Getting to see this sweet family in the middle of Covid isolation was such a treat for me! It’s a special joy to see these little girls grow and develop personalities and preferences. Thanks for spending some time in the autumn sun with me, Alex and Kat!
We had magic soil.
That’s what you have when you live on a city lot in a house that’s almost 100 years ago, magic soil. We could grow almost anything. Once we got started planting, we found ourselves deep in the world of experimenting with gardening and it was so rewarding.
Fast forward to a move to a newer home closer to the outskirts of the city, in a suburban ‘hood characterized by vinyl siding, white plastic fences, and a deep devotion to lawn care, and we found ourselves in a different situation. The phrase “underground sprinklers” has both delighted us—look! you set a timer and your lawn gets watered!—and completely stalled out any of our gardening visions. Our bodies have grown just a little bit older and the aches of life have made dealing with a sprinkler system and very unmagic soil not as compelling.
Darn the way new developments are built, right?! Top soil is removed and presumably sold, and the new ‘hoods are left with clay. Booger.
But at some point, around seven years deep into suburban living, we started to take baby steps in the yard and it has brought us delight.
It’s a simple delight to wake up in the morning and want to survey your plant babies.
Gardening hat goes on, and a walk around the yard is called for.
Doesn’t matter that we live in the ‘burbs.
Doesn’t matter that we have a handful of plants we’re encouraging.
Doesn’t matter that we haven’t initiated our grandest landscaping plans yet.
What matters is new growth, aided by a few soil amendments, lots of water, and some glorious Nebraska sunshine.
We don’t have magic soil anymore, but plants are always magic if you have eyes to see them.
Flexible. Observant. Questioner. Big things come in little packages. A blessing. A mini me to her mama. A little sister. A big sister.
Precious.
Loved.
I held my camera stretched out before me, lens angled down to hopefully capture Mama Robin’s eggs.
Got it.
I hear there is one tiny robin in the nest now, his shoulder blades still bare. I’ll let the neighbors and my Dr. Dolittle daughter check on the babies now. Time for Mama to have some peace. At least until I unhook our hose and scare her again.
Robin’s eggs are always stunning.
I knew she wasn’t pursuing chemotherapy, but I prayed many times for miraculous healing. Due to my own issues, I was not particularly hopeful, but I asked God for it nonetheless. When her health took a turn for the worse I felt desperate to talk with her face-to-face. I couldn’t stand to ask questions without some nuance to my voice and without being able to look into her eyes. I finally found Karen near the front doors of church and grabbed her before she left the building. I can’t even recall exactly what I asked. It wasn’t, “so you’re going to die?!” But the understanding was the same: she was not pursuing treatment this time. I looked in her eyes and understood we were going to lose her.
I took my cues from Karen, and though I felt despondent over this news, I did not fall apart. She was not falling apart—she was living! The information sat sadly in my soul, however. This spark of a woman—not easily bowled over by life’s problems or problem people—wouldn’t last much longer.
Something strange happens with a terrible cancer diagnosis, a terrible cancer fight, and it’s that you have something of a deadline. Either the one bearing cancer will die or the cancer will die—only one emerges from the battle.
In our small group from church we’ve had two beloved women dealing with cancer at the same time. One was dealt a first-time diagnosis and the other, Karen, was facing it for the third time. We buckled down in our basement on Tuesday nights, never knowing whether the evening would bring tears, great fears, or simply deep sharing as usual. It was hard. There were nights that were difficult with an intensity I’ve rarely felt, nights where we prayed and cried and laid hands on each other and prayed again and carried these cancer fears to the Lord, not knowing what the outcome would be. At times it showed great bravery to even show up. And yet we still laughed downstairs on the comfy basement couches, with candles burning, hot coffee warming our hands. We prayed together. And in the midst of cancer, we rejoiced together too as we witnessed the pregnant, growing bellies of two of our number. New life emerged and we celebrated. Other lives struggled. And one life slowly began to be extinguished.
It was only at the very end that Karen’s great internal light diminished. That woman had one of the toughest, most tenacious spirits I’ve seen. She’s the greeter. The weeder of the garden. The drink maker and server. The one with suggestions and solutions. The one riding her bike to my house far south. The one working even as she grew sicker. The one climbing mountains with zero body fat. The one praying for her girls’ trip with her daughter. The one expressing devotion to her man, after all they’ve come through. She was a fire, burning bright and hot with boldness. And then she was no more.
Back when I finally looked in her eyes for understanding that her death was coming, I wanted to say something to her and never took the chance to do it. I wanted to tell her to wait for me. I wanted to let her know that I’d be coming after her and that I was a little nervous about death and would she wait and watch for me when I arrived in glory? I never asked. Never told her that I felt reassured knowing she’d be there with a smile when I showed up. It seemed silly because I understand the truth, and that is that the comfort of seeing Jesus will quell all anxieties that day. I won’t be nervous anymore. And yet, Karen. Karen will indeed be there, and I look forward to seeing her wink at me—just like the very last interaction I had with her—when I at last set foot in heaven.
Today she is free of cancer, sin, heartache, and tears and she stands in glory. I miss my sister but I will see her again. To God be the glory.
Note: this piece was written the evening of Karen’s memorial service in early November 2019. I sat on it for months before sharing it first with Kevin. I wanted his permission to share these thoughts publicly. I could’ve kept this to myself, but why? For what reason? No, instead I’ll post this as I miss my friend and I’ll enjoy remembering the special person she was. I’ve posted two images that feel so VERY Karen to me. First, she was always taking care of us at church events in a behind-the-scenes manner. You can’t even see her face, and she would’ve been fine with that. In the second shot she’s there, in this special group of women who truly loved one another, and she’s cheering on the bride-to-be. Again, a very Karen thing to do.
