It took me some time after I told my family and closest friends about my cancer to decide to let my church know what was going on in my life.
If I said it once, I would say it again, “When I want to feel loved, I go to church. They accept me for who I am, unconditionally.” And they have been supporting me in prayers for years.
Say what you will about church, but I have had that “family” since the early 80’s. As a young family, we joined Charity before my son was born. He’s 37. While there are members of my church family who have died, moved on, or moved away, there’s a core group still attending. I may have tried to leave at one time or another, but I can’t.
So, I finally gave in and sent a note to the church prayer chain coordinator. After all, how could it hurt to have my faith family praying for healing?
Word spread quickly, and calls and texts started lighting up my phone. Naturally, everyone offered an ear and a phone number. I couldn’t talk to any of them. Talking took too much energy. I’m sure that made you laugh. Everyone who knows me knows I have inherited the gift of gab from my Mom.
There were very few people I allowed to enter my inner circle — the three pastors I worked with and studied under at Charity were a priority. I spoke to each of them when they called. In my hour of need, I needed to know that there was someplace out there after all was said and done here on earth. I pray every day that Jesus won’t forget about me. I’m searching for someplace to go after my demise.
Pastor Bob had retired from head pastor a long time ago but still maintains ties to his flock. For some reason, we have had an incredibly strong tie since we met in the early 80s. His wife, Karen, who moved to her heavenly home several years ago still comes to my mind often in a most loving way.
Genuinely concerned, Pastor Bob wanted to sit with me during one of my four or more hour-long chemo sessions. I was delighted.
Pastor Randy called. Pastor Sam called. I spoke to both of them. There were many other calls I had to ignore, but I returned texts explaining why.
Then, to let me know they were thinking of me, my friends snail-mailed cards. I love mail. I’m sure lots of folks out there have heard me say many times, “I love mail.” Many of them took the time to find special artist-created cards with messages of hope and support. They also remembered I love handmade things.
I saved those cards to read one last time before I have to clean out my basket of love notes according to the new rules. You know the rules about decluttering, so your children won’t have to do it once you are gone. Oh wait, I have since decided life is short, so don’t be in a hurry to throw things out. It seems like every time I do that, I spend two weeks searching for something I thought I had stashed away, only to remember I probably threw it in the thrift store box. Yikes.
One of the cards had a $20 bill enclosed with a greeting and a prayer for recovery. It was from Laura. Laura is from Wishek. We have been looking at the possibility of being related, in one way or another.
Here is a note I wrote in my journal regarding this card of kindness.
“Laura. From one German to another, I have to tell you that I loved the card you sent. I love getting mail and cards of encouragement from my Charity family. You are all such a blessing. You were kind enough to throw a $20 bill in your card. You said I didn’t have to send you a thank you. I could use it for something, anything, I might need. So, Laura, as a McIntosh County German-Russian, you will be tickled pink to know that I spent that money on prune juice for the obvious reason. So, thank you anyway, and keep praying for me.”
If you are not a German-Russian, you may not get the humor in that note. Or maybe you will. Happy New Year friends.
INDYchildrendotme 
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