The longest year in history...

" 'Cause we made it through, I do believe
The longest year in history
Thank God that it's Thanksgiving Day"

    This Ben Rector song has been stuck in my head since before Thanksgiving. It has been sixteen months since Kurt was diagnosed with Leukemia. It has almost been two years since the Covid-19 pandemic began. It is no wonder that the lyrics: " 'Cause the older that I get/ I see that life is short and bittersweet" and "the longest year in history" resonate with me. I remember the uncertainty of last Christmas so strongly that I can literally taste the bitterness of it in the back of my throat. Kurt was weak from a fourth round of chemo and we were finding out he still wasn't in complete remission, transplant was still up in the air. One day, he told me that he needed a new pair of jeans. He told me to be sure to only buy one pair. He reasoned that he might loose a lot of weight during transplant and be a different size for awhile. I remember looking up at him and our eyes met for a brief second. I think we both let ourselves think for a moment that perhaps he wouldn't need more jeans. Maybe he wouldn't be here. 

    Cancer is one of those diagnoses that shakes up your world and throws mortality in your face. We all know life is fragile, but I think our frail little hearts often have to block out those thoughts to be able to cope and live. This can be a good thing. We wouldn't be very productive if we were quaking in our boots over every little task that could potentially harm us. A life lived in fear is a pretty miserable life. However, I do think it can be good to recognize the fragile state of our humanness so that we can better appreciate God's good gifts to us and to live more in the present. This year, through this suffering, this uncertainty, God has taught me to live and love better. I've seen His mercy poured out and His goodness. I feel a bit like a sleeper suddenly awakened. The world flooded with new colors, new emotions, something bigger. Through His grace and mercy, I am seeing things differently. I have gotten a little glimpse, I've seen a little more of God and the beauty of it leaves me stunned. It makes me long for more. He came in and completely changed my perspective. I can't see the whole of the journey, but He has taught me constantly refocus on what I do know--His character, goodness, and hope in Him. Some days it is like wearing faulty binoculars. I keep adjusting, things get blurry, and I adjust again and again. The peace, joy, and beauty I see when the lenses align is worth the effort and pain of constant adjustment. 

    When I look back on 2021, sometimes I want to dwell on the really tough moments. Really, I think we are just beginning to process some of those moments now. It would be wrong to ignore them because the beauty I've found would be dulled and tarnished without them. When I think of 2021, I remember...

...dancing in the hospital room, the tangle of IV tubing, the view 11 stories up, out over Lexington, as we stole back a moment just for us...

...afternoon cat naps on the bed next to the long window, a lull from the constant barrage of nurses and doctors, the sun tracing the contours of your face...

...hard, long hugs from our children when we returned home from hospital stays-- Max's hand in mine, leading me to the couch so he could pull my arm around him, as we read a book...

...warm spring days where you looked and felt so well that it seemed unbelievable that you were fighting Leukemia and that transplant was coming...how you styled your little "purse" for your treatment and finally found a backpack that worked...

...the drive to clinic in heavy snow, white April blossoms, the vibrant green of summer, the flames of autumn...

...Mabelle's 10th birthday as she twirled in pink tulle and visited friends outside. We saw their faces, we spoke to them in person, we wore our annoying but necessary masks, for a moment things felt a step closer to normal...

...sitting in the reclining chair the day you received your stem cells, trying to watch a movie and your monitors while you slept. I held your hand, looked at each fingernail and thought about how new life had literally been poured into you an hour earlier...

...the way the morning light looked as it spilled into the room the dawn after transplant...the towels, emesis bowl scattered on the floor, the empty place where your bed normally stood. Writhing in pain and vomiting, they had taken you down for a cat-scan to rule out anything serious with your sudden headache. Jay left the door open for a few moments letting in the light and noise of the hall. I could only hear the roaring in my head as I sat down limply, one hand on my Bible and prayed a Psalm for you...

...we spent 48 hours in darkness and then the medicine worked...the headache abated and I breathed again...

...sometimes we'd just lay awake and talk and laugh. You'd be in your hospital bed and I'd be on the window seat/bed. We can make home anywhere. 

...the hot summer day Max wanted to play in his inflatable pool we'd set up on the deck...his surprised face when I dove right in and chased him around like a wild thing...we whooped and hollered...I bet the neighbors thought we were crazy. 

...I can see you walking with the children just up ahead of me on the path through the arboretum. Max is wearing his little backpack, carrying his own water. It bobs up and down as he runs. We're together. We're outside. The scent of the flowers heavy with the summer heat fills up my nostrils, fills my lungs, quiets something inside me...

...sharing shoes, clothes, measuring up...she's almost taller than me...her shoe size is bigger than mine...when did she become so much more of a woman than a child...it happened sometime, perhaps when I blinked a little slower...I opened my eyes and there she was...

...we celebrated 100 days and then 41 years...it felt impossible a year ago, like it might not happen, like it would take a miracle. Grace, grace, grace....it's all I can think...

...your hair grew back...it's still baby soft though...your beard is thick with lots of white streaks...each day, you heal a little more...you're running again, back to being dad, back to work, the race isn't over but it feels like we might be running downhill now...

...Easter, 4th of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas...they weren't as they had been in the past, but they were beautiful...we got to have them together again. 

...we took a drive down a graveled road to a farm and picked up a white little doggie, when I gave her to our girls for the first time and watched them hold her, listened to the giggles, I felt something in my heart heal. When she falls asleep next to me and I glance at her profile, I see Alistair there.

...we decorated the tree, sorted lights, spent a few hours in the garage messing with blow molds and cords...it was one of those days where the very fact that we are alive, given another day, made me laugh and cry in the same moment...

...we sat at our kitchen table after the children had gone to bed talking about theology, looking up verses, scribbling on a note pad, my hands flying while I talked, your laughter, that twinkle in those green eyes...this friendship...it's like I knew marriage could be this way, just maybe, but we're almost to 16 years and it is far more rich than I could imagine back then...

...tired, my head on your chest, barely awake, thankful, just thankful for one more day, one more night like this...

Thank God for these days, the thousand little moments. May our eyes be opened to see them and to see clearly the good and merciful God who gives them. Even on the worst days, beauty is there. He is there.