Count Your Blessings, page 14
I kept thinking of the frightening statistics that the doctor rattled off in his office. As we collected our wits, we began to consider the bigger picture and looked for grains of hope. Prayer, meditation and reading inspirational books were as much in the prescription for recovery as the medications, treatments and tests that would soon become part of my regimen.
After the initial shock, my first test was to share the difficult news with my mother. We went to her home, and I said, “Mom, I have something unpleasant to tell you—I have cancer.” Her reaction was as if the rug had been pulled from under her. I quickly spoke up and said, “We have the best medical team to help us and we know that with God’s help, we’re going to see this through.”
The expression on my mother’s face turned from sheer fright to calm, as she took her cue from us, that we were confident in our path and that we had complete faith. Likewise, our children were comforted to see that their parents were facing this head-on, and they in turn remained as upbeat as they could. Pain is a fact of life—how we deal with it is a matter of choice.
The news of my condition spread quickly among friends, family and neighbors, and the outpour of kindness was overwhelming as well as humbling. We received countless calls and e-mails from everywhere. My eyes filled with tears as so many expressed their wishes for my recovery.
One woman we know sends me a get-well card with an encouraging handwritten message every day. Several friends have volunteered to drive me to chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Our next-door neighbors have always been like family, and opened their home to our children and grandchildren when they came to visit from out of town, as ours is too small for all of them.
I have learned a great deal from this journey. One question that I’ve thought about—Is there anything worse than cancer in your body? Yes, it’s cancer of the spirit. There are so many people who look like they are alive and healthy. But they are miserable with themselves and everything around them. No matter what happens, they are unhappy. Regardless of the positive in their lives, they look for the negative. And no matter who tries to love them or be kind to them, it’s never good enough.
While I wouldn’t have chosen this challenge, I continuously look for the blessings in it more than the curses. I remember asking my wife, “Can you imagine going through this without a solid spiritual foundation?” I shudder at the thought of how I would have dealt with my condition without it.
Anger, blame and bitterness are reactions to illness that are fruitless. I have seen the full range in my cancer support group. If these dear people have taught me anything, it’s to accept a challenge for what it really is—and face it head-on. I have shared laughter, tears and many heart-to-heart talks that would never have taken place without my illness. And, while I certainly don’t pretend there’s nothing wrong, I don’t dwell on what I cannot influence or control.
My uninvited guest arrived as a complete surprise, but it eventually and unexpectedly gave me the opportunity to do what few people are able to do—live life to its fullest—each and every day. No, I don’t mean doing super cool stuff, traveling to exotic places, acquiring extravagant toys or “grabbing for all the gusto” I can as an old beer ad used to suggest. I mean living each moment with full appreciation that there might not be another.
When my wife was seriously ill a few years ago, one of our daughters prophetically said, “We will all grow from this.” Sure enough, we did. And we will undoubtedly grow from our present situation. Of course, we don’t know for certain what my fate will be. In the meantime, we have the power of prayer, faith and the kindness of others to guide us along the way. As one friend said, “Pray like it all depends on God, and work on getting better like it all depends on you.” Amen.
~David Hyman
The Joy of Giving
I have found that among its other benefits,
giving liberates the soul of the giver.
~Maya Angelou
Charity Begins…
It is the thrifty people who are generous.
~Lord Rosebery
With three weeks before the end of the year, it’s time to do the majority of my charity donations. I get my spreadsheet of charities where I track donations and income tax receipts, pull out the stack of pledge cards I’ve been saving throughout the year, and open my checkbook.
I pick up my pen, but instead of writing the checks, I hesitate. It’s easy to give money to charity when you know you have money coming in. It’s not so easy when most of the money is going out.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been informed that two of the websites I write for have decided to “proceed cautiously because of the recession.” An editor at a newspaper I’ve written for told me they’re no longer using freelancers. And just yesterday I got an e-mail from a health magazine that I frequently contribute to. In response to my query, they told me they’re not looking for any new ideas for the next six months.
In other words, I can’t expect any more assignments from these places for at least that long, maybe longer.
Although I’ve been looking for other writing venues, so far I haven’t done well. The marketing group that I belong to is mostly listing positions for bloggers and freelance writers that pay less than five cents a word, some as low as a penny. No one can survive on that.
While I actually had the best writing year of my career, it’s becoming clear that next year is not going to come close to matching it. And I should add that “best” is relative. I read somewhere that the average writer makes less than $15,000 a year, and that’s with factoring in the megastars who make hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m still below average.
Although my substitute teaching helps pay the bills, I haven’t been getting as many calls lately. To save money, the school board is closing schools, meaning fewer teachers are needed.
So, can I really afford to give to charity? Doesn’t charity begin at home? My home. I’m tempted to close my checkbook, but I don’t.
I look around my house. Yes, it’s worth less now than it was before the housing market tanked, but I still have a small, nice house in a good area of town. Since I’m not looking to sell, I can wait out the market slump.
My fridge and cupboards aren’t bursting with food, but that’s because I haven’t gone shopping this week. These days I don’t buy a lot of meat or expensive prepared foods, but neither do I have to choose between food and paying for utilities. Unlike an increasing number of people, I’ve been able to donate food to food banks rather than having to use them.
A lot of the clothes I wear are secondhand, but that’s partly because I’m inherently frugal and partly because I don’t care about fashion. If I look carefully, I can usually find good quality clothes that have been “gently” used.
Then I think about some of my friends who aren’t as lucky as I am. One lost six teeth over a couple of years because she couldn’t afford regular dental care. I just had a filling replaced last week. Yes, the bill hurt almost as much as the procedure, but the pain wore off for both.
Another friend, with massive health and mobility problems, lives on a meager disability pension while her husband works two jobs to keep them afloat. My knees may creak more than they used to, and my kidneys aren’t in the best shape, but I can still get around.
A third friend lost seven years of her life when a stroke wiped out large chunks of her memory. Unable to work, she lives on government assistance which, for her, means stale crackers and tuna fish—which she hates. Yet one month, when she had managed to save five dollars for a treat at McDonald’s, she ended up giving that money away to someone she thought was needier. Me? I treat myself to breakfast out every Sunday and every couple of weeks my mother sends me twenty dollars to go out for dinner.
Suddenly, I feel very lucky and very rich. I grab my pen again and begin to write checks. I don’t know what next year will bring, but for now I can share my good fortune with others.
Charity may begin at home but it doesn’t have to stay there.
~Harriet Cooper
But for God’s Grace
ln about the same degree as you are helpful, you will be happy.
~Karl Reiland
I had been a blood donor for years, but never had I been an apheresis donor of platelets. I had lots of excuses for not doing so, including, “It takes too long,” and “It looks uncomfortable.” But then I lost two good friends to cancer. They were both named Mary, they were both in their forties, and they both died within months of each other. It was heartrending for me.
While grieving my losses one day, it dawned on me that their lives had probably been prolonged by the generosity of total strangers; people who had willingly taken time to donate their platelets, and who had not caved in to any excuses.
As the days went by, I couldn’t get my mind off apheresis. I finally realized that donating platelets was something I had to do.
When I called the Red Cross to make my appointment, the receptionist patiently answered my myriad questions, assuring me I’d be fine.
But when I arrived at the donor site I still had to fight the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I really didn’t want to do this, but I couldn’t seem to make myself leave the building, either. So, during the screening process, in hopes of calming my fears, I asked even more questions.
Finally, after feeling somewhat at ease about the entire process, the assistant asked me some questions and then said, “Follow me.” When we got to the back of the room, I was impressed with the sophisticated apheresis machine and quickly became mesmerized by the way it so effortlessly separated blood.
Before long, it was my turn to be hooked up to it. Within minutes I was snuggled under a blanket in a comfortable recliner, a needle in each arm, and to my surprise, contentedly watching television. The rest of the prep work had gone without a hitch; I had almost forgotten where I was and what I was doing.
Then it happened. My nose began to itch.
Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, I’d simply scratch it. But when I remembered that I had to keep both arms straight and was unable to bend them, for some reason I began to panic. My eyes wildly searched the room for a nurse, but the only staff member present in the room at the time was busy with another patient.
The panic worsened and I began trembling uncontrollably. A paralyzing fear swept over me as I struggled to fight an overwhelming desire to yank the needles from my arms and dash out the door.
Not usually prone to panic attacks, this was a new experience for me, and I had no idea how to handle it. All I knew was that the more I thought about my situation, the worse it got.
Finally, I shot up an emergency prayer: God, I’m scared. Please help me.
As if on cue, a nurse appeared. Assuming she had seen my distress and would immediately unhook me, I was taken aback when she very calmly asked if I would like some information about the recipient.
What? But what about me?
I collected myself and managed to stammer, “I … I … I can know that information? I can know who my platelets are going to?”
“Well,” the nurse quietly continued while monitoring the machine, “we don’t usually have any information on the recipients, and we cannot give out any private information on anyone, but in this case I do have a little of his history.”
“Oh,” was all I could respond, still struggling to get my bearings.
“He is a man from this area, about forty years old,” the nurse continued. “With a wife and two kids, and … he has leukemia.”
If she said more, I didn’t hear her.
I froze, unable to even breathe, as I struggled to comprehend what she had just told me: there was a man right here in town, about my age and, like me, married with two children; but he was waiting for my platelets … in hopes of staying alive?
Finally, I looked up at the plastic bag that was gradually filling with my cream-colored platelets—and swallowed hard.
God, please forgive me for whining about being a little uncomfortable.
As the nurse walked away, the plight of my situation suddenly seemed extremely trivial. For, unlike my recipient, in less than two hours I would be able to get up from this bed and leave. I would go home and cook dinner for my family as normal. I would feel good, think clearly, and have energy to clean, work in the garden, or just take a walk with my husband while watching a panoramic sunset.
Ever so slowly I came to grips with what had just happened, and realized that not only had my nose stopped itching, but compassion had replaced the panic I had experienced just moments ago. No longer uncomfortable, I was completely at peace.
When the whole process was finally finished and I was gathering my things to go home, I stopped by the receptionist’s desk and humbly signed up for another appointment.
As I walked outside and felt the warmth of the sunshine on my face, and deeply inhaled the fresh air, I couldn’t help but be consumed with the thought: but for the grace of God, go I.
~Connie Cameron
Never Too Poor to Give
No one has ever become poor by giving.
~Anne Frank
“Don’t you have any toys you want to share?” I asked my son during our church’s Christmas toy drive. “What about all those things in your closet you haven’t used in years?”
“I don’t have anything,” he said. “We’re so poor.”
We’re only “poor” because we refuse to buy him the texting phone he wants for Christmas, which would also require a monthly texting charge.
“You’re never so poor you have nothing to give,” I found myself saying to him, a phrase my mother often used on me.
How could I help him understand, when I myself still whined about things I wanted, like the Fowler’s Modern English Usage book that cost nearly $40? I knew Santa Hubby wasn’t going to pony up for that one. What about that Vera Wang coat I wanted from Kohl’s, the one with the $150 price tag? No, that wasn’t happening, either.
At work the next day, one of my students said, “I didn’t spell your name right,” as she handed me a Christmas gift—a beribboned box of chocolates. No wonder she hadn’t spelled it right—I had only worked at the center for a couple of months, and my name is not easy to pronounce, even in English, which is this woman’s second language.
The woman had been out of work for months!
“Thank you, Joanna,” I said, trying to hold back the tears as I hugged her.
I hadn’t expected a gift—I work at an adult education center, where we deal with people every day who struggle economically. The economic downturn is not new to those who come in our doors—those who are laid off, without work, and need an education to get ahead or for a sense of pride. When I was hired, my boss told me she tries to keep snacks around the center and cooks “stone soup” once a week, where whoever can bring something in does, because “You will hear growling bellies here. They give their food to the children before they themselves eat.”
“Some of them get food stamps,” my boss continued, “but by the end of the month, things are tight. We try not to plan field trips where they would have to pack a lunch because sometimes they just won’t show up because they don’t even have a sandwich to bring along.”
And yet these people, so grateful for a second chance at getting an education, unable to sometimes even afford the gas money to come in, manage to do something for us nearly every week. Some bring in food; others do chores around the center. They help and encourage one another, and us. They give what they are able to give.
When I looked at my Christmas gift from my new friend, I wondered if it had been an offering out of a meager food budget, and I wanted to refuse it. Instead, I said “thank you.”
When I brought the candies home to share with my family, I told them just how precious each chocolate was if you thought of how much the unemployed woman’s family makes a year. Why, it was the equivalent of a Fowler’s Modern English Usage book! I said it again, understanding so much better in my heart, “You’re never so poor you have nothing to give.”
Perhaps the way I could help my son understand best was for me to understand first.
Immediately, I went to my bookshelf and chose several of my favorite novels to share with the center. When I had them boxed, I turned to find my son nonchalantly lugging a white laundry basket of toys he had played with when younger. “I don’t want these old things,” he said.
I saw among them his beloved Buzz Lightyear and his favorite stuffed dog, Squishy. I set them aside for the toy drive and kissed him on his forehead. He had learned the way I had—by example. Now the students had not only impacted me, but my family as well. Here I had thought I was the teacher, but Joanna and the rest of the students at the center are the ones teaching me. Because you’re never so poor you have nothing to give.
~Drema Sizemore Drudge
Unexpected Blessings
Kindness, like a boomerang, always returns.
~Author Unknown
A few nights after Thanksgiving, my husband and I began planning the Christmas presents we would buy for our three boys. Money was tight, but thanks to careful budgeting we were in good shape. We couldn’t wait for Christmas.
At 10:00 P.M., my husband answered a knock at the front door. There, standing in pajamas, were two neighborhood children, ten-year-old Andy and his seven-year-old sister, Beth. Tears streamed down their cheeks as they held a few wrapped Christmas gifts, an overstuffed pillowcase of dirty clothes resting on the cement beside them.
“M … Miss Kelley …” Andy said. “Can we stay with you?”
“What happened?”
