miracles

It has been a little over a month now since I got the news.

I was sitting in the passengers seat, chatting quietly with my boss and watching blurred strips of undeveloped desert whiz by. We had just spent the day at a meeting in Tucson; now we were driving the two-hour stretch back to Phoenix.

A missed call on my cell phone from my mother-in-law. Strange, I remember thinking. Not one for words or lengthy conversations, Marsha rarely calls her own children, let alone her daughter-in-law in Arizona.

Immediately, I called her back. And when her sad, tear-filled voice came on the line, I involuntarily braced myself.

"...Lump...Mammogram...Doctor...Breast Cancer...Surgery" is all I can remember now of our brief conversation.

Probably, it is all I heard.

I cried. Though completely recognizable, the words were wholly unfamiliar to me.

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The days and weeks that followed were propelled forward by her cancer. I remember them like a stream of consciousness - snippets of events, momentary impressions, fleeting thoughts:

Anxious. Telling Aaron will be the hardest thing I've ever had to say to him in our three and a half years of togetherness. Why was his cell phone off? His mother could have told him herself. I say the words, matter-of-fact. He is obviously shocked. Does she have insurance, he asked me. The first thing he thinks about is insurance? What is wrong with him? Defense mechanism, he tells me later. I don't want to worry until I have all the facts. But it feels good to worry, I think. An unwholesome comfort.

More bad news. The tumor is large, 3 centimeters already. The location of the tumor is troubling. It is by the blood vessels. A mastectomy is necessary. Mastectomy. And here I am worrying about the small pimple on my forehead. The cancer may have spread to her lymph nodes. Oh God, please have mercy on this family. Don't let it spread. The surgery is scheduled for Friday.

Flying to Ohio. I get nervous on the takeoffs and landings. How great is our God, sings Chris Tomlin from my iPod. I clutch Aaron's hand and tell him that everything is going to be alright. He sleeps, how can he sleep at a time like this? Arrival. Would you like an upgrade on your rental car? It's only $30 dollars, the salesman says. Why not? Why not, I shrug in agreement. We must be too tired to care.

Turning onto the street where she lives. Here we are again, only this time there are no Christmas presents. Thump, thump, thump, up the porch steps. She appears, her face drawn. They share a long embrace, mother and son. It is disturbing to see a parent look so sad. The world upside down.The house is quiet, the late-afternoon sun filtering in through sheer ivory drapes. The house feels pensive, worried, fearful. The house has taken on our personalities, I think. We talk.

The night before surgery. Normal sibling banter is subdued. She says good night and goes to bed early. I wonder what she's doing - is she looking at her breasts? What would I do on the night before I lost my breast? I would cry all night. I would look in the mirror over and over to remember my shape. Maybe I would take a picture. I would touch them. I would grieve. I would beg God to let me remain unchanged. What is normal during something like this? She's alone right now. My heart aches for her.

Morning. Everyone is surprisingly upbeat and resolute. The ride to the hospital is short. Tests. More tests. We file into her holding room, right before surgery. Her Pastor reads from scripture and we pray. Heads bowed, we surround her bed. We lift her up, away from the cancer and away from the surgery. I am lifted, too. We watch and wave as she is wheeled away.

Waiting. Six of us kids handling what seems like a very adult situation.
I wish my own mom were here. Lots of visitors. Every so often, Brahms lullaby plays over the loudspeakers, signaling the birth of a new baby. A celebration of life. The view from the waiting room is a cemetery. A reminder of mortality. It is the cemetery where Marsha's first husband, Aaron's father, is buried. He died of cancer years ago. Is this some sick joke? How cruel and ironic and unnecessary.

The moment of supreme tension arrives. I feel nauseous with anticipation. My stupid weak stomach. The surgeon took his chair and faced us.

"The surgery went very well. The cancer has not spread."

And just like that, the myriad of emotions that had defined the preceding weeks had been reduced to just one:

Joy.

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Some people say that everything in life is a miracle. Babies, flowers, email and ice cream. I tend to agree.

I don't think of miracles in overly-religious, highly-cosmic terms. In fact, I like Wikipedia's simplified definition best: a miracle is an intervention by God in the universe.

Marsha's cancer should have spread. Her family history, the location of the tumor and its large size dictated that it would. But it didn't.

With mercy and grace, God intervened.

He intervenes everyday. He is calling me to see the large and small. Much like beauty, miracles are signs that point us to Him. They are markers on the road of life that challenge me to believe and accept that in our every moment, He is actively, dynamically and vibrantly present.