Nevertheless

It hits him hard every now and again. Not consistently like the beginning. Not predictably.  Just when our guard is down it seems.  This morning he was sitting in the chemo chair at the infusion clinic like he does every month wooing the nurses with his impish grin and penchant for modeling clay and popsicle sticks.  We made a little video giving his tips for getting poked. He estimated he’s been poked 1003 times. He’s probably not far off. 

He was fine. 

We went to the beach before dinner… basking in that perfect late September sun. 

He was fine.  

But by bedtime, he wasn’t fine.  And all of his nightly oral chemo and peripheral meds put him over.  Like most nights, he swallowed 9 little pills covered in applesauce in one fell swoop like the pro he’s had to become. Then dragged himself up the stairs still managing to convince me to give him more time for his latest Lego creation.   

But he was pale and clammy and couldn’t distract himself out of the furrow between his eyes. Before too long he crawled across the room to sit with me as I read Finley a story.  I don’t feel good, he whispered.  Soon he was in the fetal position in his bed, lips pursed, silent, just squeezing his eyes shut. 

I feel the cancer mom brain whir into overdrive and have to will myself to stop it.  Instead I squeeze my own eyes shut, rub his back and start praying over him.  Finley comes up with an ailment of her own and I nurse that one too wishing it all could just be pretend. 

Most days our cancer journey gets to be on auto-pilot. Every day for the last 2 years, 9 months and 6 days we have lived this up and down marathon.  After a while you go a little numb. But not every day.  

Some days I’m overwhelmed— appalled and distraught at what has happened in his little body and the antidote we use to fight it. Some days I’m angry again and sad and fearful. Some days I wish I was worried about corona…but the fact is, I don’t give a hoot about stupid corona; I’m still worried about something so much worse. 

Some days seeing him hurting and then mustering up more strength and courage than I, feels so unfair I want to scream. I can’t believe this has been his childhood so far. I can’t believe his innocent little body has had to deal with this onslaught for so long that its quite literally all he remembers.  Tears of pity and anger and sadness fall hot and fast. 

And then a song that was on the radio this morning as we drove to chemo clinic fills my mind. And my heartbreak over what Forrest has had to endure is blanketed by this melody. I wish I knew the backstory because the song most definitely comes from a place of deep pain.  But the chorus goes:  

Hallelujah nevertheless

Was the song that pain couldn’t destroy. 

Hallelujah nevertheless 

You are my joy invincible. Joy invincible. 

And as I let the song wash over me again, another Switchfoot song comes on:

When it feels like surgery
And it burns like third degree
And you wonder what is it worth?
When your insides breaking in
And you feel that ache again
And you wonder
What's giving birth?

If you could let the pain of the past go
Of your soul
None of this is in your control

If you could only let your guard down
You could learn to trust me somehow
I swear, that I won't let you go
If you could only let go your doubts
If you could just believe in me now
I swear, that I won't let you go
I won't let you go

And the angst abates. And the tears still. And that sweet, inexplicable peace washes over. Hallelujah nevertheless.  There is no other way. 

Chemo Day in TC

(As adapted from a FB update)

We’re here all morning & I’m so grateful for the relative ease the Cowell Cancer Center offers to stay local for Forrest’s monthly treatment.  He clings to me & tries valiantly to stifle his cries as they access him... no lidocaine on these days as they have to know if the chemo is “burning” the vein.  It takes two attempts to access & he holds his arm still as a statue though his cries get louder & little beads of sweat break out on his brow.  He’s a freaking warrior & then recovers quickly back to his carefree, impish self ...

Today also starts another round of high dose steroids... an immunosuppressant & Leukemia inhibitor as it fights any latent cells from an angle different than the many chemos coursing through his system.

On other mornings, it’s almost easy to pretend Forrest isn’t still fighting the devil that is cancer. He is tall & strong, goofy & a total towhead.  So many ppl lately have been commenting on how grown up & mature he is. And it’s true. The difference in the past year has been astounding.

This time last year we were on the beach with friends. Forrest was on the towel with me & I was, inevitably, stroking his hair. It had grown back over the last few months: course & wiry, kinda curly & a smidge darker.  We were in the midst of a phase called “Delayed Intensification.” It was everything the name implied... The doctors told us he would lose his hair again, but week after week passed & still it was there. I thought maybe they were wrong. Maybe Forrest had defied the odds. Again. Maybe all the hard was over.

I looked down, sitting there on a pristine beach in this heaven we get to call home & realized my hand was covered in his hair. Course, blond, wiry hair coming out by the handful. My heart fell. The hard definitely wasn’t over.

That was a full year ago. So much progress has been made toward a clean bill of health. Forrest’s hair is back to stay and though chemo will continue for nearly 2 more years, his body grows stronger, bigger. Chemo has become second nature & the cancer journey—dare I say, easier. The team at both DeVos and Cowell are simply incredible. We know this journey could have been different...We are grateful. ❤️

Grief

I hesitate to give this post that title. Today is a good day. This week has been a good week. I have vacillated between wanting to share and feeling it untimely … unneeded. But I am reminded over and over of the power of sharing our stories. The power of voicing pain and inviting vulnerability. Honestly … not for the comments of support (though incredibly sweet), but for the surge of shared strength, that others in pain would know solidarity and not isolation.

May promises some sweet relief, but a lot of the past weeks and months have been spent under a dark cloud. I fight it, tooth and nail, and like the fleeting spring sun it appears and recedes with an impulse all its own. I think a lot about last year. I keep reading and re-living it. I fill my days to over-flowing. I try to play catch up from last year, coping by creating a whirlwind that feels safe in its flurry. Alone, at night, or in those quiet pockets of the day, I fight a weariness, a sadness, a discouragement that bubbles from my very depths. Last month marked a year that Forrest has been in Remission. Sixteen months since Diagnosis. We’ve come so far, but there is a distance from the end of this story that feels paralyzing. We have over two years of treatment until his body feels a day without chemo. Years until I might whisper cancer-survivor. More until the medical community will agree. I wonder constantly: where is that other shoe. Forrest’s journey has been the public face of a year of both heartbreak and healing for us on a number of levels. Cancer, it seems, can pervade relationships and homes too. The lifestyle we have wears on us both. Our kids feel fragile.

It all tastes sour. Like a lemon drop, the acidity and sweetness intermingle painfully.

I am angry and sad. Then frustrated and bewildered. It feels ridiculous and unwarranted.

How could I dare be that selfish. Dare be that ungrateful. So much progress has been made, so much relief felt. Miracle after miracle, healing on so many levels. The undeniable truth is that Forrest is doing and feeling great. It’s just me. … I have struggled these past months almost more than in the very Valley of the Shadow that was last year.

Maybe its some seasonal depression, maybe its straight weariness; maybe its loneliness. But I think this cloud is grief, and I don’t know why it’s here. Grief is a funny thing. It honors no timetable, it gives no warning, it may delay but it won’t forget you. Last year brought pain-numbing gratitude, joy even….defiant joy…. an inexplicable peace that comes only with complete surrender and the blanket of His nearness. This year that peace is fleeting. And God feels more like a distant cousin than my beloved companion. Have I strayed or has He?

We have been forged in the fire and, as happens, clarity brought forth. But these days, I fear the heat has made me brittle. I’m tired of this place. I feel left behind, relegated to only this story even as the world spins forward. The promise feels distant, the horror nipping at my heels. Yes, I have hope. I’ve always had hope. But hope is made real in the future. It is here I still sit, caught in the quagmire of the present. And the call to simply be here—still— turns my patience rancid. Bitterness becomes a foe I struggle to fend off. If this is grief, I feel stuck in it … and stuck is the last place I want to be.

For months I’ve been jotting down journal snippets on napkins and diaries, church sermon notes and blog drafts. They use different words, but the same cry: God, where are you? I don’t feel strong enough anymore…

The deafening silence makes me angrier and I dig in, calling out the promises I know He won’t deny. And slowly, I realize, it is only my sadness that is stopping the whirlwind enough to point me back to Him. It is only in my perceived abandonment that I begin to feel the truth again that He will never leave me nor forsake me. It is only in my wilderness that I allow Him to chisel away the idols I so quickly reclaim of control and comfort and significance.

The tug of war in my soul strengthens… I admit my ugly truth: God, I am disappointed… in You. Even now typing out the words my eyes sting and my chest tightens. I know what I am questioning. At its core, its this: God, are You trustworthy? My eyes go to this crumpled up note from church the other day … “He doesn’t tell us what to do without reminding us what He’s done.” And all I can think about are all the times last year He came through. Over and over and over again. Every. Single. Dark. Time. He’s asking me to still trust Him…to keep trusting Him … but not without first reminding me of every horrific day last year that was made bearable by His presence.

And if I doubted His ask; if I doubted his promises; If I doubted His proof, this past week or two has stripped away any semblance that He could still be distant. There: in that beautiful conversation about loss and pain. In that reminder of forced joy, in that book and in that podcast, in that song and that verse and in that sermon. He drove it home this week over and over and over. And the reminder is this: I can sit in this process because I am assured He has a purpose. The waiting and the grieving and the aching are strengthening. They are preparing.

Lysa Terkeurst’s words resonate deeply: This process isn’t a cruel way to keep you from the promise; it’s the exact preparation you’ll need to handle the promise.

Lauren Daigle sings I will lift my eyes, even in the pain. Above all the lies… I have seen Giants fall; I have seen mountains move, because of You. I remember.

In John 16 and Psalm 130 and and 1 Peter 5 and 2 Corinthians 12 and James 1 and Colossians 1 and on and on and on.

Trust the process. Trust the dying of self. Trust the grief. Even when you can’t understand it.

I was honored to hear multiple stories these past weeks of other peoples suffering. I needed it. God used it. And I’m reminded that maybe my struggle in this season isn’t just for me either… maybe God wants to use these hard lessons to show that His purpose is not the pain… His purpose is the promise on the other side. My March and April were cold and lonely and hard. It doesn’t all just go away, but those showers inevitably bring May’s promised flowers. I believe that. I do trust that. Maybe you also are in a cold April season, and I guess I just want you to know I’m fighting for the sunshine with you. And like the watchman in Psalm 130 waiting for the dawn, I know it will, indeed, come. Hang on, dear one.

Onward

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. These images then spell out a lot. (toggle right)

My last post ended abruptly. Like maybe I was too sad to continue. I don’t want that to be the take away. Don’t look at these images and feel sad. I want for anyone following along to feel what we have felt more than anything: and that is A W A K E N E D.

That is the primary feeling, but I guess, by it’s very nature, that realization reveals some grief then too. 

There comes a point when we come to the end of ourselves that we allow God to finally step in. To bring us out of our stupor as it were.  To stop us from sleep walking.

This whole past year has been a testament of that for us. Through the biggest trial of our lives, we’ve seen and felt and heard a very real God like never before.

That truth rings deep into my core, but man, the words still sound so frustratingly cliche. Makes me keep erasing it—trying to find words that compel the gravity, the aching, the questioning, the pain. In crisis we heard Him. Isn’t that so typical. It took a crisis. Otherwise, we’re too busy and too noisy and too distracted.

I believe in brave vulnerability, so i’ll write it out as best I can.  ... I enter into this Christmas season with a dread and a sadness I never expected.  As crazy as it sounds i’m grieving right now— at a time I never expected to... Grieving for a year my son will never get back. Grieving for what has been asked of him. Of us. Grieving for the wrenching open and laying bare.  BUT,  the dread is this: I’m also a little hesitant to leave it behind. Hesitant for 2019. Even as I type it out it makes me shake my head.

What happened last Christmas set us up for a year that was crazy difficult, heart-wrenching, and agonizing.  It revealed a marriage built on a house of cards, a build project that was taking precedence over what it shouldn’t, a toxic financial investment bleeding us dry. Within 6 weeks everything, on every level, came crashing down and there was no pretending any more. We did the only thing we could do. We hit our knees. Fully, utterly surrendered. Without a shred of semblance of control: we just listened. Finally.

What happened last Christmas set us up for a year that was more rich and sweet and beautiful that almost every year before it.  I experienced more of God in 2018 than I ever have. That intimacy filled me with awe and hope and peace. I have such torn emotions leaving this year behind. Like will I continue to feel that sweet spot?  Or will I get inevitably caught up in the crushing whirlpool that is life in 21st century America?  And then this unsettling theological questions rears up:  To experience the on-going intimacy with Him that I long for, must I continue to experience this kind of pain?  The journey isn’t over, my heart is still raw, my memories so fresh, the flashbacks constant.  Though my spirit is desperate to press in to Him, there is a hesitancy. What will it cost me?  I feel caught in the middle of two repelling magnets. 

But I am reminded, gently but firmly, in a myriad of ways, that God is not relegated to working in us only through pain.  There is a time and a season for it all. I don’t know what is around the bend, if it’s better or worse. Maybe the next season is, again, something I can’t fathom. 

But if there is more pain. If the other shoe does drop. Then... what.

This awakening brings me to this: that whatever life brings, the Constant that I know to be True doesn’t change. I need not be hesitant. I know what to expect. I know what He will do. He will simply continue to make beauty out of the ashes. That is who He is.

Those poles of the magnets I hover between shift, and as I lean in, I accept this Freudian thought with no more hesitation.  I am ready for this next year … whatever it brings.

Today marks a year.

These pictures are from a year ago, today. The day we found out.

I see it all over him.

Then … then, I just saw a common cold. We’d made cookies at my Grandparents and walked the Hall Bridge with my family, Forrest only wanted to be piggy-backed. I remember pushing him to walk on his own. That evening he woke up panicked, gasping for air. It was the 2nd episode and I remember a hushed conversation with my parents and sister in the basement as he lay on my childhood bed wheezing. We’d done Vicks Vapor Rub and fresh air and cough medicine. None of it seemed to help. It was late; we never went to the hospital. We just didn’t—a bi-product of growing up without health insurance. But I did (have insurance). We might as well. Maybe they could give him a nebulizer treatment I thought. Just to let him sleep this yucky cold off. Then he called out again. Desperate and crying. We went in. In the far recesses of my mind’s possibilities, the worst case scenario was pneumonia.

An hour later they were about to send us home. They heard nothing amiss in his lungs. The nebulizer treatment did wonders for his breathing and he seemed finally able to rest. Just to cross the t’s and dot the i’s, the ER doc ordered a last minute x-ray.

She didn’t come back for a long time.

A lot happened those next few hours, scrambled phone calls and wide-eyed declarations. Radiology reports from the next biggest hospital: Kalispell. Orders for stat CT scans. Adamant instructions then from Spokane Washington’s Children’s Hospital. Desperate attempts to reach Bo in Afghanistan. Forrest had a tumor. A huge one— filling almost his entire lung cavity. And it was suffocating him. The seething, pulsing, duplicating mass was wrapped around his esophagus and trachea, reaching down around his heart and had constricted his airway to the tiniest coffee straw pinhole. They couldn’t intubate, it was too far down. They definitely couldn’t sedate. If he stopped breathing, there would be virtually no recourse.

… They didn’t tell me that part until after.

After a huge dose of steroids, they rushed us into an ambulance bound for Spokane’s Sacred Heart PICU— 4 hours away. The snowstorm raging outside rendered the LifeFlight helicopter useless. We hit every single pothole in that 150 miles.

It’s weird how calm and automatic one can become. I honestly don’t even remember feeling scared. All I cared about was helping Forrest to not be scared. As we were rushed into the PICU in Spokane and met by a huge team, Forrest and I were just adamant that he get to use the toilet. Crazy, the things that stick out to you.

Hours later, after a flurry of tests and activity, and it was finally just Forrest and I in a calm, darkened room, the lead oncologist came in. Forrest dozed off and Dr. Ross told me it was T Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. But it was what he said after that shook me to the core.

We estimate your son’s tumor grew in the last 6-8 weeks, he told me. In another day, maybe two, it would have closed his airway entirely. He would have passed in his sleep and you could have done nothing.

The cold saved his life.

I remember putting my face in my hands and weeping. It was the first time I had cried.

There is more to the story. Good and bad, but mostly good. But it’s late, and I feel emptied out. Tomorrow I’ll finish what I wanted to say. If you want to read snippets from the past year before then, start here.

<3

The Aftermath

Not sure I am there.... blessing the thing that is cracking me open. In some corner of my heaving heart I can acknowledge its truth, but right now its only with a fair amount of bitter acuquiecense.  Forrest was discharged Sunday morning. The chemo had cleared his system to a satisfactory level and his kidneys were functioning well. It was safe to go home. But the chemo's ramifications on the rest of his body were just starting to rear their ugly heads.  His tough little frame has withstood 6 months of aggressive chemo remarkably well, but eventually the Reaper has to be paid, and he's come calling now. Severe bone pain in Forrest's back, sides, hips, and jaw have made him barely want to move for the last three days. But the worst part are the sores appearing all over his mouth and down his throat that make him virtually unable to chew or swallow. He has barely eaten or drank in days. Yesterday we were in doctors' offices here in Traverse City for most of the afternoon getting fluids and being re-evaluated, and then trying to create a better pain management plan with more heavy narcotics.  His oncology team in Grand Rapids acknowledges that this happens to some kids with the high dose methotrexate coupled with the multiple other chemos he's getting. It will hopefully peak in intensity today and tomorrow and should start getting better by the end of the week.... Just in time for us to go back in for Round Two next Tuesday. After the last 72 hours though, they are at least agreeing the quantity of this high dose poison needs to be adjusted. This is crazy. Watching Forrest suffer through this barely-controlled agony has been a reality check I was a hundred percent not prepared for... the kind of reality check that feels like a strong right hook sucker punch just when you thought the fight was turning in your favor.

"Bless the thing that broke you down and cracked you open, because the world needs you open."  

I'm not sure what being this cracked open offers the world. And I'm not sure I can bless it. I haven't seen him in this much pain since those couple of bad days during Induction in Spokane.  Every writhe, every feeble moan, every confused, tear-filled, pleading look ... I feel like someone is sawing on my exposed nerves with a dull, serrated knife.  

As I write all this out, I want there to be something that turns these thoughts more positive. That gives meaning to this pain. I'm desperately looking for it. Praying for it. I stumbled upon a verse today that could not have been coincidence, but I didn't want it. I kept searching.... flipping through devotionals, inspirational books, encouraging cards, wanting to be told something else. Wanting to hear something more pitying, more empathetic, more willing to let me sit in this mucky hole of angst and sorrow. But I keep coming back to this verse:  "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). 

I really don't like that verse right now.  I really want to be told something different.  

But there it is again, this time in Romans 5: "We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character, and character produces hope."

Seriously God?  I stare at my son sleeping on the couch next to me. Even in sleep his brow is furrowed and his breathing labored.  He fidgets uncomfortably, clutching his lovey tighter.  I just wish it was me suffering and not him. Maybe I could handle that verse better. Where is the justice in a 4-yr old suffering? There is a nudge on my heart, a whisper reminding me that the pain Forrest is in is NOT God's will. We're in this ridiculously fallen ... ridiculously falling apart ... world. The pain and heart ache we all have was NOT what God had wanted for any of us. Forrest's cancer is NOT of God. His agony grieves God too. But this verse, this verse I really don't like, maybe isn't about Forrest's suffering at all. Maybe it is quite simply about MY response to it. I've often cried out, "What do you want of me, God?"  This. This is what He wants of me. A response that —no matter the circumstance—points to my joy in Him, my faith in Him, my trust in Him.  In spite of Forrest's pain, I have hope.  Suffering shouldn't take away our joy. It should give us context for it. 

Bless the thing that cracks me open.  I'm not blessing it. I'm not quite there. Rejoice always. Not doing that either.  But I'm believing its possible. I would like it to be. Maybe that's an ok start. 

Remission

The relief from Monday's news that Forrest is in remission has been palpable.  Bo and I were at the build project when I got the call. And there, amidst the saw dust and drills, siding pieces and plumbing parts we could do nothing but hold each other and just cry.  I know there had been a massive outcry for healing, and I fully believe it made all the difference in the world.  I have to admit though— in the spirit of brutal authenticity—i really didn't know if remission is where we would find ourselves this week. Both Bo and I had felt God preparing our hearts with increasing intensity all last week and through the weekend. What would our reaction be if remission wasn't the news? Was our faith, our trust, our belief contingent on circumstance?  At every turn, it seemed, I was faced with the question, and I literally could not get Abraham and Isaac out of my mind for days on end. What was God asking of me? What would He ask?  I think we really had to get to a place: mentally, emotionally, spiritually where we believed God to be the same good God, the same present God, the same powerful God no matter what happened. We felt a peace that passes all understanding, but it was definitely not an assurance we would get the answer we wanted. All that was sure is the knowledge that God is present and leading us somewhere purposeful.

... But... thank God for buts ... we did get the answer we wanted. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could take a deep breath. We needed this. Forrest needed this. The plan for ongoing treatment needed this. Truth of the matter is: yes, remission is an intense relief; but it does not mean cured. Maybe for other cancers remission means you can wash your hands and walk away. It is done. But not for T-ALL.

Don't get me wrong, it is a huge benchmark. Forrest's case is no longer such a wild card. He's not so experimental. The best way I can describe it is that now Forrest's leukemia is under control. The American Cancer Society puts it like this: "When Leukemia is diagnosed, there are usually about 100 billion leukemia cells in the body. Killing 99.9% of these cells during the 1-month induction treatment is enough to achieve a remission, but it still leaves about 100 million leukemia cells in the body."  Most T-ALL patients attain remission after the first month. It took Forrest 4 months. But, then this super high tech lab in Seattle looked at his bone marrow smear with the millions of cells that are in it and saw "NO evidence of ANY Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia."  That is amazing!  Still...decades of scientific medical research emphatically point to what is now empirically understood:  Even if that specific sample did not have any leukemia cells, they still exist in his body. And left unchecked; would multiply and take over. Again. That's why remission is awesome; but it is a relative awesome.

This was a big wicket, though, and it comes flooding in like the life-giving antidote of an epi-pen.  I wish, "Thank you, God" didn't seem so trite. So we soak it up, encouraged and strengthened more than any other time since diagnosis. Forrest will stay high risk (but will not be moved to Very High Risk 🙌) as we move forward. We'll continue treatment for the next three years to maintain this precious remission status. Next week we head to Grand Rapids for the start of Phase 3.  Because Forrest was slow to attain remission, aggressive treatment will still continue.  For this next phase that means we'll be inpatient for up to a week every other week for 8 weeks.  (Yes, that math sucks).  He'll be given a chemotherapy called methotrexate on a drip at such a high dose terms like "excessive systemic toxicities" start getting thrown around.  His organs and especially kidneys will be highly taxed, so the team will monitor him closely for the entirety of each session and won't discharge until his body has cleared the chemo to a satisfactory level.   Could take 4 days. Could take 7. Then we do it again 3 more times.   After that, it is on to Phase 4.   They call it Delayed Intensification.  I guess the name speaks for itself. 

In this new world of cancer jargon, we learned a term early on: EFS-- Event-Free Survival. Five-year EFS is a big bench mark. Ten yrs— even bigger. So when do you get to stop worrying about it coming back? When are you "cured?" I remember our Spokane oncologist shaking his head at the thought that some would say "cured" after 5 years. He believed: "when you die of something else."  Great. I remember cringing.  But I think our God doesn't really do benchmarks. He doesn't abide by the standard EFS rates.  I think God has big plans for Forrest. And so we move forward with the assurance that He is here and He is listening.  To you. To us.   Please don't stop praying.  

P.S.  You all get an A in Oncology 101 class today.

the Valley of the Shadow

I'm re-reading the last post, and almost don't want to write this one.  We're in the same spot; looking for the same outcome, feeling the same things. Progress must have been made, right? But the inevitable: "what if" thoughts remain leering from all our dark corners.   

The logistics of the last 2 weeks have been crazy.  Forrest was admitted with the flu for over 10 days. His white blood cell counts (immune system) were non-existent because of where he was in treatment, and then the flu on top of that made any cell recovery stagnant for weeks.  The big bone marrow procedure (I wrote about his last one in this previous post) had been scheduled for yesterday (Tuesday), but his low counts made them push the procedure until tomorrow.  They let us out from the hospital Monday afternoon only after I promised to stay local and come right back at the first sign of a secondary bacterial infection. So we've been laying low at family's relishing the sun and the yard and air that smells of freedom and hope and spring.

The last bone marrow procedure showed progress, but not enough.  This test is our last shot to reach their threshold for remission and to maintain our current treatment path. Daunting as the 3+ years before us is, the alternative is much worse. If Forrest is still not in remission tomorrow, it all changes. And not for the better.  

You know that friend of a friend on FB that is just going through it? Yeah, I knew her too. Was always aware but comfortably distant from it. But its no longer a friend of a friend. "It" has barreled down our front door and supplanted itself squarely in our midst with no plans of leaving. It's surreal and weird and sometimes I literally just pretend it isn't.  As this week has gotten closer, I've felt myself become more and more removed from the gravity of it all.   There is a verse in Matthew that says: "Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (v. 6:34)  Simply by necessity, we live that out each sun up and each sun down.   There is a vice grip around my heart, though. As the clock ticks by, the screws turn. Tightening, squeezing, aching. Its getting harder and harder to ignore. I start thinking about tomorrow and all that it means, and the flood gates threaten to roar.  It is us. It is Forrest.  And it can't be ignored. 

If I'm honest, I don't even know how to pray right now. Yes, I pray for undiluted, full, and complete healing, but I have to wonder: not about God's omnipotence, but his omniscient reasoning. He is in control; he holds power over cancer. I don't doubt that for one second. So then why? Why doesn't He exert His power? And what does it mean if Forrest's path is different than the 85% of kids who find remission? And yet, I have been reminded, today, in a myriad of ways, that it's not up to me to know the future. I do know this: that though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I should fear no evil.  I know He is here. To comfort. To bring hope.  To walk us through this season.  Psalm 103 talks about the love and care and attention God has for us.  In verse six David compares His love as to a father's ... as a father is tender and compassionate.  The Message says: as a parent feels for his child. Later, in chapter 118, David reiterates over and over: His love never quits; His love never quits.  So God knows the depths of my angst and the depths of my love for my child.  He created it to be so and He shares it with me.  He knows.  He cares.  I believe that to be so.  If that knowledge is all I have to lean on, then ... o.k... I don't know what the plan is, and that lack of insight and lack of control .... that utter, unwanted surrender ... threatens to undermine all that I stand on. But I believe He. Is. In. Control.  I do believe there is a plan, even if I'm not privy to it.  This is not cosmos spinning wildly out of control.  My children and I sang today: He's got the whole world in His hands....    I wasn't just mouthing the words. I believe them. 

Sometimes writing this down and working through it on paper... or the computer (whatever) is cathartic and spiritual and healing.   Once the truths I've been telling myself all day are down in writing, they hold more weight. They sink in. They calm me. They lead me to a place of strength and surety.  It's a little bit crazy: this public journaling. But I don't feel any compulsion to hide my thoughts or our story.  God is using Forrest.  We're along for the ride, and God ... we're paying attention.  Do your thing.  

Do. Your. Thing.

We're watching.

Calling Forrest's Army

We head back to the hospital in Grand Rapids on Monday. It will be a full week of daily chemo treatments. But first, at 8am on Monday: another bone marrow aspirate will kick start the week. It is a big deal. The kind of big deal that makes a desperate mother put out an SOS to pray. We need you. Forrest needs you.  

This will be the test that will show us if the onslaught of chemo he has faced over the last 3 months has been effective.  The vast majority of T-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia patients will see no marked leukemia cells after the first month.  Forrest still had nearly 2%.  He was put in a high risk category and given stronger medication with increased dosing along with some experimental "let's see how this works" stuff thrown in. His case is unique, and no doctor we've talked to has seen his specific chromosomal translocation. They admit: a lot of this is trial and error. His counts have been really low for over two weeks.  So low, in fact, they have taken him off almost every medication and chemo in the hopes of letting him recover his levels. (low levels don't transfer to low energy— the crazy irony is he has been feeling great). My mind can't help but wonder if it has been 2 weeks, though, that the leukemia has also had a chance to revive. If Monday's bone marrow test shows anything over .01%, his medical team will want to move him to a "Very High Risk" category. The ramifications are huge. They will batter his already significantly weakened body. They will decimate his already highly compromised immune system and tax every other part of his body that has already been asked to compensate. They will pummel him. 

Even as I write this in as clear of language as I can muster the emotions come thundering in threatening paralysis, mind-numbing fear, doubt. All of it.  Pediatric Leukemia has some of the highest remission rates seen. I have to keep remembering that. But it comes at a price. We are good at living day by day, but the time frame associated with leukemia is undeniably daunting. Even if Forrest was an "early responder" or had no residual leukemia in his marrow after the first month, his treatment plan would still be over 3 years.  Even if he doesn't move up categories to VHR or Very High Risk, he will still be treated for 3+ years.  The type of dosing, frequency, intensity, (and ramifications) all change depending on each patients response, but the time frame stays: 3+ years.  Three years.  I feel a blanketing suffocation, and then I remember the alternative.  So ok, we'll do chemo forever if thats what it takes.  But God... please.

Early on, leukemia was explained to me as an entire branch of the military going rogue. Except nobody catches on until too late.  Your white blood cells are made up of 5 types: all responsible for protecting your body from pathogens, viruses, bacteria, foreign invaders.  Except an entire group of Forrest's WBC's mutated, becoming the foreign invaders themselves: undetected.  They took over 90% of his bone marrow, spilling out into his liver, spleen and thymus. They set up their base there: creating a harrowing mass that wrapped around his airway and almost suffocated him.   But as quickly as they take over, they can be decimated.  Just not completely.  His mass  disappeared in a matter of weeks. His liver and spleen shrunk back within days. In a matter of months 88% of the leukemia in his marrow and blood has been beaten.  But now that 2% or 1% or .01% hides. And they wait, not showing themselves as the poisonous chemo is injected over and over and over trying to find every last rogue cell.  Three and half years.  I guess that is the magic number.  If they haven't shown themselves by then, they are gone.  How many children had to die for researchers and doctors to understand that.  Makes my blood cold. 

I don't pretend to understand why Forrest has to fight this battle.  I don't know why leukemia or any cancer exists. But I do know that God has not forsaken us. He has shown up in the midst of this battle. I know that He tells us to pray, and I know that prayer has the power to change things. Prayer changes things. Prayer matters. I believe that with every fiber of my being. Forrest has had an army well up from around the world.  I'm calling on that army now again. We need you. Forrest needs you.  Pray for the eradication of this disease in his tough but tired little body. Pray for strength, yes. But pray for healing. Pray there is nothing. N O T H I N G. that can be found in his marrow on Monday. 

I've had this song from Elevation on repeat this week:   . . . I've seen you move. Come move the mountains. And I believe, I'll see you do it again. You made a way, when there was no way.  And I believe. I'll see you do it again.  . . .  Your promise still stands. Great is your Faithfulness. I'm still in your hands. This is my confidence. You've never failed me yet.

God come.  Move.  Move the mountain as only You can.   

UPDATE:  

The bone marrow results are in and the news is encouraging! Forrest does still have a tiny bit of leukemia in his marrow, but the exact quantity was actually very hard for the lab to ascertain. Regardless of nuances, it is practically a ten-fold reduction from a month ago and signifies the most important thing: Forrest is indeed responding well to the aggressive treatments he's been given. 🙌 Most concerning to us was the re-categorization to Very High Risk if the drs didn't see exactly what they wanted. But Forrest will not be moved to VHR for right now. We will continue on with this phase, giving him 5 more weeks to reach that .01% or less number. The trajectory now makes that seem very possible. 👍🏻 In addition, his next bone marrow aspirate will be sent to the most highly advanced lab in the country able to see and mark Leukemia cells in T-ALL patients like no other place in the world. They also saw good signs in his marrow that his white blood cell levels should start coming up. Just delayed but very indicative of the extremely heavy drugs he got 3 and 4 weeks ago. 

So we thank God, and we keep on keeping on. I wish this was a one time prayer request/response event, but it is very much a marathon with a lot of hills and twists and turns. I'm grateful for a really good hour spent with our oncologist and the attention and care she's demonstrated over Forrest's case. She is very hopeful and felt encouraged by his test results, so we take that encouragement to heart. There is no doubt in my mind God's hand is all over Forrest and in every dark corner of this journey... there has been a peace and a calm I can attribute to nothing but His presence...And to Forrest's army interceding all over the world: there are simply no words. ❤️ 

This Thomas Blackshear portrait shows what I cannot begin to describe. I feel it's accuracy with a certainty that makes me tremble.

Brave Vulnerability

I read the other day: "The world has enough women who live a masked insecurity. It needs more women who live a brave vulnerability."  Makes me wanna nod my head and shout hallelujah like I'm in a southern Baptist church pew.  I want that.   But vulnerability is hard. It requires something. There is risk and no guarantee.  But the potential... oh, the potential.  That we might actually know and see each other, and in so doing, understand ourselves so much more.  The irony of vulnerability is its strength. Its power. Its ability to connect what was once isolated. Its refusal of apathy. It's intentional drive toward growth, toward change. 

Brave vulnerability. It reminds me of one of my favorite Ernest Hemingway quotes: There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.  So here goes.  The last two months have been the hardest of my life. My son's body is wracked by a disease that requires an antidote of poison, a deep betrayal was laid to bare, finances were crushed, a long sought dream threatened.  And yet ... the last two month have quite possibly been the best months in a long long time.  We have come together as a family wrapping ourselves around each other tenderly, intentionally, with a grace and a love that defies the expectations of the day.  Financial support has come flooding in; one inexplicable God-thing after another.  And our dream of a home in NoMi moves forward.  Not in our timing—none of it, actually, in our timing— but here, in this sweet spot of mercy amidst sorrow, is a joy and beauty that is hard to fathom.  

If I've taken anything out of this hard season of life, it is that we are not alone. I have felt the Holy Spirit like few times in my life and have felt a connection with so many people the world over—people I may not even know by name. We were never meant to do life alone—we were meant to live in community with each other, bearing each other's burdens. Because that's how we can survive the bad stuff... no, scratch that, that's how we can thrive even in the bad stuff. That's how we can grow and that's where we can find purpose. Love is impossible without vulnerability. I think truly living is impossible without it too.  Vulnerability ties us to each other. It's not easy and its not cheap. It requires incremental efforts anchored in intentionality. And in the surrender and the effort that is vulnerability, lies the assurance of what we so desperately long for: connection.

Communion of Hurts

There is something so innate in each of us that wants to know we are not alone. We crave commaraderie, companionship, kinship ... whatever it is that reminds us we walk our unique journey alongside others. Forrest's little four-year-old mind is no different. I've heard this peer support described as a "communion of hurt." However you want to describe it, it's been vital to Forrest to know he is not the only one going through this as he strives to understand & accept what is going on. So here he is doing procedure after procedure yesterday to Hopper the Frog, mimicking each action of the drs & nurses hovering over him. ...Telling Hopper it's going to be ok, Forrest has to do this stuff too.

We spent over nine hours yesterday at DeVos Children's Hospital surrounded by children all in the same boat: an impossibly tiny infant, a couple still-precocious toddlers, a handful of quiet teenagers, a 10-yr old Italian cutie pie who could speak no English but went around with a remote-controlled whoopie cushion & a video camera gleefully yelling "YouTube YouTube!" as we cheered each successive victim. Infusion days we are in a big room filled with pods: a couple chairs, a little table & a TV. There are privacy sheets each can draw, but most are left open & the smiles and tentative small talk welcomed. There are spaces for maybe 15 patients; many days they are all full. The kids usually have fuzzy, patchy heads & grey complexions, most are subdued, & the parents always look tired. But there is somehow still the feeling that we're in this together. And the knowledge-laden shared smiles help. They really do. 

Forest got some big heavy drugs yesterday. He has a PORT now- an implantation below the skin on his right pec muscle that goes straight into his heart. There is an access needle & a tube that hangs out of it delivering drugs. He was a champ when they "accessed" the PORT for the first time. Later in the day, though, we had a mishap. The tube got caught on the footrest & yanked severely, partially dislodging it. His screams of agony made my heart drop. It took 3 adults to hold him & 2 attempts to "re-access." Later, it was Hopper's turn. Communion of hurts, I guess.

Home

Moments of normalcy... We're home in Michigan, a reprieve for mind, body, and soul before Phase Two starts tomorrow in Grand Rapids. Our Spokane doctor's final report was inspiring: that yes, Forrest had become the expected "steroid ball" but in terms of chemo resiliency, the Dr had never... N E V E R ... had a T Cell Leukemia patient go through the first month of Chemo induction as well as Forrest. Never febrile, never puking, never sick, no obvious sores, never any infection, never re-admitted. He said that it really just doesn't happen. (I'm pointing at all of you ✨🙏🏻✨🙌✨)

And so, we've recollected ourselves at home, riding that wave and watching tidbits of Forrest's strength and stamina return. Then, yesterday, our Spokane team called with his Friday bone marrow aspirate results and our hearts sunk. They expected to see no marked presence of leukemia cells still in the marrow. But instead, he still has over 1%. While not super rare, it is a blow. These next two months will be critical for Forrest as new chemo agents are introduced. If any cells are still found at the end of this phase, he'll move into a high risk category. The implications make my stomach drop.

There is a war battling... in Forrest's now-not-so-tiny body... in our minds and spirits as well. Maybe you don't believe in Satan. Sometimes I wish I didn't. But I have felt him at work too many times to kid myself. He is out to kill, steal and destroy. My child's health, my marriage, finances, build project, everything. Anything. I read today: you will know the truth and the truth will set you free. So I claim that Truth. We don't live under a spirit of fear or condemnation but of power and love. We claim that.

Kaine

I knew virtually nothing about Leukemia a few weeks ago. Now we are deep in discussions about chromosomal translocations and whether experimenting with chemo agent imatinib is necessary for the super rare NUP214-ABL1 fusion Forrest has. Apart from that craziness, though, Forrest's T-ALL is pretty textbook standard. And standard is good. Somewhere around 80% of kids with ALL attain remission and most of those remain "cured"-- it's one of the major medical success stories of modern medicine. Even as late as the 1960's children with ALL only lived a few months. ...Makes my head spin. Other diseases aren't so curable .

I met Brooke at the Ronald McDonald House a week or two ago-- the days all meld together. Her son is 13 months old and is named Kaine. His room was right next to Forrest's in the oncology ward and a couple nurses kept confusing their names. (Forrest's middle name is Kane) This Kaine has a brain tumor though and a diagnosis that sounds like another language. They got here right before Christmas too. Drove from hours away to this ER because no one else would believe her that something was really wrong. He's already had multiple brain surgeries. We passed each other in the elevator today. She was in a wheelchair, her baby on her lap, masks over their mouths, nurses trailing behind. Most likely going to another procedure. Her eyes smiled a weary hello, her young face drawn, trendy blue hair unkept and shoved under a beanie. I wonder how Kaine is doing. I didn't get to ask. When we first met in the big communal kitchen of RMHouse she couldn't conceal the flash of wistful jealousy when she heard Forrest's diagnosis. My son has the odds in his favor. Hers doesn't. The reality shone bright in both our eyes. 

There have been some undeniably hard days. And there will be more. But when our strength and hope and faith waver, we are reminded of how much we have to be thankful for. .
I knew nothing about Leukemia a few weeks ago... it seems like another lifetime.

Reality Check.

The pharmaceutical cauldron being pumped into Forrest multiple times a day is starting to take its toll. It is doing what it should, and for that, I am grateful. But I barely recognize my little boy.

Overnight he has ballooned with rolly polly chipmunk cheeks and a huge distended belly that peeks out under his now-too-small clothing. His tastebuds have done a 180 shocking even himself when the treats he has always held most dear end up tasteless and discarded. He is emotional without cause and then so frustrated that he can't stop crying. Pain and general discomfort alternate erratically, and my momma's heart is in a million pieces today as he looks at me through the tears in utter angst and confusion not wanting to be touched but needing me close. 

His little body, his emotions, his sense of control and understanding of who he is, is all under attack right now. He feels it on all levels. And the worst part? I can do nothing but give him more of all that is making it so. Cancer is a bi***. Pediatric cancer? undefinable. So, not gonna lie. I don't feel strong today. I have felt a supernatural strength holding me up for so much of these last few weeks, but today? I don't know where it is today. So I cling to my little boy and I lean in to the promise in Isaiah 41: "Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed for I am your God. I will strengthen you; I will help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." Lean in with me, will you? ❤️

Update

Today marked our 3rd round of chemo. There was also another spinal tap and a bone marrow aspirate along with complications in his pic line/blood draw so it was nearly 10 am by the time a HANGRY Forrest finally got his breakfast. I think the nurses were nearly as relieved as he was as he wolfed down enough food to satiate a grown lumberjack. We were discharged on Tuesday from inpatient Peds Oncology 🙌 but will need to stay within 1 hr of the hospital here in Spokane for the next 3-4 weeks as Forrest finishes this first phase of chemo. They found a gene abnormality in his leukemia cell blood work a couple days ago. It affects only 6% of T-cell leukemia patients and the research on it is basically nill. Another chemo agent will be added to the pharmacy that is being pumped into his body and everybody will be keeping their fingers crossed. So far he is responding perfectly to the drugs. The x-ray images show the before and after scan of the massive tumor in his chest. 6 days of steroids and chemo shrunk it to basically nothing. That is the power of prayer and medicine in action. ✨

His immune system is plummeting and will be basically nothing these next few weeks. So we'll be working hard to avoid all the fun kid places 😏. Forrest is a fighter. They say sickness like this affects the parents more than the kids and I think they are maybe right. Forrest (and we) are feeling your thoughts and prayers... and we're fighting like hell. We'll beat this cancer; we'll beat it together.

"For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

So. Much. Joy.

And so many firetrucks...  A Christmas morning to remember

Forrest: Leukemia: Age 4

 Has been pretty surreal around here. Filled out a bunch of paperwork today ...

"Forrest- leukemia-age 4. Forrest-leukemia- age 4. Forrest- leukemia-age 4."

I can't help but keep whispering WTF under my breath. If I blink hard enough will this insane episode of Grey's Anatomy disappear? #realtalk 🙄 In the blink of an eye life has changed: stark and sterile rooms, beeping monitors and forever tangling lines, 'roid rage and a toddler's incredulity at spending Christmas in a hospital bed. The next months are undeniably daunting, but God has set us up to really understand how to take life one day at a time. And Today, well, today was a successful day. Forrest's airway has markedly improved, sedation proved possible, and both an LP and chemotherapy happened. We are believing whole heartedly that we are on the way to full remission. 

We have received a tidal wave of prayer, thoughts, messages and outreach. YOU guys are amazing. It is inspiring, humbling, encouraging and just plain incredible. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Reunited

My Big Warrior and My Little Warrior together again and ready to kick cancer's arse.

Diagnosis

Adapted from original Instagram post:

On December 18 I took Forrest to the ER in Libby, MT after a common cold started giving him croup symptoms. He was wheezing and having some trouble getting full, good breaths which led to a couple panic episodes during nap time and in the evening. It was 10:30 by the time I decided to go ahead and take him to the ER. We expected to be given a simple breathing/nebulizer treatment and sent on our way. Instead, an abnormal chest x-ray showed a wide swath of white in what was supposed to be the black abyss of his lungs.  A CT Scan was quickly ordered and its results made my world come crashing in. A massive growth in Forrest's chest was wrapping around his trachea and esophagus constricting his airway to a 2mm pinhole—a coffee straw sized opening. At 2 am Forrest and I were transported in an ambulance to Spokane's Sacred Heart Children's Hospital: 4 nerve wracking hours in a snow storm. Within 24 hours Forrest was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoblastic leukemia.... a "liquid tumor" form of cancer found in the blood, marrow, and organs throughout his entire body. Even more pressing than dealing with the cancer, though, was the immediate need to increase his airway, by strategically reducing the mass in his chest without sedation or anesthesia. 

My parents and sister (with Ari and Finley) quickly followed from Libby the next day and Bo was put on the nearest convoy out from his deployed location in Afghanistan. An incredible team of doctors and nurses have rallied around us here in Spokane where we will be for at least a month before being transferred to a Children's Hospital in MI. As you can imagine, we are reeling and covet your thoughts and prayers. We believe in a personal, powerful God who is the ultimate Healer. Forrest's cough/cold and subsequent x-ray saved his life; they estimated that pinhole would have closed in a matter of days and he would have died in his sleep. The intervention that came because of a cold was a miracle, and we are believing it will only be followed by more miracles as medical advancements and Forrest's tough little body fight this disease. 

Finding Joy in the Rain

It's stormy. Grey and overcast. Intermittent downpours followed by incessant spitting. Just enough to keep the intrepid optimist hesitant and indoors.  My mood matches the weather.  We are lonely today and a bit despondent.  Finley has taken to nonstop hopeful shrieking anytime I so much as answer the phone or place a call. Daddy is in that phone.  Today she wandered around the living room with the phone clutched in her little hand peering at it ever so often as if willing his face to appear with that coveted FaceTime ring.  Forrest acts like he doesn't care or need daddy much. But he needs me a million times over, and if he could, would permanently attach himself in my arms.  

I quit my job...my career-advancing, challenging, motivating, inspiring job as an editor for the most iconic magazine and media group in all of Northern Michigan. I really liked it. I was good at it. I was at the cusp of really exciting things. I wasn't ready to leave. And yet... it wasn't my time. 

That was months ago actually. But I haven't wanted to write about it. There were a million good reasons that I finally couldn't deny any longer. My children needed me. My family needed at least one parent home consistently. At least someone steady and present. Plus: an arduous commute. Horrific childcare experiences. Laughable pay. The need to pick up as a family and go.  It was obvious, and the decision was the right one. I know it. But still...  This has happened to me before.  I wrote about it too; like de ja vu here.    But I miss my work, my career, my life outside of 4 crayoned walls and a sticky kitchen floor.  In some ways, I felt like a better mommy, when I wasn't JUST mommy. 

But there is an inconceivable joy at watching my babies moment by moment through each day. I find my chest literally aching at the moments and realizations of pure bliss as we walk through life all tangled up in each other.  So yes, today, I may feel like I am suffocating.  But I won't have this forever. In fact I won't have this for long at all.  Their youth is already like sand slipping through my fingers, and the forced slow down and monotony of life right now is creating the memories I will cling to later. I know this. And I am grateful for it.  

Tonight's storm will pass. The non stop whiny phase will cease (right?!?!?!) Daddy will come home.

And in the meantime I cling to these images and the knowledge that I am right where I am supposed to be. 

(...Though I simply cannot guarantee I won't do this again.)

Home. Kinda

I've had a nomad soul for as long as I can remember. Maybe it's from growing up in a tiny northwestern MT town that I knew I wanted to leave or living abroad in places I loved but was never a native or marrying a military man which meant a home always in flux... I guess from a combination of all of it -and more that I can't put into words - I've never really felt "at Home."   — Like what exactly does that even mean?  The roof you lay down under each night or something much more nuanced? Perhaps, ironically, not even tangible at all?  

So home is a loose term around here.  But especially so in the last 12 months. In that time Forrest has called 4 different places "home." He gets frustrated when I reference one of the latest iterations, stomping his foot and furrowing his brow in exasperation: "But, WHICH one, mommy?" Granted, his daddy has also been gone at least half of that time, he begrudgingly welcomed in a little sister, mommy went back to work full time and he had to say goodbye to a cousin that was way more like a sister.  So, in retrospect, maybe pillow placement wasn't the biggest deal.

We've been intentional with our children to foster a spirit of independence, flexibility and adaptability. From the earliest days, I've always wanted them to know and understand the world in as broad a way as I could possibly show them. I want them to not just hear, but actually see and feel that the world is big, cultures and places are wonderfully strange, and different is not bad, but instead cause for exploration and celebration.  And yes, along the way, there will probably be some stretching: things that aren't comfortable or nice or neat or in your control or part of your plan.  You may get rocked. Your vision may shift. Your perspective change.  And all that is ok. It's good.  In fact, if exploring the world doesn't involve those things, something is wrong. 

Still, this little farmhouse that we are renting for the foreseeable future feels like more of a “home” than we’ve had in a long while. Tote after tote after tote that has been sequestered away in multiple storage units for years is now seeing the light of day, and this morning, I hung a picture on a wall—something I haven’t done in a really long time. It’s ironic, because as beautiful as this little setting is and as grateful as we are to have found it, it’s actually not where we see ourselves for very long either.

Where we want to call home is a one-of-a-kind hangar/house project on our Northern Michigan property.

Yeah, I know … some imagination and vision is a must.  But we do, at least, have that in spades. After a crazy tumultuous year, during which I really questioned the decision to come north, it is still the one and only place that makes me feel at peace up here. It encompasses a vision so unique and utterly ours that it’s the only place that actually does feel like home—even prematurely.

We envisioned moving into it mere months after pulling up stakes in NC, and now, nearly a year later, can only stare at the Tyvek flapping in the wind and the naked 2x4’s inside and cringe.  The why’s and hows of the whole emotional, incredibly frustrating saga of it are a little irrelevant here and now, but suffice it to say, we’re not giving up. It is just going to take more time, more blood, more sweat, and yes, I'm sure, more tears.  

Through the whole process, and as we get settled into our most recent "home for now," I'm reminded over and over of the call on our lives to trust and hope. And it's not a call for just a little bit of hope or a little bit of trust. It requires us going all in. Over and over and over. We hold nothing back, though we see only small glimpses of what the future might be.  We dream big; we choose boldness; we live in adventure.

 ... And maybe most important, we recognize that no matter how exciting the prospect of our finished build is, home is not, in fact, Tyvek and 2x4's. It always has been and always will be: us. 

No place like home

Leland Fishtown at Sunset

Well, we did it.  For better or worse, we pulled up the stakes in NC and bought property in MI, moving here full time in July. As a Montana native, I am no stranger to incredible country and inviting communities. After living and working all over the US and abroad with my active-duty husband, when the chance came to settle down in Leelanau County we jumped at it-- knowing from experience there are few places that could rival it.  The challenge now is figuring out how to make our vision, a reality.  

They say home is where the heart is. Problem with that is, your own front door and a roof over your head are still requirements. So we are building and dreaming and hoping, and maybe soon that front door and that roof will be real.   In the meantime, as cliche millennials do, we have holed up in my husband's parents' garage and decided to live on the edge, not having all the question marks answered, but confident in our vision. Carpe Diem and our kids' college funds be damned. Who needs a 401K when you can live #upnorth?

Similar optimism and enthusiasm marks the way in which I have approached my diverse career opportunities over the last ten years... and how I am surveying potential new career moves here.  Though my degrees are in Journalism and Spanish, most of my experience is in the Marketing and Public Relations fields, most notably as the Marketing Manager for two different companies in vastly different industries. I have also been a freelance journalist for the past 6 years with consistent bylines in both national and regional publications.  It is my background living and studying abroad, however, that makes me really passionate about international relations, the South American and Spanish cultures, and moves me to connect people and stories in virtually any industry I find myself.  

I don't know yet where my passions and the needs of this community might intersect, but I trust that I have something to offer and that Traverse and Leelanau County have something that could challenge and excite me.  We are fresh transplants, but it doesn't take long to gain an intense appreciation for the quality of life here and the boundless potential.   And no matter the question marks ahead, I can take that to the bank.