You left me, Sweet, two legacies: For The Bereaved

You left me-Sweet-two legacies

Emily Dickinson

You left me-Sweet-two legacies-

A legacy of Love

A Heavenly Father would content

Had he the offer of-

You left me Boundaries of Pain-

Capacious as the Sea-

Between Eternity and Time-

Your Consciousness-and me-

Alzheimer's. I had never heard the term. But my little girl self knew it must be bad if my mom, my resilient, strong, mom, was crying because Da (my maternal grandfather) was just diagnosed with it. "He has maybe five years to live," she said. "He's only in the beginning stages." I believe he made it four more years after that before passing away from complications due to Alzheimer's.

I remember early one morning, my dad came into my room before school started and told me that Da had died over the course of the night. He was in hospice, so, while not shocking, it was still saddening. I cried once, and then never again. I was fourteen.

Flash-forward almost 12 years later and I am on the phone with my mom sobbing about never truly knowing my grandfather as an adult. I begged her to tell me about him, a memory, anything. "He always believed girls could do anything boys could do... which led to Nanny (her twin) and I working with him at his construction sites." Did he have any special nicknames for you? "Slug." I burst into tears once more.

Later that day, I recounted to my dad my last memory of talking to him. He didn't know who I was, after fourteen years of being my grandfather, but he seemed content to talk, nonetheless. I was wearing a shirt that said "Coexist" and he looked me in the eyes and said, "Coexisting: what a nice way to live."

The word to grieve originated between 1175 and 1225; from the Middle English greven, grieven < Old French grever <  Latin gravare meaning to burden, derivative of gravis meaning heavy and grave meaning weighty, momentous, or important.

I've been learning to grieve since the passing of another close family member. When this person died, the phrase, "Grief is a garment that demands to be worn" kept rolling around in my head. As I cried this morning over my grandfather long passed, I realized it was because I had never truly worn the Garment of Grief over his death.

It's scary, this dementor of pain. But it must be embraced for true emotional liberation to be found. Whether you are grieving, grief-adjacent, or lucky to be neither, I bid you be brave and encounter the specter of love lost. The only way past is through. You are strong, even in the utter helplessness of loss. You're strong for being there in the first place.

I don't know what's on the other side of grief; I've never been there. But I'm going, and I'll tell you what I find.

With love and sincerity,
Anna Jo

The Lampstand And The Shewbread

I recently re-read The Sabbath by the respected Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. The copy I bought had very abstract pictures of OT concepts at each chapter head. To be honest, they didn't make much sense to me... except for one. It was a picture of a "living" menorah.. a menorah made out of vines and almond blossoms. Like the instructions of a golden lampstand being made in the likeness of an almond tree. I quickly got a copy made and it now sits facing me on the table at the end of my bed to contemplate each time I glance at it.

I read a Christian theology textbook on the Tabernacle, so I could go into a lot of detail about the significance of all the details of the lampstand, but I want to focus on the most simple: it was to give light. Filled continually with pure olive oil by the designated priests, it was lit at all times. But it giving light is only the first part of what I want to focus on. What is important is what it illumined: the table of the shewbread, or the Bread of the Presence, eaten then replaced each week by the priests after fresh consecration.

I finally understood why this elusive picture of the lampstand had captivated me for weeks: it was a symbol of the illumination of the Presence of God in my life, particularly the vast, dark three years preceding this moment in time. I could see where he was all along in my sin, pain, and transgression: with me.

And if you're sitting there worried that, since this is an OT concept it doesn't apply to you and you won't be able to see the Presence of God in your murky past, your tenuous present, or your uncertain future, remember that Jesus is the Light of the world, the exact imprint of the nature of the God, given to us to know the Father. And his name is Emmanuel, which means "God with us."

Past, Present, and Future

There are two parts to this blog. I just want to get some of my thoughts on paper and flesh them out with y'all.

Part I:

Today, I meditated for 30 mins on Isaiah 53:4a in preparation for Easter Sunday when we get to celebrate after this long, Lenten, penitential season. I want to do Lent well and I pray I have. Christ's crucifixion is everything; without it, we would still be sick. Which is where Part I comes in. Isaiah 53:4a in the NASB translation reads: "Surely our griefs [sickness/disease both internal and external] he bore, and our sorrows [pain both physical and mental] he carried [this verb has an alternate meaning of 'being pregnant with' about which I spent much time thinking]" (Isaiah 53:4) NASB."

I had a Zoom call with my therapist today and at the end she said I would have to work through the trauma of having had cancer and having Bipolar I eventually. I liked her directness as I know those are things that hold me back from the past in the present and hopefully not the future. Isaiah 53:4a is in the past tense, meaning Christ already bore and carried those things while he was on the Cross. What does that mean for the healing of my trauma? I don't know if this will make sense, but today, during my Lectio Divina on verse 53:4a, I prayed that Christ would go back and heal my trauma, both physical and mental, in the past tense that I wouldn't suffer so much from it today. I believe he can do that but that that's not all he's doing.

He also is doing those things in the present tense as I experience the day to day grievances of life. Always bearing, always carrying.

And, finally, I believe he will consummately heal me in the future, when I see him face to face. In his manifest Presence in heaven. Some words of C.S. Lewis from his book The Great Divorce apply:

“Ye cannot in your present state understand eternity… That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, ‘No future bliss can make up for this,’ not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backward and turn even that agony into a glory... The good man’s past begins to change so that his forgiven sins and remembered sorrows take on the quality of heaven… And that is why the Blessed will say, ‘We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven.’”

This brings me to Part II of this blog post:

Genesis 1:2 states, "The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was moving [hovering] over the surface of the waters," (Genesis 1:2) NASB.

The Hebrew word for formless is "tohuw" which means "formelessness, confusion, emptiness... a place of chaos." Anybody ever feel like that? I do. And I have. And I will. Void comes from the Hebrew word "bohuw" which means "emptiness, waste... a vacuity... an indistinguishable ruin." I definitely feel like my mind, body, soul, emotions, etc. are indistinguishable ruins at times. Both from the cancer and the Bipolar. As I was meditating on this verse, I also focused on the Hebrew verb for "hovering" which is "rachaph." One of the major translations comes from its Syrian transliteration/counterpart meaning "a bird brooding over its young." My dictionary app defines this version of brood as: "(of a bird) to warm, protect, or cover (young) with the wings or body." That's exactly what Christ did during his Crucifixion: he covered us with his bloody, beaten, and torn body and with his wings of healing (Mal. 4:2).

So I recollected that Christ was "rachaph-ing" over my soul and body when I was close to physical death and every moment of mental anguish I have faced since. He is "rachaph-ing" over my soul and body even know, "a very-present help in trouble" (Psalm 46:1). And, finally, his healing, protection, hovering, in short, his "rachaph-ing" will be consummated when I see him face to face. 

When dealing with a God outside of time, we get to consider all the angles our finite minds can comprehend of his activity among us.

Take heart in knowing that he is healing you, restoring you, hovering over you, in the past, present, and future.

"Hope is a dangerous thing."

"Hope is a dangerous thing."

I just watched 1917 and I won't give anything away but the above line is spoken by a commanding officer to a young lance-corporal. He meant it is dangerous to have hope in such a dire situation as WWI, but I submit that, in this cosmic battle into which we were born, hope is dangerous because it is our weapon against the enemy. A hopeful people are a people full of potential, and if you oppose them, danger.

This brings me to Isaiah 61:1: "...the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted..." (NASB). The word afflicted here is the Hebrew word 'anav which can mean, "poor, humble, afflicted, lowly, (very) meek." But Genesius' Hebrew-Chaldee Lexicon gives one more meaning that I clung to when I first read it: miserable.

Miserable comes from root words meaning "pitiable."

I just wanted to give you hope this morning that if you feel miserable, lowly, poor, meek, pitiable, YOU have good news preached to you by the Lord. And as we approach the end of Lent, I find it of the utmost importance to tell you that the aforementioned "good news" is Christ's birth, life, death, resurrection, ascension, and continuing work on our behalf. "...to bring good news to the afflicted..." And I believe we can weather anything this world or the devil himself throws at us with this news.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

Some Final Thoughts: The River Of Life Runs Deep

"The river of life runs deep." I couldn't get this sentence out of my head as a I prepared for and received my latest PET scan. I had no idea what it meant but it gave me a great deal of peace.

Fast-forward to yesterday evening after the test. I was worshipping to Hillsong UNITED's Zion Sessions album and, during a spontaneous moment, started singing, "When I pass through the river You will be with me, in it, in it, in it." I felt it resonate deep inside of me. Then, the light flipped off in my spirit and I remembered the beginning portion of Isa. 43.2 (God talking, here): "'When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they will not overflow you.'" It all finally made sense. I don't know if this is at all theologically accurate (#SorryHeresyHunters) but I think this is the same "river of life" God put in my head and heart: quotidian, cancer treatment, get the kids to school, vote in an election, life.

I just wanted to hop on here and share. I hope this helps somebody. Whether you be sunbathing in the shallows of this river of life or plunged head-long into the raging middle: "You are with me."

Much love,
Anna Jo

Last PET Scan At Portsmouth Naval

Well, today was the end of an era. I had my final PET scan at Portsmouth Naval Hospital (Naval Medical Center Portsmouth). This is a big deal because it's where I had the high-risk operation that removed the cancer from the head of my pancreas and where I received all subsequent, cancer-related care.

The phrase that I haven't been able to get out of my head since last night is, "The river of life runs deep." I don't entirely know what this means but can somewhat connect it to a comment I saw on a facebook post once. A man had just lost his wife to cancer, like hours before, and a wise leader in my life and mutual friend of ours said something to the effect of, "My prayers are with you; you're in the deepest waters life gives right now." That was four years ago and it still sticks with me.

I learned what it means to fight at PN. I learned what it means to grieve and help others through their grief at PN. I learned what it means to give up gracefully at PN. I learned what it means to receive grace gracefully at PN. I befriended countless doctors, nurses and staff at PN. It will always hold a special place in my heart. The river of life runs deep.

The river of life runs deep. Sometimes we're blessed to sunbathe in the shallows but sometimes we are thrust headlong into the raging middle. What I can say is thank you. Thank you to family and friends for holding me up on the darkest nights. Thank you to the medical professionals who save our lives. And finally, after much fighting, I can say thank you to God. For all of it. As my old Young Life leader who also beat cancer always says, "all a gift."

The river of life runs deep.

E.R.

I went to my primary care for a litany of complaints the other day but chief among them was aches all over like I had just finished a 90 min soccer match (trust me, I know what that feels like lol).

The doctor didn't know what to do so I left with a handful of miscellaneous scripts that I never did fill.

I get home and the pains from worse; I could barely lift my head off the pillow. I was showing many signs of Lithium toxicity. I freaked when I saw that two of the more sever side effects were going into a coma and death.

So I went to the ER at Chesapeake General and the triage nurse gave me priority over others who had been there longer.

I was actually called back with a nurse, a man too weak to walk with a facemark on, and my dad, to keep me company. But what happened next was inexplicable to my arrogant mind: I saw the "rooms" were just curtain-partitions, just like pre-op for the Whipple. I started sobbing immediately and hid behind my dad so no one would noticed. The prim-and-proper Anna immediately composed herself. And, true to form, I asked my dad to snap a picture of me to remember this whole ordeal.

I remember wearing my friend's red clay earrings that day for "good luck" (plus they're super cute; I'll put a like to her Etsy shop at the bottom of the page). The red clay reminded me of Georgia where I spent all my summers.

I told my dad to go get something to eat and that I'd be fine there while they ran a battery of tests.

Besides the aforementioned crying, I typically do really well as a patient (minus all my blow-out veins). I didn't realize how much cancer had traumatized me until I saw the curtain-partitioned "rooms," in which (at a dif hospital) I had been horrendously anesthetized.

I am a good patient (well, a little rebellious, really) but I would let them take my blood at 4am, nonetheless.

If I ever got coronation name, I would want it to be Anna the Brave, perhaps calling into existence what is not so. I remember during the time of surgery and recovery I would wax eloquent about the benevolence of God. But when push came to shove, I was just as scared and in pain as anybody else would have been. I remember my worst fear and rebellion towards God came when they would make me breathe into a tube violently to determine if I was developing pneumonia. I refused, but surgeons aren't the type of people to let themselves be refused, especially by an angsty teenager. So I did it with full resentment in my heart towards God.

I'm writing this post because, seven years later, I was scared of the cancer, the pain, the inadequacy of a nerve-block to do it's job (ahem, Portsmouth Naval).

But this is also an update. I'm to see my psychiatrist on Friday so pray for wisdom on his part, he is a fiery christian, so I know Holy Spirit will work through him, I'm in a lot of pain both physically and mentally, so prayer for fortitude would be great.

Love y'all,
Anna Jo

Below are three books about what it's like to live (and die) from cancer:

When Breath Becomes Air -Paul Kalanithi

Worth the Suffering -Jenna Henderson

The Bright Hour -Nina Riggs

Sorry this post was scattered and a tad disorienting.. I guess it's just a reflection of my life (and messy room) right now.

P.S. most of my labs (and there were a lot of them) came back fine so praise the Lord for that.

I'll leave you with a quote from Shauna Niequist:

"There's nothing small or inconsequential about our stories. There is, in fact, nothing bigger. And when we tell the truth about our lives - the broken parts, the secret parts, the beautiful parts - then the gospel comes to life, an actual story about redemption, instead of abstraction and theory and things you learn in Sunday School."

Thanks for reading about my story