A year ago, I certainly wouldn’t have dreamed that Christmas 2024 would see me at the Cancer Institute, getting radiation therapy. For that matter, even when I was diagnosed back in April, I fully expected to be done with all treatment by now.

But…no. LOL.

The way the schedule worked out, and thanks to us scheduling a vacation for December 14-21 (since we couldn’t take one over the summer, we had to wait for another big break for our daughter), radiation got pushed back until “after the holidays,” they said. Turns out “after the holidays” means going up on Christmas Eve for a simulation and then starting on December 26th.

I met with my radiation oncologist a few weeks ago and we immediately liked him. He’s the head of the department, which is nice, and has a great sense of humor, which is even better. I jokingly asked him if this would give me super powers, and he didn’t miss a beat. He said, “Well, we can’t rule it out!”

So that’s my new line. I’m totally getting super powers for Christmas. 😉 And if that super power is Remaining Cancer Free, I will be thrilled.

I went up on December 9 to get a scan and make my mold–how they’ll ensure I’m in the exact same place each time. As already mentioned, I’ll have a simulation on Christmas Eve–I keep calling it the Test Run. 😉 But on the Second Day of Christmas, I’ll begin my first day of radiation. I will have 15 sessions total, skipping New Years Day and weekends, and will finish up on January 16.

My appointments are at 7 in the morning, which means early wake-ups for the 90 minute drive, but that’s okay. Xoe will be in until January 5, and I don’t want to miss time with her, so we’re not planning on staying up there or anything. I figure with those early morning appointments, I should be home before my night owl daughter even wakes up! 😉

They said that the most common side effects from this therapy are tiredness (not at the start, but by the end…it’s cumulative) and of course the skin at the sites could burn, so they recommend good lotion. A kind reader already sent me three tubes of medical-grade moisturizer formulated specifically for skin undergoing radiation, so I’m set!

So here we are. Today, I’m lounging on the beach in Marathon, one of the Florida Keys, where I was blessed to find a great deal on a condo through AirBnB. I’m enjoying the sun and the sand and the water and books. Everything for Christmas is set and ready at home. Gifts are bought and wrapped and waiting, the tree is up and decorated, and my mother-in-law is watering it and taking care of the cat. Today, I’m enjoying the trip that we called a celebration of being done with cancer, before we realized I wouldn’t be quite done with the treatments yet. That’s okay. Today, I’m celebrating anyway. We’ll get back home on the 23rd and jump right into Christmas…and that simulation.

And I’m so grateful. So grateful for this time with my family, for this year that took such an unexpected twist but which poured out so many blessings upon me. So grateful for the medical community that knows how to make me well again. So grateful for the Cancer Institute team who has had my back, laughed at my jokes, and rejoiced with me as we beat this thing.

So here we are. Not the circumstances I ever anticipated finding myself in for Christmas of 2024…but ready to enjoy my Super-Hero Christmas and take this last big step toward living cancer free for years to come.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

I have a friend from my P&P group who has shared with us some reflections of her sons, adopted from Nicuragua. When faced with the possibility of putting together some of the famous Shoeboxes, these boys did not react like she thought they would. She thought they’d be excited at the possibility of giving back in this way, of giving what they themselves had received.

Instead, the boys told her, “These boxes aren’t Christmas. They don’t come on Christmas, and they’re filled with things we might not even want or need. They’re not personal. They’re nice…but they’re not Christmas.”

That sentiment really struck me. Because I too have given a lot of thought to what Christmas isn’t.

Christmas isn’t magical elves.
Christmas can’t be “saved,” because Christmas can’t not happen.
Christmas isn’t gifts.
Christmas isn’t trappings or wrappings.
Christmas isn’t just about family.
Christmas isn’t about us giving to each other.

Christmas is so much more. Christmas is personal. Christmas is the gift. Christmas is nothing we can do, because Christmas is something done for us.

Christmas is miracle, not magic. The joy of heaven come to earth.
Christmas is participating in the original miracle, remembering it and making ourselves part of that history, making it part of us.
Christmas is opening our hearts to the God who became man for us.
Christmas is spreading that news, that joy, singing that song throughout the world.
Christmas is about being part of the family of God, being loved so much by Him that He made us heirs.
Christmas is about what He did for us.

Should we celebrate? Of course! Why would we not celebrate the greatest miracle of all time? Should we give gifts? Generosity is always a good thing, and showing people they’re loved is good too. But gifts can quickly overshadow the true Giver. They can distract us. We can get puffed up over our giving and materialistic with our receiving.

That’s why it’s important, in this season of hustle and bustle, to remember. To prepare our hearts for His coming. To focus FIRST on the divine, and then on the earthly.

Remember what Christmas is…and remember what it isn’t. That’s the real way to “save” Christmas each year.

On this day of gratitude, I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with thankfulness. Overwhelmed with blessing. Overwhelmed with the faithfulness of our God.

Last Thanksgiving, I wouldn’t have dreamed that in the year to come, I’d go through cancer. I certainly wouldn’t have thought, had someone told me what was coming, that I’d come out of it feeling so humbled and blessed. Yet here we are. With a long road still ahead of me, but gratitude filling my heart as I look back on where I’ve been.

Thank you, Lord, for your faithfulness. Thank you for holding me so securely in the palm of your hand that I could not, for even a moment, doubt. I could feel no fear. I could experience only the smallest amount of sorrow. Thank you for bringing me through this, for obliterating the cancer cells from my body, for setting me on a path to full healing.

Thank you, family, for your endless support. For meals cooked and delivered, for the willingness to drive me to appointments, for gas money and check-ins, for loving me through every moment.

Thank you, friends, for your endless prayers. For a mailbox bursting with cards and “encourgement bombs.” For notes and emails that not only brightened my days with promises of those prayers, but which edified me as a writer and a person.

Thank you, strangers, whose names I didn’t recognize but who gave of yourselves, your hearts and your means, to support me in this time, proving that the family of God is bound by love that goes beyond all understanding.

Thank you, Church, for being the hands and feet of Jesus.

Tears are filling my eyes as I’m writing this, reflecting on the year it’s been. It’s a year I don’t want to repeat. A year of sickness and exhaustion and pain, when I focus on the physical. But a year of uncountable blessings too. A year that has left me in awe of this amazing community.

Thank you for being part of my life, part of my journey.

Who—or what—fuels you in your work, your beliefs, your mission?

My husband subscribes to the blog of Seth Godin, a leading marketer who always has such wonderful insights…not only as to how to get the work of our hands and hearts before the world, but which can usually be applied to life too.

In a recent post, Godin talks about what fuels our work, and how that will affect the work itself. Some of the examples he gives are spot-on. For instance, is our work a response to a fear—a reaction? Then what happens to our work when that fear abates? We have to always have some fear to fuel us.

Do we say we’re not interested in something but continue to track or measure or pay attention to it? Then soon it will start to matter.

Do you want to teach someone a lesson or prove them wrong? Then you always have to have an adversary to teach or defeat.

The examples above that Godin gives were about our work. But the moment I read them, I knew they were just as true in life. This struck me especially given this past election year. So much of politics is fearmongering, and so many of our votes are fueled by that fear. We say we have faith that God will provide but obsess over all the “things” we claim aren’t important. So many of the posts we see or make on social media are about proving other people wrong—not just in politics for that one, but in everything. We want to prove that this book I loved is worth reading. We want to prove that our faith has value. We want to prove that we’re right about pretty much everything.

When we let a response to something negative fuel us, we become trapped. Because in order to keep going, we need to keep that negative thing close. Time and again throughout history, we see what happens when people are only reacting to a negative. When they’re not for something so much as against something else. And on the flipside, we see what happens when instead, they’re given something to believe in.

Even that can take on monstrous form, as we see so clearly with Nazi Germany, for example. Hitler didn’t rise to power just because of the fearmongering (though there was plenty) or by unifying the people against an enemy (though he used that too). What really turned the tide was that he gave them something they could be for. In that case, a stronger Germany, a promise that they were a chosen race. He invited them to be part of something great.

And that can be intoxicating. Blinding.

What if, instead, the something we choose to be for is service? That’s what Godin ends his blog post with, because in our work, that’s one thing that will never go away and which doesn’t leave us empty. If we’re working to serve others, then we will always be fueled to continue, because people will always need that service. And that’s also the root of our faith.

Christ came to serve. He tells His disciples not to seek to lord over others, but to be their servant. He invites us to do the same.

It’s why I write, has always been why I write. Do I appreciate that it’s a career and make some decisions based on monetary needs? I do, yes. But even if the money stopped, I would still write. I wrote before I made a dime, I wrote when it cost me instead of paid me, and I will continue to write no matter what, as long as God fills my heart and mind with stories. I worked for years, pouring time and energy and money into figuring out how to get those books into the hands of readers, because I believed that this calling God had put on my heart was worth that sacrifice. Because I believed that books were a service, that the stories He gave me were for a purpose, that He could use them to touch other hearts and lives.

I cannot count the messages I’ve received this summer, as I went through cancer, from people thanking me for my faithfulness in sharing those words and stories. And each one reminded me of why it’s work worth doing, even when I’m tired. Even when I’m sick. Even when each page is a battle and I’m not so sure the words are coming out right. It’s worth it, because my calling hasn’t changed. Because God still wants to use me.

He still wants to use you too. Not to disprove or fan fear or react to some other negative. He wants to use you for something. To direct eyes upward, toward what is good and holy. He wants to use you to bring joy and hope.

But is that what we’ve invited along our journey? Are we walking with Him in faith and joy and hope…or are we walking beside fear and selfishness and naysaying? In this month of focusing on gratitude, let’s take a moment too to focus on the invisible companions in our life’s journey.

Who (or what) is walking beside you day by day? Is that the companion you want…or is to time to reframe, refocus, and serve?

My parish has three churches, each with a different history. There’s St. Mary’s, which was the Italian church. St. Patrick’s, which was (surprise, surprise, LOL) the Irish church. And Sts. Peter and Paul, which was the German church. I imagine back in the day, one wouldn’t think of going to one of the other churches rather than the one you belonged to, ethnically. Today, however, the churches are united and served by the same clergy, and service times always alternate between them.

Though our Sunday church is St. Mary’s, we love to go to daily mass at Sts. Peter and Paul. It’s just…beautiful. Ornate and gilded with soaring ceilings, murals, stunning stained glass, etc. And one of my favorite architectural highlights is at the very top of the church, right above the altar. There’s a gold circle with a dove.

Though none of our other churches have this, it used to be a standard feature in all churches…only, rather than just a gilded disc, it was once an actual hole at the top of the church. Why?

That dove is your clue–it was a hole through which the Holy Spirit was invited to descend and fill the sanctuary. As Christianity spread to colder climes, the hole was merely symbolic…but what a symbol, right?

We know that we don’t need an actual hole in the ceiling for the Spirit to come among us…but you know what we do need? A hole in our lives to let Him in through. We need to make space for Him. We need to give Him an opening. We need to invite Him in, and that’s exactly what those circles open to the heavens were meant to do.

They are the church saying, “Come, Holy Spirit.” And I love going into Sts. Peter and Paul and looking up at that golden reminder–a reminder that I need to say, “Come, Holy Spirit. Come into my life. Walk beside me. Shine Your light in my heart and show me my faults, banish the shadows.

As we recite the Nicene creed, I love to look up at that reminder when we get to the stanza about the Holy Spirit:

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the Lord, the giver of life,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son,
who with the Father and the Son
is adored and glorified.,
who has spoken through the prophets.

In the Old Testament, we see the Spirit coming upon people almost forcefully. He didn’t dwell with them, but rather visited them. He is the one who whispered those words to the prophets, who made them abandon their humble lives to be the mouthpieces of God. He is fire and wind and that dove descending upon Christ. He is the part of the trinity that came upon Mary and planted Jesus in her womb.

He is the Comforter that Christ promised would not just visit us now and then, but who would dwell with us, leading us every step of the way.

And yet…we are now given a choice as to whether we let Him in. Not just once, but every day. We can ignore His voice. We can close the door, and too often we do, without even realizing it. We don’t have time or energy or desire to focus on the things of God, so we nudge Him out and stop up the gaps through which He comes. We ignore the nudges and the whisper and turn from the burning flame. We are given that freedom, that right.

But I pray that we regularly stop and wonder. We ask ourselves, “Have I invited Him in today?” I pray we always keep that place at the top of our beings open for the Holy Spirit. I pray we let Him fill us, use us, speak through us, speak to us. Jesus promises that the Spirit will always give us the words we need to speak…but first we have to ask Him to do so.

Let’s turn our eyes upward, my friends. And remember to extend that invitation.

The image I see when I look in the mirror has only rarely matched the image I carry of myself in my mind. I imagine we’re all like that. There are those who see fat or skinny when the world disagrees with them. There are those see young or old, fit or flabby, pretty or ugly. We hear a lot about people who have a negative body image, despite everyone around them thinking of their looks in a very positive light.

I remember back in high school, when I was already dating David, who would become my husband, thinking very frankly about my looks. I knew well I wasn’t super-model material, that I was far from the prettiest girl in my school, even. But I also knew that I was the kind of everyday pretty that, when viewed through the eyes of love, would make someone say I was the most beautiful woman in the world. Something David has said to me countless times over the years. He tells me every day–multiple times a day–that I’m pretty, and he says it in a tone of love and adoration. Never has a day gone by that he didn’t affirm me in this way. My parents have always been so affirming as well.

Maybe that’s why I never lacked for confidence. I know my physical flaws–I have no delusions. And when someone (other than those who love me) are too effusive in their praise, I give them the side-eye. But the me I feel like as I’m going through my day has so little to do with the me I see when I look in the mirror. I feel like I’m exactly who I need to be (most of the time). I feel like the me other people see will reflect that. Is it true? No idea, LOL. But it’s how I’ve gone through life.

Then came cancer. When I responded to losing half my hair within 24 hours by shaving the rest off, the me I saw when I looked in the mirror definitely didn’t match my self-image. Five months later, I still don’t identify as that baldie. 😉 My hair is starting to grow back, and I laugh at how I now look like a balding man, with shiny spots still on top but a nice fringe around the back. My eyebrows and eyelashes have thinned, and I frequently have circles under my eyes (especially after surgery), so when I look in the mirror, I think “Wow, hello, cancer patient!”

But that’s not what I feel like when I’m not looking in the mirror. (Okay, there are days…LOL). I feel like…me. The same person who has always traveled through life with confidence and optimism, even when I probably shouldn’t, by rights. Yes, I get frustrated when the image doesn’t reflect that version of myself. I’m ready to look like me again, and I definitely don’t. But it’s easy to forget, as I’m going about my day. It’s easy to ignore.

Then came surgery. Bilateral mastectomy. Months before I even had the surgery, my physical therapist was writing a referral to get me in with a counselor who specializes in body image. I figured that would be smart, even though I didn’t have negative thoughts about it yet. I haven’t yet actually seen any mental health specialists, though, so these first weeks after surgery, it’s just been me and my family thinking it through.

Can I think myself to tears over the changes to my body? Yes. I did so one night. It was important to grapple with all that will never be the same, to realize that I no longer had the breasts that nursed my children. My husband and I had some long talks about what grieving a part of one’s body really is and looks like. And then…I felt like I had permission to just be me again. To be curious about these changes, and to be curious about how they’d continue to evolve as I go through the very lengthy reconstruction process.

David worried that I was just saying the right words, at one point. Words about how this body is not who I am, about how when I was struck with fear or worry in the weeks leading up to surgery, I’d make a concerted effort to pray. He was baffled at “how okay” I was. Was I just in denial? Was I not grieving properly? That would be when I took that night to cry and talk though it all.

In the first week post-surgery, I wasn’t allowed to take off the ace bandage they’d wrapped me in or take off the surgical compression bra, so I hadn’t seen myself. And I’ll admit it–I wasn’t exactly looking forward to that first full look. A few days afterward, my mom asked, “How did you feel when you first saw yourself?” her tone one of worry and love and sympathy.

I kinda laughed. “Well, I don’t exactly like the way it looks…but it’s interesting to see what they did and imagine how it’ll look as I go through the process. It looks funny, but it’s okay.” And I meant it. It’s not hideous. I look at the incisions that will become scars, and I see battle wounds that mean I’m still alive, that I’m reclaiming health.

It’s not the me I feel like, when I look in the mirror. But it rarely is. That’s okay. It’s the me I’ve earned. Just like those stretch marks on my hips tell the story of carrying a child, just like the scar on my ankle tells of rollerskating without socks as a child, just as the curve to my neck tells of too many hours hunched over my keyboard writing books. The bald head says that I’m fighting cancer (and winning!). And this new change just tells part of that ongoing story of claiming health and a future. I can’t hate the thing that will help me achieve that. I can think it looks funny, and I can certainly not love the painful process, but I made the decision with one goal in mind: never going through breast cancer again. I know this doesn’t guarantee it, but it makes it more likely. And so, I celebrate it.

The me I see in the mirror doesn’t match the me I see in mind…and yet, it does. Because the me I see in the mirror is a warrior, one who bears the marks of the battle but is still fighting. Can I pick out all my flaws, all the things I’m eager to see change, all the things I will mitigate with makeup and hats and wigs when I feel like altering that image for a while? Absolutely. But that doesn’t mean I don’t also see what lies beneath.

I am the most beautiful woman in the world to the man who loves me. I am a woman of strength and faith in the eyes of my family and friends. I am a mother who shows her children that we can fight and win whatever battles life throws at us.

I am a daughter of God, precious in His sight.

The me I see in the mirror matches none of my ideals of beauty. But the me I see in the mirror is beautiful. That reflection tells part of my story–and my reaction to it tells another part.

I daresay when you look in the mirror, you don’t see exactly what you wish you looked like either. But your reflection is part of your story. You have earned every curve, every dip, every scar, every freckle, every wrinkle, every line. You are exactly the you that God created in His image, and you are loved. You are beautiful. You are you.

The image that greets us in the mirror is part of us…but we are so much more than our image alone. We are His image. And that makes us all beyond compare.