’ve changed lenses.   I’ve taken off the zoom lens and replaced it with a wide-angle lens.  I can see more of the picture than I could see before.

I have always looked ahead.  When we would go for a family hike here in the Olympic National Park I would always want to see around the next bend before turning around, sometimes running ahead when the rest of the family had gone far enough.   I thought about home improvements I wanted to do some day, getting another sailboat and teaching the girls to sail, saving for this or that, always looking down the trail of my life.

I see now with my new lens how many opportunities I have missed by having senses dull to the moment.   Opportunities for an act of kindness, to show generosity or hospitality with no expectation of reciprocity, to pray for a person weighed by the burdens of life.

The ones that sting the most are those missed opportunities with my own family.  Because I had to check in for surgery at 5:30 in the morning and the fact that we live 2 ½ hours from the hospital, Alisha and I spent the night in a hotel across the street from Virginia Mason hospital.  That meant that the night before I had to kiss my girls goodbye.  I had no way of knowing if I would make it out of surgery or what I would be like when it was over.  My youngest expressed fear that I would be different.   I can tell you that at that moment when telling them goodbye I regretted every single time that I had barked at them for not picking up their clothes or cleaning off the table or any number of other petty things.  It all seemed meaningless. As parents we spend so much time trying to teach our children to be responsible.

It occurred to me a few years ago that there is a whole host of people who will try to teach our children to be responsible; educators, supervisors, authority figures, police.  The list goes on.  But, who is teaching our children to show mercy and to forgive.  This event has served as a reminder to keep my senses sharp for those opportunities to teach them this each day by example and to spend more time in the moment than looking toward the next bend.

Have you ever become aware of a thread in your life and followed it back to its source?

Several years ago I was sitting in church one Sunday and someone was describing a program through a ministry the church supports called Children of the Nations.  The ministry was started by a couple in our church a number of years ago and provides educational, medical, nutrition and spiritual services for children in some of the world’s impoverished countries.

They were starting a new program in the Dominican Republic called “I Love Baseball”.  Nearly 30% of all major league baseball players come from this small country which occupies half of an island in the Caribbean.  What I learned that day is that young boys are being signed by local men to contracts with a promise to the family that they will turn the boy into a major league player.   The boys sign contracts in which a huge sum of their initial contracts go to these men who run the baseball camps.  When the boys dreams don’t work out they are left without an education, money and other attributes which contribute to the impoverishment of the country.

As I sat there I heard a voice inside me saying that I needed to go there and help in some small way.  When someone asked me why I wanted to go, the answer was easy; I love baseball and always have.

When I was five I started playing t-ball. I played each summer through the years and eventually on my high school baseball team.  I dreamed of being a major league baseball player from as far back as I can remember.  Many of my closest friends were my teammates.

When I graduated from high school I wasn’t good enough to get any sort of scholarship.  But looking around at colleges, one caught my eye.  Southwestern University in Georgetown, Texas had a great baseball tradition for a small college.  Even better, they fielded a junior varsity team that played local Junior Colleges.  I had never heard of a college with a JV baseball team and it seemed like a good opportunity to walk-on and see where it led me.

Where it led me was about 2 practices before I realized I had no hope of making the team and needed to focus on something else.

It led me to meeting my friend Mark who taught me how to sail which fostered a love for being on the water.

Through Mark I started working for a company called Lindblad Expeditions which had a couple of ships that sailed in Baja, the Pacific Northwest and Alaska.  I had many adventures and met many incredible people working on their ships.

Most importantly I met Alisha and we were married in 1998 and now have two beautiful daughters.

When I trace the thread that baseball has taken me it’s not a stretch for me to say that it has led me to this home in this part of the world with these three amazing ladies who surround me with love each day.

My mother, sister and several friends traveled from around the country to be with me during the lead up to surgery and recovery.  One day while talking to mom about the thread that baseball has been in my life she pointed out that I met Kevin at Southwestern and that it was Kevin who prompted me to see a neurologist which led to where I sit.

There’s something to be said for reflecting on the common threads in your life that have brought you to the present.   Cross-roads that might have led you somewhere completely different.   For me, this path I believe has been guided by the hand of God.  In spite of the many challenges and fears over the years I believe that He has always been faithful and His presence always with me.  I take great comfort and hope in that as I walk in faith down this road.

Today, after church we drove to Tacoma and took in a minor league baseball game.  It’s a family tradition that we do a couple of times each summer.  This was our first game this year and so meaningful for Alisha and I for obvious reasons.  As I sat in the stands with a cool breeze blowing and my family sitting beside me I was once again grateful for baseball and where it has led me.