Cancer and Cake

God's creativity inspires me. He made everything ex nihilo. Into the empty void of Nothing, he poured quarks and quails, turtles and tourmalines, shooting stars and sharks. On a dark empty canvas, God painted color, light, life, movement, beauty. He does the same with babies, creating them within the dark hiddenness of the womb; and with ideas that unexpectedly arrive as gifts in cranial secrecy.

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Many times I feel lifeless, dark, empty. I'm void of creative energy for mothering, living a faith-filled life, loving my husband and friends, writing. My energy is low, my life blood surges slow; I feel tired. I need inspiration -- new ideas -- to bring a creative light to my life.

The other day I was standing in line at the Jewel after a particularly wearying grocery shopping experience. As I walked down the aisles grabbing Cheerios, bread, milk and olive oil my heart was heavy for my friend, Margie, who has - for the last year - been bravely, beautifully walking with her two young children and husband as he battles metastasized brain Cancer.

By the time I got to the check out line, I was inexorably sad. I felt my throat catch and tears behind my eyes. Silently, I prayed, Lord, help Margie. And help me help her. I need an idea, a plan, an inspiring creative way to bring hope and help and healing to this dark difficult place.

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At that precise moment, a little cookbook nestled beside the candy bar display caught my eye. "Celebrate with our best ideas ever: CAKES!" lauded the front of the little book picturing a green and white grasshopper cake dressed in chocolate mint candies and celadon colored whipped cream. I grabbed the book, flipped through its pages: a roller coaster cake, mud slide ice cream cake, spice cake with raspberry filling & cream cheese frosting, pirate's hidden treasure cupcakes, a carrot cake covered with dozens of tiny icing carrots, chocolate zucchini snack cake.

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Blood seemed to course a little bit faster through my veins. Neurons began to fire in my brain. The Holy Spirit seemed to whisper. Bake a cake every Monday with Charlotte (Margie's four-year-old daughter). This is something small you can do to help . . .

For the last few Mondays my kitchen has been blessed by egg shells on its counter, flour on its floor and Charlotte's laughter. With my daughter Emily, Charlotte and I have made the spice cake, the grasshopper, and a few others. Yesterday we made pirate cupcakes.

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Every Monday evening as I send Charlotte home with the cake we've mixed, baked and decorated together, I can't help but think of the simple way God dropped that idea into my mind in the Jewel line. A simple idea in a dark, hopeless place creating love, frivolity . . . slices of sweet life.

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COMMUNING WITH JOHN AND MARGIE

On Easter's Eve, my friend Beth and I gathered prayer books, our bibles, hymnals and voluminous copies of worship songs and headed to Edward's Hospital to visit our friend Margie's husband, John, who has been valiantly - tenaciously - fighting metastasized brain cancer for the last several months. A musician at heart, I eagerly anticipated the melodies and lyrics whisking John to God's Throne of Grace. He - a musical prodigy and titanically gifted worship leader - if anyone, would be able to appreciate our impromptu Easter Service delivered at hospital bedside. love
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As Beth drove me to the hospital, we prayed about our offering. I sight-read dozens of new hymns (ones not sung at my church) that Beth knew would hold specific Eastertide and personal meaning to our ailing friend. As we roamed hospital halls in search of John's room, I was nervous about singing in front of this musical master and hopeful that our meager offering would be a beneficent and beautiful blessing. Beth prayed that angels would accompany us, filling in thin spots with heavenly colors, timbres and overtones.

Our circuitous sojourn and time of supplication ended at John's hospital room door. With grace and kindness, he (who had, two days prior been lacking his typical verbosity and lucidity) greeted us by name and invited us into the tiny, sterile space. We were elated to find John's friend, Randy, there. It seemed an answer to our prayer that this man, who had written one of the songs Beth had chosen to be part of our organic service, was keeping vigil with John during our visit.

"Randy! Please sing with us," we invited.

After getting John comfortable in his bed; Randy obliged with his James Tayloresque tenor.

Glory!

Beth and I hit most of the notes. Randy greatly helped! John even sang a bit, raising a hand in worship of God the Father. Margie's father, who was there to keep the night watch, wept worshipful tears and said, "This music is more beautiful than that at this morning's Easter service."

Beth and I figured angels must have been accompanying us: filling in the gaps of our shaky soprano/alto inadequacies. The music was a gift to us, to nurses who stopped in John's doorway to listen, to God in whose name we always sing; and, we hope, to John.

For me, though, the most holy and worshipful moment of the evening occurred when I noticed John (whose motor skills have slowed a bit due to his illness) wrestling to eat dinner. As I watched his shaky hand, unsure of what the fork should do; a maternal urging overtook me. I knelt beside John - this man who I've admired for his faith in Christ and voluminous intellect - and instinctively began cutting up his tuna sandwich. Then, I waited in eager anticipation for him to scoop up a bit of sustenance and slide it into his mouth. He didn't move.

From a place of instinct and motherly love a question gently burst from my mouth into the room. "John, would you mind if I just fed this to you?"

Graciously, he opened his mouth, receiving the offering. Three bites into the meal, John looked around the room at his father-in-law, his friend Randy, Beth and me and said, "You are all so generous."

I felt my throat catch with sadness and the feeling that I was in a privileged moment. Randy smiled. Beth turned to another worship song. I offered John another bite of the sandwich and said, "This is just what friends do. You did the same for me when I was in the height of my back pain and you came over and prayed for me."

I scooped up another forkful of tuna. And, I couldn't help but feel, in the moment, that feeding John a quarter of that tuna sandwich (all he could manage) was the closest I'd ever come to breaking the Body of Christ with a friend; sharing the Cup of The New Covenant.

I will never be able to thank John or Margie for the ways they've let me walk intimately with them into the Valley of the Shadow. It is a gift and honor and joy ineffable.
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Yesterday afternoon, as I was shaking in my bed under the nefarious grip of strain B Influenza, Margie called.

"How's John?" I asked.

"He's feeling a little overwhelmed today," she said. "But, I'm not calling about John. I wanted to let you know that I got a belated Easter dinner together for my family. And when I heard you were sick, I made one for you guys, too."
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Last night as I scooped up a forkful of Margie's French twist on Shepherd's Pie and brought it to my mouth, all I could think was, "Do this in remembrance of me."