BUILDING HOPE

The flooding came on the heels of the cancer diagnosis, just as unwelcome and unexpected. And as a thousand strands of hair fell from my head, we began counting the losses adding floors and walls, framing and ceilings to the list.

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Of all the people you will meet or hear of, we are accustomed to this—
Building something worthy and enduring requires stripping away what exists.

We have lived this mantra in a span of forty-two years, listened to it play like an orchestra of hammer pounding nail, wood surrendering to saw.  Over four decades we have poured sweat and soul into places others turned away from in quiet disgust.

BUT THIS PLACE, THIS SIMPLE COTTAGE ON A LAKE WITH SEEMINGLY UNCOMPLICATED BONES, HAS NEARLY BEEN THE END OF US, OR AT LEAST DRIVEN US TO PERSEVERE BEYOND WHAT WE HAVE EVER KNOWN.

The truth is, it is not the restoration of this simple cottage but the simultaneous entering in to something never expected or imagined that pushed us to the end of ourselves and then demanded that we linger there for just a little too long.

It has been three years from stripping everything down to moving the treasures we have gathered into place.

THIS IS A TRIUMPHANT WEEK. WE CELEBRATE BY CLIMBING INTO BED AT 7. OUR BODIES NEED THE REST.

Building hope is not for the fragile or the weak. It is an “all of you” proposition that requires resolve not just at the beginning, but commitment to see it through to the very end—

No matter the diagnosis
No matter the floods that inevitably come
No matter how many times you feel as if you’re starting over
No matter how often your spirit succumbs.

For three years I have avoided the trip to the storage unit where my entire life is neatly boxed and stacked. If you asked why I would tell you that’s it’s dark and dank, a little too this or that. Yet I am aware and honest enough to admit that my hesitation was spawned from a belief that I wouldn’t be here long enough to unpack.

This week my lab reports tell a different story.
They whisper of just the tiniest bit of movement in the right direction.
The heavy construction dust has been vacuumed up but there will still be more.
For now I pull the pillows from the cardboard and place the Gerber daisies in the handmade vase.
Pink and clay with touches of sunlight. A delicate old wooden bench.
These are the pieces of hope building.
First in me. Then in my home.

There is still no kitchen. We wash our dishes in the bath. Those who know my cooking skills will say this isn’t as tragic or as inconvenient as it sounds. Simple meals. Simple cottage. A long season of doing without.
But we know us and what we’re capable of. More, we know exactly what God is all about—

“He will restore everything lost and have compassion on you, coming back to pick up the pieces from all the places where you were scattered.”

HOPE IS NOT SOMETHING INTANGIBLE—IT IS EMPTIED BOXES ONCE STORED AND SCATTERED. SURGERY SCARS NOW HEALED. HOPE IS THE EVIDENCE OF HIS GOODNESS, IN THE BLESSINGS OF THE HERE AND NOW.

NOTES:

Normal range for the cancer marker, CA125 is 0-35. This week’s lab says my number is 29.
I have worked for that number, partnering with God for the miracle I request.
This includes making a promise to myself [and Him] that the metabolic diet I have diligently followed will be a permanent part of my life.

Along with what I do [and don’t] put in my body, I adhere to a strict integrative plan.
In short, the life I used to know has dramatically changed—
The renovating and rearranging I have always loved doing in the sanctuaries that surround us is now playing out inside of me.

When we purchased our home on the lake, Ron had just retired and we believed we had all the time [and money] we needed to make the spaces our own.
But our resources were quickly redirected to not simply saving a neglected, vintage cottage...but saving me.
It may sound dramatic, but it’s true. 

After one round of chemotherapy in late 2020 [which I had previously touted that I would never do], I experienced an 18-month remission.
However, like most Stage IV cancers treated exclusively with Western medicine modalities, my cancer returned.
In the midst of this diagnosis, I was told by multiple oncologists that they could only give me five years…

This is where the story gets interesting—I began researching every option available to me in an effort to “save my own damn life.”
Along with multiple integrative modalities I turned to a metabolic approach to cancer. Without sounding dramatic, this has not only made me healthier than I’ve ever been but has extended my days.

Which brings me to my little cottage on the lake and the story shared above. 

What gives you hope? If your answer is our Creator in Heaven I join you with a hearty, “Me too.”
But I believe while we wait for Him to change our lives, He is waiting on us too—
To use the resources He has given us to build a little hope for ourselves.