In the Garden of Gethsemane

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There is a moment between "I think we might have a problem" and the diagnosis of cancer that is the loneliest, most painful, darkest moment of all.  It is the moment when you get up in the quiet of the dark hours of the morning and gaze at your sleeping baby and wander back to watch your sleeping husband and you beg. "Please, Lord, take this cup. Please!"

I know that moment, Melanie.  I wish I could reach across the wine dark sea and just let you cry on my shoulder.  I wish I could tell you that you will make it through this time and that your young marriage will grow stronger and sweeter and your child grow ever dearer. And I wish you could see me, whole and healthy, almost exactly seventeen years from my own Lenten despair and Easter diagnosis, just to give you tangible hope.  There is an Easter, Melanie. You will arise from your knees in this garden and you will embrace the cross in front of you and you will carry it well.

And we will help you. We will pray and pray and pray.  And we will even be here, in those dark hours of the early morning. In our own homes, with our own babies, we are mothers who can certainly stay awake and keep watch with you. When you think you are alone with your fears in the night, you are not. We are with you, calling upon the communion of saints to console you. We are with you and we will be there to celebrate your Easter with you, too.

Heaven already in her eyes...

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Every once in awhile, I think about that resurrection body. You know, the one that is the same as mine, only perfect. I've been conscious of the imperfections of my body for longer than most people, I suppose.  I was born without an ear.  For as long as I can remember, covering up the "ear-that-isn't" was a big deal. Then, I added a huge scar where they grafted skin from my leg to make a fake ear. It didn't work and we added more scars where the ear was supposed to be. Then I had cancer and I acquired a very large scar across my chest. And four years ago, a precious child was pulled from my belly and left behind another scar. Oh, that resurrection body! No scars. No adhesions with weird pains!

For most of my life, the ear-that-isn't has been covered by my hair. There were no braids or pigtails in my childhood. I've almost always had long hair, but never had an updo. Recently, however, I decided that this learned "hiding" is utterly ridiculous.  I've also decided that I'm rather tired of having spit up in my hair. So, I indulged in some of those very cool comb clips that everyone else has used for years and I swept my curls up off my neck. Now, they remain clean and sweet smelling. And my ear-that-isn't shows for all the world to see.  I am not traumatized by this fact. Really, I don't even think about it. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the couch reading to Katie, who is four. And she asked, "When I grow up and I'm a mom, will my ear close up all the way, too?"

"No, sweet girl, you will still have two perfect, beautiful ears."

"Oh," she whined, clearly disappointed, "but I wanted to be just like you. Just EXACTLY like you."

And I want to be just like she sees me.