May 13, 2024. I take a deep breath as I kept my eyes closed. I wiggle and flex different parts of my body and remind myself, you are well. You are home. You have made it to two years. I hear the little birds chirping outside my window and the rustle of the trees in the cool spring breeze. I slide my foot behind me to feel my husband’s leg and hold my breath for a moment remembering, He’s with me. The softness of this bed is bliss.  The ease of breathing in a full deep breath is once again a reminder of my freedom and the good gift of my health.  I am still well. I open my eyes, they don’t burn today. I look around the familiar space of my bedroom, my home. I nestle in closer to my husband, as I ever so gentle coerce him into wrapping his warm and heavy arms around me. He squeezes me tighter, closer. I take a few more breaths in and whisper, “thank you, God. Thank you for healing me.” I close my eyes again and I remember the days when the loud beeps and regular interruptions of the hospital cancer floor were my daily melody.  The airtight silence of the zero gravity room and the gentle hums of all the machines keeping me and others near me alive. There were no birds, no winds, no pitter patter on the floor of little eager feet coming to interrupt our slumber. I remember the brightness of the room in the middle of the night and the stiffness of the sheets, but most of all, I so vividly remember the cold-hearted loneliness of the metal bars on either side. I open my eyes again, and I’m back home. I’m laying blissfully in my soft, comfortable bed with lungs that now breathe in deep, a throat that swallows with ease, and I’m free, I’m not alone. I’m healed. Today is two years. I made it. The doctors told me the deepest threat is the first two years after my transplant. Oh, how I begged God for this day.  How I insisted and cried out with the deepest longings of my soul to my creator, YOU PUT ME HERE, now don’t take me away from them yet! My little ones still need me. God, please, just let me make it to year two.  Don’t take me from my family.

My mind was racing, and laying here does no good. I sat up and knew the Father was asking me to write. 

Begin your day in gratitude. Today is a gift.

As I sit down to write, I cannot shake a memory. It’s one that comes to mind quite often actually: one of my pillar moments with Jesus, the kind that simultaneously destroys and reconstructs you into someone new. It’s my memory of the pizza boxes.

About a year and some months ago…

I sat on the cold, hard bleachers, skinny and bald. “I don’t belong here,” I thought, “but somehow God has me here,” just a few weeks out of isolation, now having doctor’s permission to attend large gatherings if I keep my distance. “I’m living on borrowed time, and I should be dead.” I am inward, nervous, gently rubbing my arms as I rock back and forth and remember. Somehow, the God of the universe stopped death, for me, and “I’m still here.” My little boy, my third-born, somewhat aloof and easy going 8 year old, runs onto the field with his classmates. How I love seeing him run, elbows out and always on his toes. Few parents are scattered across the field. One, in particular, catches my eye.  She is bold and beautiful, confident and competent dressed to the nines in her business best. I see her diligently choose to watch her young one on the field, as she fields calls for work. Oh, the inconvenient sacrifices we make to be there for our children. I gently smile as I empathize with the difficulties of striving for excellence at work and the heavy hearted reality that you only have so much time with your little ones…. 18 summers. 18 first days of school. 18 field days. 18 end of year celebrations. This is it, the time you will never get back. I can imagine the discord within her as I remember my own inner conflict as I too have wrestled with the ambivalence of those responsibilities.

The first graders line up on the field, as Mrs. DeVaughn, God’s gift to this class, signals the children to get in two lines. Like Gus-Gus with the 14 blocks of cheese stacked high, the sweet teacher’s helpers walk ever-so-slowly, balancing their portion of the 30 empty pizza boxes onto the track. Over the megaphone, Mrs. DeVaughn explains the game to the children and to the parents as we watch the two teams prepare for the fierce competition. You can sense the excitement, the passion, the competitive drive of these kids. I smirk as I see how meaningful this game is to Jameson and to nearly every 8 year old on the field.  They listen intently, busting with energy, desperately needing some strategy and guidance. The whistle blows, the kids are off, stumbling and dropping boxes left and right. It is an utter disaster, an adorable nonsensical, precious waste of time that gives these dear ones a sense of purpose, belonging, and fun. They labor on, carefully balancing one box, then two, then three and so-on until the final child carries all 15 of their team’s boxes across to the finish line. I cannot help but giggle at the cuteness of this futile game. I zoom in closer and see an utterly frustrated 8 year old girl, a leader in the bunch, grow increasingly more angry as she instructs and reprimands her teammates. You can almost hear her yell “They’re doing it all wrong!” If only they would do what she is telling them, maybe their team would win the game! She grows coarse with her teammates and even begins to cry in exasperation. I just sat, in peace with Jesus on the bleachers; I come to tears, as He tells me, “this is how I see all of you… utter disasters, adorable, nonsensical, cute but lost in the futile… chasing empty pizza boxes, frustrated and angry but precious in my sight.” I pity this little girl. I am this little girl. But, after what I have been through, I make a vow to Jesus and say, “I won’t lose sight of what you’ve shown me. I will remember it’s all just empty pizza boxes.” 

Then, I look and see tenderhearted Mrs. DeVaughn, as she transitions from exuberant cheerleader to tender care-giver of the newly sobbing child. She holds her close until the tears dry. Always kneeling down to their level, whether to cheer them on in their endeavors or to console their amplified emotions. She is present. She knows the futility of the race they are running, and yet it matters to her just the same.  She is compassionate and kind, engaging and present. She knew the thing of great value was not in the results of the game, but in the hearts of the children she was caring for. At that moment, Jesus was drawing my attention to the love in this teacher’s eyes. At first, I thought the lesson was, “don't chase the pizza boxes, Rachel. There is no point.” Boom.  Ecclesiastes exegesis completed. But, now, two years in, I can see that was only half the lesson… He was also showing me that it is possible to have the perspective of wisdom gained, knowing the futility of the empty pizza boxes and still be a loving member within the game.

You see, at the ripe age of 37, I am realizing something new about myself.  I am learning I am best serving this universe as a notetaker.  As it turns out, I am quite catastrophic in my relationships, a bull in a china shop, the wound-er, the fighter always ready with daggers. In my natural way, I abuse, oppress, dismiss, ignore, crush, micromanage, condescend, attack and destroy those around me. I am self-centered, narcissistic, always right in my own mind, prideful and defensive of my own intentions and purposes. I am never wrong and am demeaning in how I communicate that to others. I am not being exaggerative in my language. This isn’t some placation of false humility and self-demeaning to gain attention or pity. What good would that do me anyway? I am actually quoting words said to me from the people in my life that love me the most; the people who have been nearest to me. These are words from the mouths of those who have seen my darkest parts, my strongest moments, and my weakest regrets. These are ones who have laid their lives down for me and have verbalized loyalty, commitment and love to me.

But enough about me.  Let me tell you about my purpose as I see it in this difficult world. Recently, I have wondered why did God put someone like me here in the first place? As Billie Eilish would ask, “what was I made for?”

Truthfully, there are many days, often years, where I have wondered that very thing. Why would He make me and place me here, knowing I was going to do these things to the precious ones He put around me? Why would He design me with opinions and impulses and single-mindedness this way? Why would He simultaneously make me, that frustratingly stubborn person also a great connector and community organizer, a galvanizer full of charisma and charm? Why not make that aggressive person a hermit who lives in solitude, away from the masses and the tender ones? Why entrust such an unsafe person with four innocent children and a network of beloved ones that matter eternally to God Himself? 

For about a year, He did give my community a break from having me in this realm, wounding those closest to me. They got a little reprieve from the oppressor, from the knife-throwing narcissist for a little bit…. Well, kind of. You see, on February 13, 2022, I went to the emergency room for abnormal blood work and didn’t come home until August of that year….. to breeze past the most life-altering part of my journey, the countless miracles and all the beauty that came with great suffering, I can sum it up physically with yes, I am in remission and now, I’m back.

In my view, I was thrust back into the world again. I have been back to “business as usual”: too busy, too hurried, high pressured, living with the high stakes game of life that I lived before. Constantly hearing from others, “how do you do it all?” And “I know you’re busy, but…” So many live in dumbfounded reactions to the rate at which my family chooses to live. And some days, some hours, it feels normal. For brief moments, I forget the year that God gave me. But most of the time, the major difference in my heart and in my head is that now, I don’t want it! I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to speed, the pace, the responsibility, the money, the things, the hurry or the rush of any of it. I want to sit alone with Jesus for hours at a time. I want to write. I want to listen and learn from others. I want to ask questions of those that are hurting and hear their pain. I want to gaze into the eyes of people around me and step into their own wonder. To see others as beautiful images of their maker, eternally valuable and oftentimes full of grief, loss, and hopelessness…  I want to foster reconciliation and redemption for mankind to God and to one another, one human being at a time, as Jesus leads me. I want to witness miracles and celebrate with those recipients. I want to worship in community and marvel at the tender mercies of God.

I think my journey of being traumatically removed from the pace of this life and facing cancer in the way that I did has actually cultivated within me a hatred of this world. I have become more discontent in this life than I ever have, but it is not, as many would think, for lack of things.  In fact, it is quite the opposite.  It is the distaste for the surplus of things. There is too much here.  Too many logistics.  Too many things. Too many distractions.  Too many needs.  Too much pain.  Too many people. Too much money. Too much pressure. I don’t want it.  I don’t want to live here. A big part of me almost says, “I want to go back.”

Yes, that’s right. There are moments I even ache for the hospital bed. There, I said it. Part of me wishes I could go back or at least escape this reality. I miss the simplicity of focus.  I miss the beauty of relationships. I miss the compassion in my husband’s eyes, the single-minded love he gave me when he thought he was going to lose me. I miss the way others listened when I spoke as if I mattered, the admiration from my friends, the unconditional love that seemed to pour out effortlessly from those in my community. You see, no one wants to be mean to a cancer patient. No one would have the audacity to mistrust a suffering saint. No one accuses the weak and dying. They affirm, admire, serve, and they just want to be near you, putting your needs above their own, because at any moment, you could be gone. 

But no longer. I’m back to being just one of the crowd. One of the many who are flawed and weak and sinful. I hurt and get hurt. I fall short and let down. I don’t know if their reactions are stronger, because of the time they saw me as a saint or if my shock by their reaction is stronger, because I grew accustomed to the selfless love I was given. 

Truly, it is really the noise that I hate here the most. Although the noises of the beeps of those machines in the hospital room were in some sense traumatic, reminding me of the potential outcomes and physical discomfort I was or could be in while I listened, they were not as bad as this. The noises out here, in this world…. The noise of constant “time-sensitive” text messages and urgent phone calls and emails with the context of urgency, the noise of frustrating relationships and self-centered conversations, the rat race of obtaining more and the sense of urgency behind every decision, the rush of appointment and carpool line and sporting events and meetings, my God, all the meetings. This is the noise that I hate. It is the noise of the hurry of this world. There is an insatiable appetite in the people of this world, and business, my business operates with this same sense of unquenchable thirst. Never enough time, never enough money, nothing is ever fast enough, soon enough, large enough. You reach a goal, and the finish line moves further along. We have infinite desire with finite realities and I hate it. The economy of this world is so distasteful to me now, and yet, only 2 years after my life-saving transplant, I am once again, the very perpetrator of the thing I hate most in this world, a hurried life.

A faithful friend said to me recently, “you’re working against yourself.” She helped me realize that what I believe most in this world, my calling as a daughter of the king, has taken a back seat to the business. I have gotten caught up. I am the problem. I have allowed my children to become a perceived inconvenience. My husband is in the way. My friends are a distraction. My nanny isn’t doing enough. My employees are letting me down. Me. Me. Me, as if this is my world. I have become irritable, hyper-sensitive, restless, numb and distracted. 

Another friend said to me, “we’re on your team, and you act like we’re not.” That quote resounds in my mind in so many realms now… why do I feel as if people are against me? Have they not proven themselves? Have they not shown me devotion and dedication and selfless love? Why am I angry? How can I possibly be disappointed? When did perfection become the goal? Just because the clients demand it? When did my reputation become a priority over my relationships?

The thing that scared me the most this week was how I shared my testimony without tears. As I shared the gospel with a new friend, I nodded in affirmation of the tears in my listeners eyes, but my heart was not touched by the goodness of God in my story. I remembered lines that I have said and felt to the uttermost core of my being, but I did not feel them. I did not bask in the wonder that is God’s generosity toward my family. Lord, help me! I don’t want to disconnect. I don’t want to disassociate from the reality that is my sickness, my healing, and my testimony. I want to be the weeping prophet, the broken vessel poured out, the wounded one that aches for heaven and brings everybody into heaven with her that she possibly can. I want to walk into the arms of Jesus weeping in gratitude and absolute exhaustion from giving my entire life to the cause of Jesus, locking arms with as many as I can. 

Who gives a HOOT about Real Estate? I don’t. Not really. It’s just more empty pizza boxes. What is the point?! It’s all gonna disappear in the end anyway.  Why am I wasting my time? There are eternal things at stake! Lord, set me free of the tyranny of the urgent that comes with this industry, this world, the private school, the perpetual pressure of the empty pizza boxes of this world.  

It’s all fake money anyway. It is just the chosen economy of this age, and with each age comes another currency. But in the end, with the Kingdoms and the soldiers, it will all burn up. It is nothing but vapor in the wind, gone in a second.

You tell me, what is the difference between the Olympics and my 5 year old’s T-ball competition? The difference is not in value, but only in scope. The stakes are the same.  To my 5 year old, this is life or death. This is “all the marbles.” The value of the game is in the heart of the player, just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder. In all honesty, the depressing reality of cancer is not in the fact that one day, we are all going to die. The depressing reality that comes with cancer is that the false sense of meaning is taken away. After cancer, nothing really matters and it will all fade away. You only accept that reality when faced with death. Suddenly, the perspective shifts. The size of the problems shrink in an instant. Only what’s left for Christ will last. If I allow it, the shift can make me hardened and cold, lacking empathy for people with smaller sufferings. I can dismiss my children’s hurt feelings, disregard the pains of the loss of the pizza boxes, become calloused and arrogant, scoffing at the world I am stuck in. But if I allow Him, He will soften my heart to the hurting and give me eyes to see the souls of those around me. He calls me to enter into their world and have compassion on them as Jesus did the tired crowds on the shores in the new testament. To see their weakness, the hurting and genuinely feel it with them, because I have felt it. I am one who is familiar with pain, and even more so, my Savior. He was rejected and despised by choice so that we might be accepted and live. Now, that is love.

Lord, let me love. Let me enter into the race with genuine concern for those around me, present, unhurried, and walking at the pace of love.