Apple Deal

We just returned from a wonderful trip to northern California. On Saturday, we met up with Lindsay and feasted our way through Apple Hill--or Apple Deal, as Jonah called it.
(He had a delightful way of renaming people and objects. For example, he called his great-grandma Glover "Grandma Grape." Much more colorful, don't you think? And he called apples "kitchen balls", which gives you a pretty good idea what he did with them).
Apple Hill is a place laden with pleasant memories. I don't know how we first discovered this treasure in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, but it became a yearly trek up the hill for our family. Jonah was three when we first visited the loop that encompassed 50 or so apple ranches, many having bakeries offering applelicious delights, as well as crafts, petting zoos, and pumpkin patches. His favorite place was Grandpa's Cellar, a "U-pick" orchard with a small bakery and gift shop. Jonah loved running wild through the orchard, clambering up trees and devouring apples. He'd usually just take one bite, toss it to the ground, then grab another piece of fruit. We'd feel so bad about all the apples he wasted that we'd buy a box or two to compensate.
There weren't many rules at Apple Hill--you could eat as much dessert as you wanted, climb as many trees as you wanted, and play hide and seek in the pumpkin patch. It was a glorious place for an autistic child who just couldnt mesh with the structure of the "real world." I truly think Apply Hill was a foretaste of heaven for my son.
It felt a bit like heaven this weekend, actually. Hanging out with Lindsay, gorging ourselves on apple treats, tasting apple wine and searching for the perfect pumpkin in perfect Indian Summer weather--it truly was the perfect day.
As was the following day . . .
The main reason we were down in northern California was to share at Mike Cook's retirement party at Sylvan Oaks church. Greg worked with Mike, the senior pastor, from 1981-1990 (when we moved to Alaska). Two of our children were born during this time, and Jonah died while we were part of this church body. (He is buried just a few miles from the church property, and we always visit his grave when we are in the area). We have sweet memories of the comfort and care the Body of Christ poured out on us during this dark time in our lives. Sylvan Oaks will always feel like home.
Anyway, Greg shared at the service (memories like how Mike helped us plan Jonah's funeral because we were both in the hospital, three hours away from Sacramento. He even picked out Jonah's headstone which reads: Jonah Thomas Strannigan; Born December 6, 1879, Made Perfect August 30, 1984) and we caught up with old friends at the reception after church. It was so fun to see the "kids" from our old youth group with teenagers of their own. Can we really be that old?
On our drive home, I thanked God for the rich and colorful tapestry of our lives. I am so grateful for the path He's led us on, even for the rough patches and bumps in the road. Even for the times He's led us through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He always brings us back to the foothills of Goodness and Mercy again.
Kind of like Apple Hill . . .

for the glory of God

I learned a lot this past week . . .
First of all, I do not have cancer!
Thank You, Thank You, God!
But the process--from the unsettling way I found out about the lump in my breast to having to doggedly track down the biopsy results--was quite sobering.
(I could write a whole blog on the biopsy experience. But I won't. Greg, who observed the procedure, commented: "It was a REALLY BIG needle!"
The doctor was actually able to remove the entire lump during the biopsy. Then she put a titanium chip in the spot where the lump was.
"In case we get bad news and need to know where the lump was," she informed me.
So now I have a souvenir of one of the more traumatic weeks of my life!)
As unsettling as my week was, however, I was swaddled with a sense of God's peace. The phrase "for the glory of God" permeated my thoughts and prayers and gave me a different outlook on my circumstances.
Normally, I would have frantically searched for a sign or a scripture from God--either for the assurance of my healing, or preparation for the trial ahead of me.
But for some reason, I didn't go there this time. "Let this be for Your glory, Lord," was my only plea. I felt almost detached from what was happening to and around me and focused on more heavenly things.
It was awesome and odd, all at the same time.
It wasn't all about me, for a change . . .

an unusual dinner conversation . . .

(This blog is about breast cancer. Ye faint of heart, turn back now!)
I had some friends over for dinner the other night. One of them happens to be my doctor. After a lovely evening of good food and fellowship, we walked our guests to the door.
"Oh, I wanted to talk to you about the procedure you'll be having this week," Bruce said as he put on his jacket.
"What procedure?" I asked, wondering if I had a wart or a mole on my back that he wanted to remove. Bruce has a thing about removing unsightly skin growths.
"You know, the little procedure you'll be having . . ."
I supposed the blank look on my face cued him into the fact that I hadn't a clue. Motioning me into another room, he lowered his voice and said,
"Your annual mammogram results came across my desk today. The doctors at Epic are asking permission to do a breast biopsy because of a mass that showed up in the ultrasound. I assumed they'd already called you and set up an appointment. I thought you knew!"
Well, I'd kind of wondered what was up when I had to have a second set of x-rays taken, and then an ultrasound. But I was sent home without comment so just assumed everything was fine.
Until my dinner party!
I have to say I didn't sleep very well that night. I woke up at 3 a.m. and began planning my funeral. I got bored with that and then debated whether I should go the alternative medicine route or just do the chemo/radiation/surgery thing. I wondered if I would wear a wig when my hair fell out or if I would just wear a hat. I mentally listed the pros and cons of reconstructive surgery and decided I would go for it.
Yep, it was a long, restless night . . .
Bruce called the next day to check on me.
"From the report, it looks like you have nothing to worry about. You've had cysts before, and I'm sure that's all this is. But we just need to make sure," he explained.
Despite my wee-hour worries, I felt peace. I called and set up my biopsy appointment and the kind woman I spoke with said very comforting things.
"We do this procedure all the time," she assured me. "And most of the time everything is fine."
Rather than putting this on the prayer chain, I opted to just tell a few trusted friends instead. I felt surrounded by an "everything's going to be all right" bubble until I shared my news with my good friend, Jill. She's a breast cancer survivor.
"That's what they told me," she replied when I told her my doctor's optimistic prediction.
"Well, breast cancer doesn't run in my family," I informed her.
"Mine either," she said. "Did you know that 75% of women who develop breast cancer have no family history of it?"
No, actually, I didn't. But I do now.
I wasn't shaken by Jill's less-than-comforting response. How could she answer any differently, given her experience? And I ran into another good friend today who shared a similar experience. When she went in for her biopsy, she was told it was probably just a cyst. It was cancer, and she ended up having a double mastectomy.
Sobering testimonies, true. But I still have peace. Maybe because I worked through the worst-case scenarios in my mind that first night and came to the conclusion that whatever the outcome of my biopsy--God is still good.
And I trust that He will use this situation for His glory.
But pray for me, please.
And I will keep you posted . . .

Oh, and one more thing--

My daughter, Danielle, says that sometimes I treat important matters too lightly. That I don't reveal the darkness that I struggle with at times. This is true; but in my saner moments I always look for the humor in any situation. I know that breast cancer is not a laughing matter--but the joy of the Lord is my strength!
Besides, I've learned from the best how to meet the worst life can throw at you with a grin. My friend Pam ordered a "boob-day cake" for a friend at a party she threw right before going in for her double mastectomy. Pam's sense of humor carried her through the tough days ahead and was a witness of God's grace to everyone around her.
My mother-in-law, Mary Ellen, is my hero, though. She went through her own journey with breast cancer several years back.
The first time I saw her after her surgery, I was really nervous. I'd never been around anyone who'd ever had a breast removed.
But Mary Ellen put us all at ease as she busted out with the worst Monty Python imitation I've ever heard:
"It's only a flesh wound!"
So, what can you do but laugh?
And pray . . .