No, I'm not talking about my hair. I'm talking about my heart. And I know I said I would blog about this monthly, but this is good.
Less than a week into this Beautiful Lengths journey, I've already had a mind-boggling experience. I've never been on a mission trip and I've never done Habitat for Humanity. I've volunteered a few times - once because I was made to (which really means I didn't volunteer. . . ), a few times to fulfill an NHS requirement, and a time or two just because I cared. None of those stints made me feel like I was growing as a person.
I sent Beth my blog about my hair and her fight. She wrote back. That's where the growing comes in. I've always heard people come back from the mission field or from volunteering in the slums and they always say something like this: I thought I was doing this to help others, but I had no idea what it would do for me.
I never really understood that until Sunday. Beth's email humbled me and made me feel a thousand emotions all at once. She thanked me and told me she was honored to know me. Huh? Wow. I felt like I needed to do this to show her how honored I was to know her. And in the process I get praised? Cool! Then she told me that she shaved her head this weekend. Not cool.
You always hear people talk about "His perfect timing." Sometimes that makes sense to us. Sometimes we can relate. Sometimes - when we're hurting, struggling, fighting, falling - we have no idea what God could possibly be waiting for. I guess this weekend was a perfect example of His perfect timing. When Beth was hitting a low, I sent her a high, without knowing it, of course. I just wanted to share my blog with her and in turn, lifted her spirits, gave her new hope, and grew a bit in the process. Cool.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Beautiful Lengths
"We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace."
Peggy Tabor Millin
My former boss's boss - a long-time friend and mentor - was very recently diagnosed with stage IIa breast cancer. For the sake of anonymity, we'll call her Beth. I met Beth in March of 2002. I was 22. Right out of college. Anxious, excited, and ready to start my career. Beth had been with the company for a while, perhaps 15 years at the time. She'd seen it all - from the dot-matrix printer in '86 to the Swan Hotel in Orlando in '00 - and she was ready to share her experience with me, professional and personal.
Beth figured out pretty early on that I learn best by "falling flat on my face." Wow. It's hard to see that in black and white, but it's oh-so true. She helped guide me through my 6-plus years with the company. Sometimes directly. Sometimes indirectly. A lot of times, by stepping back and watching me make an absolute fool of myself. The most important lessons are the hardest learned.
Three weeks ago, I got an email from my former boss, letting me know about Beth's diagnosis. She very delicately handled the news and wanted to share it with those who worked for and with Beth. My jaw dropped open. My heart sank. Beth? Really? Of all the people I've run across in my life. . . really? I wasn't sure what to do or say. I sent her a card. I've been praying. I almost always either run the Komen 5K or at least support someone who will be running. I felt like I needed to do something bigger. I wasn't sure what, or where to start, but I knew I needed to do something.
Then it hit me. Another friend of mine recently donated her beautiful ponytail to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths. Now I don't have a ponytail and I haven't in many years, but this. . . this is something I can do. This is a visible, physical thing I can do. Prayer is amazing. This I know. But it isn't anything out of the ordinary for me. Donating or participating in the Komen isn't anything new. Maybe I'll write BETH real big on the back of my shirt this year, but what is that doing? Nothing. Nada. It's the status quo. It's not hard. It's not a struggle. It's not . . . well. It's not anything, really.
Fighting cancer? Fighting cancer is extreme. Emotion. Exhaustion. Frustration. Questions. Doubt. Anxiety. Fear. Fatigue. Illness. Pain. Suffering. Exaltation, in the end. Fighting cancer is amazing. Victory. Triumph. Defeat. Falling down. Getting back up. Defiance. Believing in miracles, and in yourself. Fighting cancer is inspirational. Fighting cancer is the stuff heroes (and heroines) are made of. Hair? Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I can do this. I will do this. Not for me, but to remind myself of where Beth is going. And of where she's been. And of where she will one day stand, wearing her pink survivors shirt, proud as all get-out about her newly grown spiky, brunette hair that belongs to her. When she tosses her wig into the flames and laughs in cancer's face, maybe, just maybe, I will have been a teensy little part of that.
I plan to blog monthly about my own insignificant journey. I'll take a monthly photo to reassure myself that yes, it is growing. The first photo is of what my hair looked like the last time I had it cut (just before Thanksgiving). The second photo is today. Here goes nothin'.
Peggy Tabor Millin
My former boss's boss - a long-time friend and mentor - was very recently diagnosed with stage IIa breast cancer. For the sake of anonymity, we'll call her Beth. I met Beth in March of 2002. I was 22. Right out of college. Anxious, excited, and ready to start my career. Beth had been with the company for a while, perhaps 15 years at the time. She'd seen it all - from the dot-matrix printer in '86 to the Swan Hotel in Orlando in '00 - and she was ready to share her experience with me, professional and personal.
Beth figured out pretty early on that I learn best by "falling flat on my face." Wow. It's hard to see that in black and white, but it's oh-so true. She helped guide me through my 6-plus years with the company. Sometimes directly. Sometimes indirectly. A lot of times, by stepping back and watching me make an absolute fool of myself. The most important lessons are the hardest learned.
Three weeks ago, I got an email from my former boss, letting me know about Beth's diagnosis. She very delicately handled the news and wanted to share it with those who worked for and with Beth. My jaw dropped open. My heart sank. Beth? Really? Of all the people I've run across in my life. . . really? I wasn't sure what to do or say. I sent her a card. I've been praying. I almost always either run the Komen 5K or at least support someone who will be running. I felt like I needed to do something bigger. I wasn't sure what, or where to start, but I knew I needed to do something.
Then it hit me. Another friend of mine recently donated her beautiful ponytail to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths. Now I don't have a ponytail and I haven't in many years, but this. . . this is something I can do. This is a visible, physical thing I can do. Prayer is amazing. This I know. But it isn't anything out of the ordinary for me. Donating or participating in the Komen isn't anything new. Maybe I'll write BETH real big on the back of my shirt this year, but what is that doing? Nothing. Nada. It's the status quo. It's not hard. It's not a struggle. It's not . . . well. It's not anything, really.
Fighting cancer? Fighting cancer is extreme. Emotion. Exhaustion. Frustration. Questions. Doubt. Anxiety. Fear. Fatigue. Illness. Pain. Suffering. Exaltation, in the end. Fighting cancer is amazing. Victory. Triumph. Defeat. Falling down. Getting back up. Defiance. Believing in miracles, and in yourself. Fighting cancer is inspirational. Fighting cancer is the stuff heroes (and heroines) are made of. Hair? Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I can do this. I will do this. Not for me, but to remind myself of where Beth is going. And of where she's been. And of where she will one day stand, wearing her pink survivors shirt, proud as all get-out about her newly grown spiky, brunette hair that belongs to her. When she tosses her wig into the flames and laughs in cancer's face, maybe, just maybe, I will have been a teensy little part of that.
I plan to blog monthly about my own insignificant journey. I'll take a monthly photo to reassure myself that yes, it is growing. The first photo is of what my hair looked like the last time I had it cut (just before Thanksgiving). The second photo is today. Here goes nothin'.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Fear of the known
I was out running errands today and was reminded (painfully) of the inevitable. I, like you, am not getting any younger. There was this frail, little old man at Discount Tire today. Thank God he hadn't driven himself. He was there with his son (who happened to be about my dad's age). I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but overhear a few snippets of their conversation.
Son: Do you need any groceries or anything while we're out?
Father (shaking head slowly): No. No. I think I have enough food to last me for. . . a little while.
Son: Well, is there anything else you'd like to do while we're out?
I didn't catch the response, but that painted enough of a picture to scare the hell out of me. I realized sitting there at Discount Tire that I am completely and totally terrified of getting old. This little old man was wearing a WWII veteran's hat. I could tell that once upon a time, you didn't mess with this guy. Once upon a time, this little old man was probably a lot like my own husband. Once upon a time, this little old man had bright eyes, a warm smile, and a kind word. Now? Now he "gets" to run errands with his son and has to be told which way the door is when it's time to go. Now I'm the one with the bright eyes and the smile; the one saying a silent prayer for God to watch after this little old man. I didn't have a kind word today, but I hope my smile helped.
This five-minute snapshot of this man's life overwhelmed me with a dreadful fear. A fear that someday, I'll be wearing an old, tattered Dive Cozumel shirt. I'll be out with Daniel (who will be my dad's age) and some 30-something will look at me and realize that she's scared to death of becoming me. I'm not afraid of 40, 50, or even 70. I'm really not even afraid of 80. What I'm frightened of is what my shell will be like when I get there.
Son: Do you need any groceries or anything while we're out?
Father (shaking head slowly): No. No. I think I have enough food to last me for. . . a little while.
Son: Well, is there anything else you'd like to do while we're out?
I didn't catch the response, but that painted enough of a picture to scare the hell out of me. I realized sitting there at Discount Tire that I am completely and totally terrified of getting old. This little old man was wearing a WWII veteran's hat. I could tell that once upon a time, you didn't mess with this guy. Once upon a time, this little old man was probably a lot like my own husband. Once upon a time, this little old man had bright eyes, a warm smile, and a kind word. Now? Now he "gets" to run errands with his son and has to be told which way the door is when it's time to go. Now I'm the one with the bright eyes and the smile; the one saying a silent prayer for God to watch after this little old man. I didn't have a kind word today, but I hope my smile helped.
This five-minute snapshot of this man's life overwhelmed me with a dreadful fear. A fear that someday, I'll be wearing an old, tattered Dive Cozumel shirt. I'll be out with Daniel (who will be my dad's age) and some 30-something will look at me and realize that she's scared to death of becoming me. I'm not afraid of 40, 50, or even 70. I'm really not even afraid of 80. What I'm frightened of is what my shell will be like when I get there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
