Well.

Well, here I am. At a mile marker, one countless others have reached, and one that seemed so far away not that long ago. I’m reminded of my walk with Erika when we would look over a valley, knowing the many miles it would be before we’d walked to the other side. It would certainly hold beautiful sights, thirsty stretches, uphill climbs, tired legs or sore feet, new acquaintances, hard moments and lovely ones, perhaps a surprise. Difficult to believe we’d reach the other side in just a day. But as my friend and mentor Janice says, do-able. I’ve come through the valley, and up the hill. Today, I feel a bit like I did when I walked into Aumont Aubrac, my last stop on The Way. Relieved, pumped, amazed, and so tired I can hardly absorb all the past year has been. They tell me this will take awhile.

Into the valley and back up the other side.

Time for new boots.

My nurse asked if I felt emotional as I wrapped up today’s last treatment. Tears welled up, but knowing I was off to a meeting, I held on to them. I’ve cried surprisingly little this year. (Warning to anyone I may see over the holidays ~ a year’s worth of tears are due to flow at the most inopportune or irrelevant moment. That’s just how I cry.) I do feel a bit like the hiker who left the worn out boots at the base of the cross on Le Chemin. Hard to let go of some of the people, the kindnesses, and the tools that have carried me through this journey. Simultaneously ready to take off the boots immediately and walk away. In that spirit, I’ll be at the hospital by 6 am to have my port removed tomorrow; it has served me well and it is time to leave it at the foot of the cross. I get to re-pack my life’s backpack, which may take me awhile, sorting through the memories, the joys, the lessons, the sorrows . . . the things I can leave behind and those I’ll carry with me forever. The excitement of this time is tempered by the people I’ve met, or simply sat near, whose journeys are far harder, sobered by those fighting nastier cancers. Time in chemoland leaves scars beyond the physical ones.

My angel nurse ~ also a Luther mom and a cancer survivor.

But for today, I put my feet up and smile, warmed by friends celebrating this Christmas gift with me, full of Advent hope, and thanking God ~ and you ~ for walking alongside me. Cheers to the journey, and to 2017!

 

and hope does not disappoint . . .

There was a time when Jeremy asked if his name could be changed to Jose. Something to do with Jose Canseco, I think. Continuing in the Storvick-ethnic-name-mashup, you can call me Mrs. Mariucci for a bit. I know you can’t marry an ice arena, but my wedding rings went wandering there, so just like we say my brother’s married to Lake Monona for sinking his ring during a triathlon, it seems the same joke is on me. Losing my rings Saturday (in a dumb move I’ll blame on chemo brain) was not the sort of finish I was wishing for as my not favorite year wraps up. Yet each time I kick myself, another glimmer of light, of hope, of kindness lifts my attention back to Advent and to whatever a new year may hold.

Whether it was the Christmas jar on the stoop today, or the sunshine surprise two days ago, or beautiful cards in the mail, or all the girls wanting to be Mary in the Christmas program . . . goodness seeps in whenever discouragement tries to take over a day, a week, a season. The man and the marriage those rings represent, instead of anger or disappointment, knew the perfect time to simply remind me that we are still married, joking that I can’t get out of it that easily. I still have hope that the rings will turn up, but whether they do or not, I’ve still got hope. The hope the prophets promised, the hope this season presents again. The hope that chooses a humble manger. The hope wedding rings represent.

One of the books on my shelves is a study of Job called A Hard-Fought Hope. A verse in Job reads, “So the poor have hope, and injustice shuts its mouth.” Words full of hope.  While parts of me have taken a beating this year, hope has not.

This year has drawn me deeper into Christmas card words I’ve used pretty freely. Peace, joy, hope. In times of unchosen quiet or concern, in the face of challenges personal and fears more global, I’ve been learning genuine appreciation for peace in the middle of cancer, hope in the face of loss, persistence and perspective when fear threatens, joy in the everyday. May the gifts of peace and hope be rich and true and strong in ways you need them to be.

And that’s Mrs. Storvick to you, Mariucci.