Vocabulary Words

Nodule…

Mass…

Adenocarcinoma…

Cancer...

New vocabulary words. spoken.to.me. …by three different physicians. And icy hands grasp my heart and squeeze until I feel like I can no longer breathe. BREATHE.BREATHE. Take a breath…and don’t forget to exhale. Slowly. Wrap your head around this diagnosis…and your heart, don’t forget to include your heart…don’t forget to use your brain, your logic, your reason.

And don’t forget…it’s not just about you. YES it is just about me. What about husband? And daughter? And son? And mother? And brothers? And my job? AND…AND…AND…

How long does one sit on one’s Pity Pot before the call to action comes? How long do we wallow in self pity and muck and mire? Is the call to “fear not” different from the commercialized slogan of “no fear”?

Matthew 14:22-33

Then Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people away. After sending the people away, he went up a hill by himself to pray. When evening came, Jesus was there alone; and by this time the boat was far out in the lake, tossed about by the waves, because the wind was blowing against it.

Between three and six o'clock in the morning Jesus came to the disciples, walking on the water. When they saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. “It's a ghost!” they said, and screamed with fear.

Jesus spoke to them at once. “Courage!” he said. “It is I. Don't be afraid!”

Then Peter spoke up. “Lord, if it is really you, order me to come out on the water to you.”

“Come!” answered Jesus. So Peter got out of the boat and started walking on the water to Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he was afraid and started to sink down in the water. “Save me, Lord!” he cried.

At once Jesus reached out and grabbed hold of him and said, “What little faith you have! Why did you doubt?”

They both got into the boat, and the wind died down. Then the disciples in the boat worshiped Jesus. “Truly you are the Son of God!” they exclaimed.

Lord, Lord? I lift my hand to you, pull me from the muck and mire so that I, too, may claim “Truly you are the Son of God!” But… but… what happens in the absence of a cure? Does that mean you are not the Son of God? Or I am somehow not worthy of healing? Do I not have enough faith?

Author Sara Miles wrote, “Prayer is one of the deepest forms of relationship with God…and through relationship there can be healing in the absence of cure.”

The saga has begun. Surgery is scheduled for April 2^nd. This Tuesday I will be having a pulmonary function test. Wednesday it is a PET scan. A positron emission tomography (PET) scan is an imaging test that allows doctors to check for disease in your body. The scan uses radioactive tracers in a special dye. These tracers are injected into a vein in your arm and are then absorbed by your organs and tissues.

I continue to learn. Learn about things in which I once held no interest. Learning is good. Learning is active participation.

Here is the most important thing I’ve learned thus far: Have a good network of persons who will be your prayer warriors. And I do.

There have been occasions when I have been one of many who had prayed for persons and they have said, "I could literally 'feel' your prayers." I thought that was 'hooey', but just this morning I was overcome with such a sense of calm & peace... I know, that I know, that I know - this is the power of prayer!

I can say with confidence, I am not afraid. That does not mean that at some point I will not waver when entering that tube for the PET scan, or laying on a surgical table find that my heart is pounding faster. What I know is this - God's got this and I am asking God to “make it count.” Indeed, Abba, Father, “make it count.”

From this point forward, my posts maybe fewer. Since the end of January, I’ve had 14 medical/testing appointments. I share this not to gain your pity or sympathy, but as you think of me, please pray. Pray for God’s will. Pray that this entire event will have counted in the scope of eternity. Pray that I am able to Praise God through the storm…in spite of the storm.

I will leave you with a question: How just and righteous would God be if he only allowed “bad things” to happen to unbelievers? Perhaps he allows bad things to happen to believers so that others may see a bit of His glory. I certainly did with my friend “B”. In the absence of healing, I pray to be a vessel like she was. I pray my vessel, my pot of clay is cracked…fractured, so that all the contents may overflow, be spilled out and brush glimpses of glory to those who come into contact with it. 

Even so, Amen.

Meanwhile, back at the farm...

People seem to believe that farms need animals. Generally they do. Some persons are wont for driving to a farm, opening the door to their vehicle and speeding away after depositing, oh say, unwanted puppies or a litter of kittens. That’s probably where the term “letting the cat out of the bag” came from. 

Having barn cats is nice. Having a house cat is even more comforting. Thus we ended up with a ball of fur named Jasper. He was just a bit of a thing when we first got him but had this fur that made him appear full and lush. Utilizing my favorite reference source, the public library, I believe Jasper was a Maine Coon Cat. We had a myriad of other cats in the barn, too. 

Some friends of ours were going on a mission trip to Africa and brought us their black Labrador Retriever. They wanted to find a new home for her as she had killed all their ducks. That didn't faze me. She was a Lab and that is their nature – they are hunting dogs for persons who kill birds, generally ducks. It was her inherent nature to do so. The family who gave us the dog was named Schwartz, an old German name that means ‘black’. So I named the dog Ebony Schwartz (Blackie Black!). 

Ebony became the ‘protector of the property’. She learned the entire 20 acres of the land and protected it well for us. Some mornings she would greet us at the door with huge groundhogs she had found and killed, then brought them home for us to admire. She would be sitting at attention and when we opened the door, she began this slow dance, wiggle that would build to a crescendo with her quivering in anticipation of us saying, “Good Girl, Ebony! You saved the farm from destruction of the evil Ground Hogs!” She would then pick up the dead ground hog and take it to her quarters and ‘coddle’ it! Getting it away from her was a difficult and stinking job! Whew!!! We would have to chain her to the corn crib, then take the dead thing out of her sight to bury it. 

We finally figured out what the issue was. She was approximately three years old and had never had a litter of pups. She was trying to quell her maternal instincts by coddling and nurturing a dead ground hog! One spring day, during her throes of estrus, the Beagle Boys from a nearby farm came to call. I wasn't too worried, she was chained and inside the corn crib. She was a ‘tall’ Labrador and they were short and stubby Beagles. 

That afternoon when our son came in from the school bus, he loudly proclaimed, “Ebony is going to have puppies!” I, in a rather smug fashion said, “I don’t think so, she’s in the corn crib.” He said, “Not any more.” This first grader led me outside to the corn crib where Ebony had dug under the building to get out, then dug the opening deep enough where the short, stubby Beagle Boys could… well, I’m sure you can put the rest together. 

Our son was right. Later that summer, Ebony gave birth to her first litter of 13 pups! Oh my goodness! My husband and the kids fixed up a spot on in the old summer kitchen and helped to usher those puppies into the world. One didn't appear to be going to make it, but I took a towel and massaged the little guy until he was a wiggling mass and gave him back to Mamma Ebony. I don’t know how she did it, but all the pups survived even though there were not enough teats. When the time came, we were able to find homes for all the puppies, too. I learned that farms are a wonderful way of teaching children the facts of life. 

That summer kitchen was also the place our daughter fed the cats during the winter months. I recall one evening after our dinner when she went out to the summer kitchen, calling “kitty, kitty, kitty” then a shrill scream after she turned on the light. We went running! Poor girl was as white as a sheet. We asked what was wrong and she told us an opossum had been sitting there, eyes glowing in the dark waiting for a meal. We still laugh about that excursion of hers. 

We had another set of missionary friends who had a wonderful, highly trained Golden Retriever name Tyler. Highly trained that was, except for chasing cars. One caught him and he was… well, a bit brain damaged. They asked us to take him, so we did. Ebony tried to teach Tyler the ropes of living on the farm. She expected him to be able to traverse the 20 acres and help rid the land of evil ground hogs. Her method was to quietly sneak upon them, grab them by the throat and then shake them until their neck’s broke, at which point she would bring them home to us to admire… Tyler wasn't a quick learner. 

One evening when setting down to dinner, prayer offered and the plates passed, I happened to glance out the window. There was Tyler, practicing his “grab them by the throat and shake them until their dead” maneuver with one of the very small kittens. I must have turned white as Husband asked what was wrong. I motioned for him to follow me and we went outside to separate the dog and kitten. Fortunately, it wasn't lethal and the kitten lived. My daughter would have been damaged for all time and eternity had she witnessed that event! 

Ebony grew weary of Tyler and did what she had done to other dogs left on our property. She took him for a 3-day hike and lost him. When she returned she acted as if nothing had changed. And life continued on at the farm. 

As we lived in one of the most remote locations in the state of Ohio the first two week of November were challenging. It was deer hunting season. The first week for bucks and the second week for both genders. Let me preface this section of the story by saying emphatically “I don’t eat Bambi!” Nor do I eat Thumper or any other critter that Disney could possibly use as subject matter on a feature length cartoon. In fact, had I never tasted steak, I probably could have been a vegetarian – not a full fledged Vegan, but a vegetarian. 

Sorry for the interruption, now back to the story… So during those first two weeks of November, it literally sounded like the Civil War around our farm. Men would travel to the area from the big city with all their camping gear, their weapons of mass destruction and ammunition and loaded six-packs. It was frightening. Really. We had to take florescent paint and mark the animals; “PIG” “HORSE” “GOAT”. We’d heard the stories about field dressed goats being taken to the weigh station. 

By now you are probably laughing, but I’m serious. A jeep sped past our house and two guys were sitting on the hood with their rifles pointing towards our pond. I looked out the window and saw a young doe shaking and quivering and probably thinking, “I’m gonna die… I’m gonna die!” All our property was posted “NO HUNTING” so I went outside with a clipboard and pen and placed my fingers between my teeth and whistled loud enough they stopped the jeep and looked at me as I was writing down their license plate number. They left. (If they couldn't read the posted signs you know they didn’t read the hunting license manual.) 

I think I mentioned that we were… financially challenged during that period of our lives. I refer to that time as ‘the poverty years’. So, it was hunting season and Husband fancied himself the ‘great white hunter’ so off he went to the corner of our property that was by a rather steep ravine. He had to chase Ebony off so she wouldn't scare off any deer that might approach. He settled in with his hunting rifle and devotional book. When he finished he offered a prayer. Now, he sat there for quite awhile, but eventually he heard a noise and when he looked up it was a doe, a deer, a female deer and he took aim and shot. Over she went head down into the ravine where she bled out. Soon he heard a voice saying, “What’d you get?” Husband was sure it was the voice of God and thought, “Don’t you know, Lord? It’s a deer!” Fortunately, he didn't utter that out loud and soon realized it was the voice of our neighbor, who said, “I kicked it up over on our property and she ran through here.” Husband (you recall… the great white hunter) asked the neighbor, “So… how do I gut this thing?” Neighbor helped him out. 

He somehow got the deer home and then strung her up by her back legs from the tree. When Farmer Bumpus (the original family of owners of our property) came to take a look, Husband asked, how long do you let them hang before taking them to the butcher’s? Mr. Bumpus informed Husband that part of the hunt is just for show. What did we know? We were amateurs, after all. She hung in the tree until the school bus backed into the drive. Then Husband removed her and took her to the butcher’s. And still… I don’t “do” Bambi even though God did indeed provide! 

Until the next installment… I remain as ever,

Tamara

PS  Isaiah 58

¹¹ The Lord will guide you continually
and provide for you,
even in parched places.
He will rescue your bones.
You will be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water
that won’t run dry.

OK, so I'm not Janette Oke, but the saga continues

Continuing on with the theme of the move to the Wonderful Land of AZ…

The trip from there to here was approximately 2,000 miles and I've already described the ‘beautiful for spacious skies’ so it is time for the rest of the story! 

When we determined to move we were living in a 100 year old farmhouse on 20 acres in a very rural, primitive section of Ohio in Coshocton County. The berg itself was called Tiverton Center and was the second highest point in the state (but still below sea level). This old house needed everything done to it! We painted, we stripped woodwork, we cleaned and finally painted and stenciled. We called it home. 

You've no doubt heard of a “Gentleman’s Farm”? Ours was more like an amateurs’ adventure on the farm! We ended up raising chickens (which I wouldn't mind doing again, but alas we don’t have the area in town and I don’t want to be dodging the poop!). Those we purchased as peeps. Crowmore and the Cluck Sisters was what I called them. We began getting farm critters from people we didn't even know. 

A pig farmer brought us our first runt by meeting me at the back porch door, handing it to me and saying, “Here – I don’t have time for the runts. If he lives, he’s yours.” So I took the cute little guy and promptly named him Hamlet. Mistake, mistake!!! Warning, warning! Never name a farm animal!!! I bought the special nursing “mix” you use to nurse them back to health and he began to grow. I held him like a baby simply because I didn't know any different. Hamlet began to grow, and grow. I then learned that for every pound of food a pig eats, they will put on half a pound in body weight. He moved to the barn and I was pleasantly surprised to learn that pigs are quite neat! (Chickens however are not! And turkeys are even worse and stupid!!!) 

Months passed and the time arrived when it was time to take Hamlet to the butcher’s. Husband did that, I stayed home and felt bad. Really, really bad. A few days later Husband picked up the “packages” and torched the grill. I was still sad. When everything was ready, the table set, the vegetables placed and the food blessed I knew I would have to set an example for our son and daughter, so I reluctantly took a bite. WOW! (This is where we hear the strum of harps with angelic overtones!) A conversion had taken place! What once had been my boy Hamlet had been lowered back to us in a sheet and was now pork any heathen gentile would appreciate! Oh my! Homegrown was the best! 

Off and on, the pig farmer brought more runts to our home. The next one (Calvin Swine) did not make it past 24 hours. When he arrived again it was four piglets – three males and one female. I named the males Runtley, Gruntley, Huntley and the female was naturally Brinkley after the model… yes, I know… Again, sheer mathematics caused us to butcher Gruntley and Huntley as juveniles and we then offered either of the other two to a neighbor who was an Amish dairy farmer. He chooses Brinkley and we kept Runtley. 

Let me tell you a bit about Amish neighbors. You cannot do something for these people without them doing something for you. We had an abundance of eggs which we gave them. In exchange they brought us baked goods. We had the acreage; they planted and baled the hay. We split it. I had to talk hard and fast to get him to accept half because he said it should be 1/3 for him and 2/3s for us. We didn't have the animals for that – it would be a sin for it to go bad! 

Now, about the sow we gave him… the next spring he showed up with a calf for us to raise! I forget the actual mix of the calf but she was half Jersey if we wanted milk and half something else if we wanted her for meat. So… what do you name a calf? I called her “Caffie” and she responded to that. 

Our status on the farm was, well at least growing as by that time we had four goats – two kids, one dairy goat (I still have a great grip!) and the kids Mama. Now the dairy goat Broney was the most stubborn thing in typical goat fashion. I would tether her out by the fence line to eat the poison ivy and sumac as goats spit the antibodies out in their milk and it helps humans to gain immunity to it! 

I would try to lead her from one spot to another and she would dig her heels in and “Neighhhhhhhhhhhhh, neighhhhhhhhhh, neighhhhhhhhh!” as if I were beating her with a stick! I specifically remember one time when I was tugging and pulling and yelling at her saying, “Don’t you know, I’m taking you to a better place, move it!” I’m sure I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Tamara, how many times have I tried to gently lead you and yet you continue to dig your heels in, too!” OUCH! 

Caffie and the goat kids (a.k.a. Mia and Brittney) grew up together. It was cute when they were young, but as Caffie grew I sometimes saw Husband flying out the barn, as she had affectionately head butted him in the middle of the back. 

Coming home from church on Sundays we would be greeted by Smokey (the blind horse who turned the lights in the barn on) all the goats, Runtley and Caffie running to the barn to meet us and be fed. 

Not knowing if the move from the farm was something the Lord was directing us to do; we did a Gideon’s fleece of sorts. We prayed and asked that if this was what we were supposed to do, then God - sell our home without a Realtor AND with enough of a profit that we could leave debt free. 

An acquaintance of ours that we knew through church and who was a Realtor, heard we were selling and wanted to list the home. We told her about the fleece and kindly said no. She asked if she could at least show it. Husband explained that if she were to sell the home, $ $ THIS $ $ is the price we need and if you need a commission, then you will need to tack it on above this price. She agreed. 

She arranged to show the home to a family on Thursday evening. On Saturday she called to let us know the couple wanted the house at that price (to include her commission)! In my typical act of faith I asked Husband, “Were we not asking enough?” 

We had thirty days to vacate the premises! I shouldn't have been amazed, but I still am when I recall that story. 

We sold everything we could and gave our daughter whatever she wanted or asked for. She was 20 and pregnant with our first Grand. 

Suffice it to say, that had I been Lot’s wife, I would be a pillar of salt! My heart, my home, my first born child and future Grand were in Ohio! The move was difficult emotionally.

PS  ⁴ Make me know Your ways, O LORD;
Teach me Your paths.

I’m continuing on with this verse of scripture as it is so appropriate for this long, drawn out story! Actually, it is more than appropriate for my life!