10 Years Later and Here I Am

Today is my 10-Year Cancer-Versary.

It was December 26, 2007…the microwave clock read 5:17…when the doctor who had done the biopsy only a handful of days before called to let me know that the results were exactly opposite of what he expected.  At the time the most common demographic for thyroid cancer was women over 40 from who had a “Pacific Island” ethnicity…primarily those who had been exposed to a significant degree of radiation. I am…female. So, I had that going for me.  Up to 50% of Americans are expected to have spots on the thyroid. In 2007, approximately 5% of the spots were suspicious and far less were cancerous.  Statistically, thyroid cancer wasn’t really something I, a 19-year-old college sophomore, should have had to worry about.  But there it was. 

And 10 years later, here I am. 

It was part of my picture all through Sophomore and Junior years of college. It lingered (without a surgery or radiation attempt) into my Senior year.  My bloodwork said to hold tight until the remaining cells either died or grew. I felt like a time bomb until 2011 when my bloodwork said I was finally free. 

10 years later, and here I am. 

Cancer is part of my history, my story, but not part of my days.  If it weren’t for the occasional questions about my slightly faded 6 ½ inch scar and the need to mark yes when asked “have you had any kind of cancer” when donating blood, there are many days I wouldn’t think about it at all. 

But here I am. My heart and mind a muddle of memories from the last ten years.

I was trying to decide how to commemorate the last 10 years.  A post seemed obvious as it was during my first processings with cancer that my blog was begun.  In those days my fingers flowed over a keyboard, trying to keep up with the way my brain just wouldn’t stop. And yet…how does one commemorate something like cancer?  Do you?  It’s not typically something you necessarily celebrate…

Still, here I am.

So much has changed.  Yesteryear feels like yesterday today and yet no part of me could have imagined that this is where life would bring me.  And still…I know that where I am is, in many respects, a direct result of the role cancer played in my life.  For good or for bad, I am who I am because of the journey which began a decade ago… People don’t typically celebrate cancer, but, I suppose, in a way I do.  Cancer sucks.  I wish it upon no one – not my worst enemy.  But I am sitting here puzzling over the last ten years and knowing that, given the choice, I would not erase it from my past.  I wouldn’t change the story.  I would again allow something so painful and hard to be in a place for God to work in me and through me and around me.  To see the way God’s strength was and is made perfect in my imperfection.

And maybe that’s enough.  That realization is enough.  Yet, with a head and heart full of memories, I’ve decided to commemorate my 10-Year-Cancer-Versary with 10 of the things I feel like cancer has taught me in the last 10 years.  The pieces which have, in some way, shaped me and continue in their own ways to influence who I am and who I’m becoming.  Some of them are specific to [my] cancer.  Some I think apply to many “hard things” and “painful storms”.  All of them leave me giving thanks for the places I’ve been, the place I find myself, and the way God continues to be the Beauty in my storms… 

  

10 Things I’ve Learned from Cancer Over the Last 10 Years…

1. Time doesn’t heal all wounds…but it does lessen the force of impact.  Fall semester of my Junior year, with another surgery on the schedule and more questions with answers unknown, a professor spoke of his good friend, for whom days were limited as cancer ravaged his body.  My hand immediately went to my scar (a common occurrence which I later realized I did when I felt vulnerable – like I had to protect the rawest part of me), my breathing quickened, and my head started to spin.  I remember that I was standing and that I wished I could sit down without drawing attention to myself.  The idea of cancer consumed me.  A movie with a cancer plotline could leave me in pieces.  A book with cancer left me out of sorts for days and wide awake at night.  But they don’t anymore. There are times when I am still deeply affected.  For the most part, however, there is now just a light sting where the gut wrenching inner destruction used to be.  There is something beautiful about the way God uses the richness of life to slowly but surely begin to heal the places that hurt.

2. Life changes.  If you’re hoping that you can be a 20-year-old college student who has classes to take, grades to make, extracurriculars to pursue, a job to keep, and an identity to preserve…who merely happens to also have cancer, you might be a little crazy.  And you might be me.  I was so convinced that the best kind of kid with cancer was the kind of kid who acted like she didn’t have cancer at all!  While God taught me SO much when life crashed in on me, it crashed it harder than it may have had to because I was secretly convinced that nothing needed to change. I wish I would have been more open to the inevitable change so that I could have helped direct the reconstruction.  Instead there are still a couple pieces out of place!   What’s the modern beatitude? “Blessed is the flexible for they won’t be bent out of shape?” For good or bad, I’m not the person I was on December 25^th of 2007.  Sometimes I miss the old Anika.  Our cores are the same though…the Anika I am and the Anika I was.  Life changes.  It’s gonna be okay. 

3. It’s okay to have hard days.  It’s okay to question.  It’s okay to doubt.  It’s okay to know one thing in your head but feel another one in your reality...  It’s okay to know God is as near as my next breath and still scream into the darkness, asking Him to show up.   I caught a lot of flak – especially early on – at my Christian Liberal Arts school where questions and doubts were a sign of spiritual weakness and a deteriorating relationship with God.  REAL Christians ALWAYS had the joy of the Lord and NEVER were angry at God or enquiring or unsure… But they are.  Real Christians are real humans – and as such have real feelings and real emotions that require real responses.  I didn’t want to go through Christian-ese motions... I wanted my faith to be real – one that didn’t say “God is good!” because I should but because amidst life that wasn’t, I could search and find and know God’s goodness amidst the pain.  I wanted to be to walk through hard stuff and come out on the other end knowing the God I serve is big enough to handle my questions, my doubts, my fight, my storm, and me... And somehow, through it all, God reveals Himself nearer than ever before… 

4. The reality of cancer is hard to digest…especially for other people.  Cancer has this awesome way of affecting absolutely everything.  Health and identity and relationships. And when that effect is felt by those around you, some will rally.  The others will flee.  It used to bother me that so many “left”, that when I needed people the most (but couldn’t always articulate that need), I looked around to find previously occupied presences gone.  The reality is…many just don’t know what to do.  For reasons valid and not.  There is a sense of guilt (they are healthy and you’re not); there is a fear and uncertainty around the idea and the future and the pieces; there is a realization that the role you played in their life has suddenly and drastically changed; there is a lack of knowledge of what to say or do or be, a helplessness… And so, they leave. Does knowing this mean it didn’t hurt?  Not a bit.  Do I think it was my job to help them grieve and cope?  No.  I couldn’t even if I had wanted to!  Have I been the friend on the other side of hard stuff that wonders about the balance between presence and space, perceived need and actual need, their grief and my own?  Yeah. It’s not easy.  Things like cancer are hard.  There are people who, to this day, take a step back when they learn I once had cancer. It’s not something everyone can handle.  Cancer was hard for me to stomach.  But it was hard for those who cared about me too…  

5. If you want to be a good friend, be present and listen.  Show up.  Do things that don’t involve whatever painful thing is going on in her life (because life is already about it).  But be willing to get in the trenches too (because there are times when she will be dying to talk about it and feel like no one wants to hear about it).  Give her space when needed without getting offended.  Learn the phrases “do you want to talk about it?” and “is this a time you want me to give advice and feedback or do you just want me to listen?”  Don’t answer all the questions.  Don’t tell her she has no reason to question or doubt.  Tell her instead that God is big enough for questions and doubts.  Ask what God is teaching amidst the storm.  Help her look for joy.  It’s not an easy job.  I would like to think that cancer has helped me see with different eyes, hear past my ears, and love beyond platitudes.  I’ve tried to be the friend I needed.  I often fail.  But I would rather fail than not have tried.  

6. Not everyone gets the whole story.  This is twofold…a “gets” in terms of reception and in terms of comprehension.  It is ALWAYS a journey to decide how much people get to know about the truest pieces of you.  There are times I overshared.  There were times at the beginning when God was giving me glimpses of Him amidst the crazy and I would spill them to anyone who would listen.  And there were times I didn’t want to share at all.  At the beginning people would find out about “cancer” and would want to know…how I found out, how I was doing, how I was “feeling”.  I hated that question: “How are you feeling?”  I was attending classes fulltime.  I kept my on-campus job.  For many onlookers, I was any normal college sophomore/junior.  When someone asked how I was feeling, it was almost always a polite way of making a surface level connection.  When I responded in kind with a surface level, “tired but okay…good…making life happen…one day at a time…” it was almost always followed by a “well, I’ll be praying for you!” before turning and walking away.  Most never asked beyond my “okay”.  I became protective of my story to save it from the people who didn’t truly care.   And so there were times – many over the last ten years – where people would find out I had cancer and a piece of me would scream on the inside, secretly pleading with the other to ask.  Wishing they would be a safe place to tell my story.  My story isn’t a secret.  But not everyone needs it.  Some I share with don’t get it.  And they won’t.  It’s okay.  Sometimes God nudges me to share with someone I honestly think could care less.  Sometimes I listen to that prod.  Sometimes I share a little.  Sometimes a lot. And over the years, some people have come to know the whole story.  And they get it.  And they get me. It’s an incredible gift. 

7. "Cancer” is a deep layer and I am in charge of protecting the way others respond. While not everyone gets the whole story, it was still my reality. It has become a natural part of my story.  For me, simply stating I had cancer is like saying I also had a dog – who died.  Is it a little sad?  Sure.  Is that declaration deep?  Not for me.  For me, that’s a pretty surface level disclosure. For others, simply saying “I” and “cancer” in the same sentences sounds like I’m bearing my soul.  They aren’t ready to respond to perceived deep layer with one of their own.  (It’s the onion principle of mutual communication). Sometimes I hold off on sharing cancer because I don’t want to scare people away. Sometimes I guard the truth to protect others. When I worked at camp or in the schools and kids would ask me about my scar, I would tell them about the thyroid and how important it is and let them know mine was “really sick”.  Because a word like cancer is scary.  And not every person is in a place to emotionally handle the baggage attached with it.  Some say it’s not my job.  But cancer isn’t just about me…  

8. In the midst of storms, always look for reasons to laugh.  Cancer can be funny!  Do you get to make fun of cancer?  Not without an “in” (aka: a relationship with someone with cancer who participates in the humor and says it’s okay).  Could I?  Yes.  But only of my own (unless given an in with another individual).  And under those parameters, it’s not only okay but even healthy.  One of the greatest balms to my soul early on came in the friends who would joke about cancer and my scar and the ridiculousness of things with me.  I wasn’t dying!  Let’s laugh about being radioactive and the “cancer card” and pity puppy eyes.  I had a resident in my building during my senior year of college with a prosthetic.  The two of us could laugh until our sides hurt exchanging the stories we’d encountered, experienced, and (upon occasion) provoked.  I was most okay with cancer when I could laugh about it… 

9. The un-surrendered life isn’t worth living.  Henry Nouwen tells the story of a women who was committed to a facility for the sake of her mental health.  For her safety she had to be stripped of everything in her possession.  In the end, she clutched something in her hand so tightly her nails dug into the flesh of her palm.  Hours later when, finally, they managed to loosen her grip, there was single coin.  Of almost no value.  Nouwen talks of how we do this with God.  How we hold onto things which have no value and it keeps us from opening our hands to the One who wishes to fill them. Ultimate surrender asks us to hold everything we hold dear in open hands and let go that we may take hold.  Hold of the hand of the One who already holds our hopes and dreams, hurts and fears.  Surrender, is ultimately about trust.  It’s terrifying. But it’s worth it…  

10.  God is Faithful.  When people ask me what cancer taught me, I respond with three words: God is faithful.  It’s one of those phrases that explains everything and yet I can’t explain it. All I know is that God is faithful.  That it is He who sustains.  It is He who guides.  It is He who exists as the purpose amidst something without.  God is faithful.  When the rest of the world slips away, He is constant. God is good.  God is present.  And His faithfulness gives way to hope.  “Yet this I call to mind and so I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.  They are new every morning.  Great is Your faithfulness!” (Lam 3)

    10 years later and still I am here.  And by the grace of God, go I. 


One Year and A Lifetime Ago - AK 2008

Found

From the Anika archives: March 2008

Sometimes desperately frustrated by how far away God felt...longing and yearning for a connection to my Savior...I would close my eyes and simply beg God to show up.  At times there was silence and I would feel no answer at all.  Occasionally there would the remnant of a verse I’d almost forgotten or the briefest whisper of affirmation...the quiet knowledge that God was not as far away as I may have thought.  And every so often my pleas were answered with the vividness of reality playing out before my eyes and in my heart, with the reassurance God has been waiting for me to beg Him to show up...

I am looking. Searching.  Like a game of hide-and-seek where I am the seeker.  The sun is bright and the day beautiful.  I move deliberately, slowly, almost as if I am walking on tiptoes – trying not to make any noise as I look one way, and then the other…behind that tree, in that thicket of flowers.  I bite my bottom lip with a mischievous grin.  The look on my face screams: “You’re not hiding from me, You’re hiding for me.  You are giving me a reason to seek; I just have to keep looking.  This is just a game…” 

But time passes and the sun is not quite so high in the sky.  The flowers are tall on both sides of me and I do not have a good view of the path or expanse of land in either direction.  This no longer feels like a game; this is no longer enjoyable. My breathing quickens; the smile drops from my face.  “Where are You?  Why are You hiding for me anyway?” 

Silence.  I nearly scream into the air but there is no answer.  I begin to walk away.  My pace accelerates and my seeking becomes more of a frantic search.  The branches snap underneath of feet as I walk quickly down the path.  With a quivering voice I shout again.  “I can’t find You!”  My words reverberate off the trees but again there is no answer.   The wind blows and I shiver.  I am cold...alone...desperate.   

And so I start running.  The path is narrow, almost non-existent, and the brush catches me from all sides.  My arms and legs are becoming scratched and bruised.  I continue to run.  A fallen tree limb snags the flesh on my leg.  A branch above slams into my forehead.  While I am conscious of the pain – the blood trickling down my leg, the sudden pounding in my head - I do not have time to stop and see what caused and is causing my pain.  I no longer care.  All I know is that it hurts.  And so I keep running.  Pushing the flowers and branches out of my way, I am dying... dying to know where You are. 

Breathing heavily, I feel myself begin to give up hope.  It is too hard to continue to run; there is no use continuing to try…  And my run becomes a jog and my jog becomes a weary pant.  I am just barely moving and I cannot go on anymore.  As I slow the back of my hand reaches to brush my tousled hair out of my face.  My cheek is wet and I realize I am crying.  My walk slows further, so slow I am just barely moving, and I fall.  My attempts to move are that of a crawl and I am no longer crying, I am sobbing.  I can go no further.  And so, I stop all together.  I have nothing left to give, nothing to go on. 

I sit on the cold ground and am vaguely aware that is all but dusk as my face falls onto my scarred arms.  I bawl.  Salty tears fall into the fresh cuts on my hands and I wince as my arm brazes the raw bump on my head.  “Where are You?”  I whimper.  “You promised if I were to go looking, I would find You.  What happened?  Are you really hiding from me? I can’t see you if You’re not here…”  And my body convulses as I collapse.

And then, just then, You’re there.  Gently, tenderly, You pick me up and place my head on Your shoulder even as I am still sobbing.  You rub my back softly and whisper in my ear:  “Ssshhh... It’s alright.  Just rest.  I’ve got you.  That’s right. Lay your head on my shoulder and rest…” 

My convulsing stops and just a few sobs cause me to shake as my breathing slows.  I lift my head and look into your eyes, “I couldn’t find You…and now I’m dirty and scratched and…” I choke back more tears and am ready to again hide my eyes in Your shoulder when I see them.  There, in the corner of Your eyes, are tears of Your own.

And with Your free hand, You take Your thumb and wipe the tear out of the corner of Your eye.  Your thumb, still wet from Your tear, moves from Your eyes to mine as You use it to wipe the streams from my tear-stained cheeks.  And then I know.  While I was looking for You, You had been waiting, looking for me too.  Your hands rub over my gashes, wounds, bumps, and scars and heal my hurts. The warmness of Your touch overwhelms me.  I would be scarred again and again to be held as I am now being held.  Because in Your arms, in Your eyes, I am perfect, I am Yours, I am found.

And You kiss my forehead as it nestles into Your neck.  With feeling and emotion in Your voice you again whisper into my ear:  “Relax my daughter.  You are safe.  You have fought and you have found.  I have you and I will not let you go.  Just rest…”

Psalm 13...

Rearranging, Readjusting, Rerouting...and Whether I Give it or Not

It’s hard to believe that, as I sit and begin to type these words, it was a week ago that I endeavored to take a group of teens on a local “backyard” mission trip.   It’s hard to believe that it has already been a week since the insanity which still has me shaking my head – and yawning.

It was a trip “doomed” from the beginning…a celebration of Murphy’s Law at its finest.  If it could go wrong, it did.  Sometimes in multiple ways!

Here is the backstory with just a few of the highlights of this endeavor…

• November: Anika gets hired as District Youth Coordinator (works with 66 churches in the district to help their youth ministries be viable).
• Before November is up: Anika has been approached by several distinct churches about doing a “backyard” (local) mission trip as was done a few years prior.
• By the first of the year: Anika sends out information in her bi-weekly newsletter, looking for interest.  Enough interest is garnered to proceed.
• By the end of February: Mission Trip flier makes it into every newsletter.  Individual fliers with information are emailed to every contact.  Individual letters are mailed to every church.  Church specific emails are sent to the initially interested parties.
• By the end of May: one church is committed with zero interest from every other church in the District 

But it was going to be good.  The one church happened to be my own.  The youth happened to be individuals I attempt to invest in on a normal basis.  Teens I thoroughly enjoy.  And their youth leader was not only on board but more excited than I was!  It was nice not to have to try to plan and execute another district event on my own. We would be a small group, but the ducks were so perfectly ordered they could have marched in an infantry!

Fast forward… amidst the insanity of starting classes back up, of trying to put in hours for my other job, of trying to invest in people (including my new nephew and his mom and dad), of trying some reasonable amount of self-care (aka: sleeping for more than a few hours at night) …suddenly the mission trip snuck up out of nowhere.  With it came instant stress.  But it was going to be fine.  Because my ducks were off in the corner doing synchronized baton routines.  Plus, I expressed with deep satisfaction, how my schedule was an accordion – plenty of room for ebb and flow, for flexibility. 

And then my ducks went AWOL.  Not a single one reported for duty. 

It was a little bit of everything you could possibly imagine. 

My youth leader – my precious partner-in-crime and the reason my sanity was still in check – got sick.  I rearranged.  I readjusted.  I rerouted.  I did the last-minute shopping.  I recruited a helper for food prep. Shoot! Half of my youth even showed up in time to eat leftovers!  I mean, they weren’t much help but the spirit was there!

Storms came.  Awesome storms.  With the prospect of more awesome storms.  I rearranged.  I readjusted.  I rerouted.  We delayed leave time.  I created no less than four back up plans.  We set up camp with hardly a sprinkle.

My beloved youth leader was still fantastically sick.  My other adults weren’t available until late that night – per the duck plan.  I had a dozen kids and two vehicles and only one me to transport. I rearranged.  I readjusted.  I rerouted.  I made several calls and was about to get to my “maybe a parent can help…” list when my sister came in and saved all kinds of days (on account of her own AWOL ducks).

The magnificent thunderstorms kept us up much of the night – and cancelled the partnership we had scheduled for the Thursday.  With the help of my now present adult leaders… we rearranged, we readjusted, we rerouted.  We found a new place to invest.  We moved some of Friday to Thursday.  People who had no idea we existed were blessed. 

Friday came with a giant question mark.  I was physically and mentally incapable of rerouting one more time but we had to…because we used Friday’s projects on Thursday.  With the help of my adult leaders…we rearranged, we readjusted, we rerouted.  And then we did it again when the agenda items which shouldn’t have changed, did.  And we had some extra time for community and fun. And people who had no reason to expect anything from anyone were blessed.

And Saturday came and I gave my youth both the Friday night and Saturday morning pep talk…of how the day would go and what I needed from them and that I wanted them to remember who they were and Whose they were.  It was the guaranteed part of the schedule – set in stone, the only piece not open to the accordion.  The free family carnival came and the carnival left and maybe 50 of the 400-expected people came and we spent the day rearranging, readjusting, and rerouting… And the church we partnered with (who couldn’t have pulled anything off without my group) made plans for next year and started reworking ideas and weekends and potential with hope and excitement…

By this point I am not angry.  I am not even upset.  But I am discouraged.  I spent months and put dozens and dozens of hours into a trip I wanted to bless a group of teens and bless a community and bless God.  I was told from the get-go by my superiors that it wasn’t worth attempting and there were too many problems and it just wouldn’t work.  I had stood then with my ever-decreasing list of churches and committed youth and said, “but it is still worth it!”  And now I stood wearily with the 350 unopened prize bags I was packaging neatly into a box and saying, “so much for proving ya’ll wrong…”

I took a deep breath and tried not to get frustrated – mostly with myself.  I had been honest with my team about times where I was disappointed and even overwhelmed by the change of plans.  I desperately sought to make sure my stress didn’t affect how I interacted with them and I praised them for their willingness to go with the flow and serve with joyful hearts.  But now I was tired.  And I could do absolutely no more rerouting.  And I just didn’t know how to pray any more fervently or work any harder for an event which had seemingly nose-dived into the concrete…

And I watched my teens stand in goofy costumes waving viciously at cars passing by… If they were embarrassed, it didn’t show.  They were joyful and energetic. 

And I listened as one of my youth said “where are the people running games?  There are only like three kids here but they deserve to have a good time!”

And I questioned our “bonus youth” (the only one connected to another district church) who stood with the largest, most ridiculous smile on his face, as he informed me that this week - which he had entered into hesitantly – was one of the best of his life.

And I thought back to the fervor my teens put into serving people, (who had no idea they were going to be served!), to the joy and laughter they put into menial tasks which were never part of the plan (and seemingly less “important” than the ones scheduled) – how proud I was of them.

And I considered the fact that while there were a (very) few reminders to rally and to “step it up” in maturity, I never once had to deal with inter-group behavior because they genuinely enjoyed being together…they served in community and out of their community.

And I giggled as they all went up for children’s time at the church we visited (something they always do with the little ones at their home church) to the encouragement and delight of the congregation…

And I near teared as I watched them, without any known instruction or guidance (or adult invitation!), circle up on the church lawn, with their parents waiting in the parking lot, for their own time of prayer before parting ways. 

And I sat, alone, in a very full car in an empty parking lot, for several minutes after everyone had left.  Without warning, I cried violently for several minutes.  It was odd and out of place until I considered the fact that, for the first time in nearly a week, I didn’t have to have my brave face on for my teens and the pressure of needing to be director, leader, mentor, friend, cook, alarm clock, and liaison on a constantly rearranged, readjusted, and rerouted schedule, released in one fellow swoop.

I shook my head (but not my fist) as I drove the mile back to my parents’ house to unpack my car and get started on homework. 

You see, on Wednesday, before I would know the extent of the rearranging, readjusting, and rerouting ahead of me, I had chatted with my friend, the mom of a couple of my teens. After mutually agreeing that despite the wrinkles (thus far!) everything would be fine, I proclaimed half-heartedly and with slightly clenched teeth “God will get the glory whether I want to give it to Him or not!” 

Without the hint (but still the lingering stench) of the irony which so often characterizes my life, I started the homework I was terribly behind on.  It just so happened to include a conversation about the glory of God and how clearly in the Gospels individuals were ready to give Jesus glory for the things which they had expected from Him but how the true glory of God was manifested in the least glorifying way – a criminal’s death.  How whether the glory due God was being given or not, it was being made known. 

I taught and praised my teens.  I encouraged them to dig into their bibles, to think critically about what it meant to be on a mission in service and leadership and outreach.  I was SO proud of them SO many times for the way they took life by the horns and served with joy and hospitality and God’s love.  I thanked God multiple times for my teens.  I don’t remember thanking God for the trip.  I told my youth “do this for Jesus” and we talked about what that meant…  I thanked God for protection and provision and projects.  But I also gift-horsed them as I made sure He knew that while they were “fine”, they weren’t my ducks or my plans. 

The truth is, I didn’t want to give God the glory.  In the stress and chaos inside my head, no part of me wanted to pause and declare God’s goodness for it.  “Thanks for this change of plans, again!  I am tired and overwhelmed and at a loss for my next move and you get the glory for it all!”  I couldn’t say it without sarcasm… 

However, I was leaving out the “but”.  I love to tell my youth how often in scripture the “but of the matter is the heart of the matter”.  What comes first is important, what comes after the “but” is the heart of what is being said.  “God, you get the glory.  These were not my plans, but….”

But…You provided.

But…You protected.

But…You sustained.

But…conversations were had.

But...community was built.

But…people were served.

But…people were blessed.

But…a congregation was encouraged.

But…Your name was made known.

But…my teens (whether they realize it yet or not) grew in understanding of You…

But…you WILL get the glory whether I decide to give it or not…

My list of “buts” could and likely should go on.  Though this was written a week post our leave, it is being posted a week post our return.  It was originally written as a set of my own reflections.  My own way of putting into right perspective and attitude the reality of the experience.  Experiences should always be considered in light of the inherent reality of God’s goodness.   If there is anything other than my reflections here for your, that is alone for you to decide.  I do, however, pray that my life is a testament to the reality of the glory of God.  That I choose to give it all circumstances.  Whether I want to or not.