Love Is or Love Ain't

Happy New Year,  Dear Ones!

Speaking of New Years, mine actually began in 2021. 

Late last year, two days before Christmas Eve, we celebrated my final round of Red Devil. Caleb made scallops. Joshua made sesame green beans. Good news: no chomping on nickels, pennies or otherwise.

Anya joined us too. (One day, I’ll tell you more about Anya…for now, let me just say she is a gift of gifts.)

Now for the most amazing gift. 

Ever.

Indulge me…a large box, flat, elaborately wrapped, red bow and all, the way I like it. The room is quiet, focused. I peel back the corner of the package to see… a frame. I rip away the paper. It takes me a minute to recognize what I am seeing….some friends, familiar ones:

A boy. 

A mole. 

A fox. 

A horse. 

And, below them, words—words that take my breath away:

One day you’ll see how hard it all was and how brave you were. — For Belinda, Love Charlie 

On the day I was diagnosed with cancer, Charlie Mackasey, one of my favorite artists, posted an image of his new painting, this one—a boy, a mole, a fox and a horse taking comfort in a rainbow against the dark and stormy clouds. 

You may know Charlie. He’s become quite well-known because of his bestselling illustrated book, The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse.

Charlie is no stranger to suffering himself. He’s been through it.

Oh, he’s also the imaginary behind the Alpha brand…

When I was diagnosed, Charlie’s painting became a permission slip for me. It knew it was gonna be hard. I wanted to be brave.  

I didn’t expect Charlie to send me a signed copy of his painting.

Yes, you guessed it. When I slid the paper off the picture, I cried a “fine cry,” to borrow from sister Maya Angelou, “with no bottom and no top.” 

Thank you, Charlie, for creating. Thank you, Tricia, for connecting. Thank you, Stephan, for loving.

A few days before Christmas Eve, I invested in a new planner, a diary for those of you who’ve never heard of a “planner.” (If you can hear the word “planner” with a nasal twang, it’ll all make sense.) I am still smiling, wondering what in the world I was thinking.  The standard “lose weight, get fit” goals were not going to work this year. It was that time a friend sent me the famous passage from 1 Corinthians 13. You probably know it well:

If I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”

Here’s what I wrote in my new handy dandy planner after trying to put my chemo brain around that verse:

This is hard. 

Be brave. 

Love well. 

It took some courage for Stephan and I to reflect on the shock of 2021 and the uncertainly of 2022 with three more months of chemo looming followed by surgery, then radiation. How does one make exclamations about your future when your present is a question mark?  For too many years we slipped into living a year or two or five out into the future.  Fact is, we can only live, and love, in the present, whether we’re on top of a mountain or lost somewhere in valley.

There’s a funny thing about having cancer. It tends to take the pretense out of the air. People are more real, more honest, more free to share what’s really going on. Joy, yes. Fears too. And pain and sorrow. One day we’ll all look back and see how much courage life takes. Not just brave for brave’s sake, but courage for the sake of something that will outlive all your days: to love well. 

If cancer is teaching me anything, it is this: love requires every cell, every fiber of our being—good, bad, and ugly—to give all. “Love is or love ain’t,” writes novelist Toni Morrison. “Thin love ain’t love at all.” 

Today, I am praying this prayer for you, for me, for us:

Dear God, 

Life is hard. 

Help us to be brave. 

Teach us to love well. 

Amen.