What She Really Wanted

It wasn't the toy I expected to give my 3-year-old daughter for Christmas.

She usually likes all things girlie and princess.

But this year, when we asked Sunshine what she really wanted for Christmas, she answered without hesitation.

"An electric train."

We asked again - on several occasions - and her response was always the same.

"Would you like a fancy dollhouse instead? One with a family and furniture inside?" C.R. would ask.

"No, thank you." She'd respond. "I'd just like an electric train."

Sigh.

It certainly wasn't what I had in mind. For months, I'd planned to buy her a beautiful wooden dollhouse - the kind I would've cherished as a little girl. I even found one online that matched the cheery pinks and yellows in her bedroom decor.

I never ordered that dollhouse.

Instead, I sent my husband into boy territory at the toy store to find an electric train. Because that's what our daughter wanted.

And she absolutely loves it.

A Moment

Have you ever known an ordinary moment that just lodged itself in your mind and stubbornly refused to budge? I had one yesterday morning. When Sunshine and I went to a local food bank.

It started last week, after a conversation sparked by one of those bell-ringers at the grocery store. I explained to Sunshine the kind of hunger and need we've never known personally.

She has a big heart, this little one of mine, and begged to give our food to those in need. Her reaction moved me. I love the beauty of compassion, especially when I see it in my own child.

So, a few days later, Sunshine helped me load a grocery cart with canned fruits and veggies, soups, pastas, and bags of rice. I boxed up the food and packed it into the car.

We drove several miles from our comfortable suburb, across the railroad tracks - literally and figuratively - to the nearest food bank. Sunshine chattered excitedly in the back seat about how we were taking food to the "hungry people."

We arrived at a warehouse with a small lobby and stark sign overhead. Cars filled the parking lot and overflowed into the street in both directions. I pulled into the last space across the street and began giving instructions to the now-quiet Sunshine.

"Stay close to me." I reminded her. "And don't say anything about people needing food or about us giving them food. It might make them feel bad. Do you understand?"

She nodded solemnly.

I balanced the box of food in my arms and Sunshine wrapped her arm around my leg. As we crossed the street, she looked up at me, her expression uncertain.

"Daddy makes me hold his hand when we cross the street."

"I know, sweetheart." I replied. "But my arms are full, so you can hold on to my leg. Just don't let go, okay?"

A man held the door as we walked inside. It was nothing like I expected.

The lobby was packed with tables of food and lines of people. Three rows of chairs sandwiched into the space were occupied mostly by young mothers and small children as they patiently awaited their turn. Volunteers bustled around the tables, filling grocery sacks with breads, fresh produce, and canned goods.

Several foreign languages reached my ears.

I stood still for a moment, unsure, the box growing heavy in my arms. A clean-cut man in his early twenties stepped forward to take it. He gave us a brief smile and then disappeared into the warehouse.

That was it. With our task suddenly complete, the moment seemed to fall flat. (Had I really expected the good deed fairy to appear and thank us profusely?) I grasped Sunshine's hand in mind and headed toward the exit, my eyes downcast. Then, as I reached for the doorknob, a thought pierced my conscience.

Can't I even look these people in the eyes? They deserve at least that much from me...and maybe more.I stopped and glanced around. Immediately, I noticed a young woman seated nearby, her foot gently rocking an infant car seat. When our eyes met, she gave me the tiniest smile. Encouraged, I maneuvered around a chair to get closer, tugging Sunshine along behind me.

"May we see your baby?" I asked tentatively, hoping she would understand my question as well as my intent. She nodded and pulled aside a thick blanket to reveal her child - maybe five or six months old - snuggled in a fuzzy Pooh coat. I admired the baby's fine features, sweet smile, and soft ebony skin.

I looked up and saw both pride and sadness reflected in the mother's dark eyes.

"A boy or girl?"

"A girl." Her accent was heavy.

"She's beautiful."

We shared a mother-smile of understanding. Meanwhile, Sunshine squirmed beside me and launched into a series of questions about the now-cooing baby. We stayed only a few minutes longer, admiring the baby and connecting for that brief time with two other human beings - a mother and daughter not so different from us. People created, valued, and loved by God.

Who just happened to be waiting in line for food at the very food bank where we were making a donation.

It was a moment that simply won't leave me unchanged.

Church PDA

My husband totally tried to make out with me during church yesterday.

I'm not even kidding. I wanted to laugh SO badly. I thought I was going to have to excuse myself from the service for a few minutes just to keep from snorting.

Here's what happened:

It's the beginning of the service and we're standing while we sing the first few worship songs. I lean close to C.R. and whisper:

"Did Sunshine use the bathroom before she went into the nursery?"

He gives me an odd look and, the next thing I know, his lips are making a beeline for mine. Apparently he only heard the last part of my question and interpreted "nursery" as "kiss me."

I panic, of course, and dodge him as gracefully as possible.

It was one seriously awkward moment. Don't get me wrong - I really like kissing my husband. But we were in the middle of a church service filled with people singing to the Lord. As much as I love God's Word, I wasn't ready to act out a passage from Song of Solomon in front of our entire church.

C.R. thought it was strange timing, but he figured that was no reason to throw away a perfectly good opportunity. (I teased him about that, but I actually think it's sweet that he was willing to embarrass himself to make his wife happy.)

Meanwhile, I'm just thankful that we weren't leading worship that day.

The Gift - Part 2

That day was one of the longest of my life.

I saw my husband - his mind still sluggish from the colonoscopy drugs - try to make sense of his diagnosis. Ever the scientist, he still managed to ask some surprisingly cognizant questions. Then, as the doctor stepped out of the room, I knew that C.R. truly understood what he was facing. His eyes met mine and a single tear ran down his face.

My heart ached.

C.R. was hurried into surgery and I found myself in a different waiting room. I both longed for and dreaded the moment the surgeon would walk through that door with news.

Hours passed.

I watched the clock. Time dragged.

Suddenly, the surgeon was in the doorway, motioning me to join him in the hall. My heart in my throat, I stepped into the hallway.

"The surgery went well," he explained. "The tumor appeared to be confined to the colon, so I anticipate that we got it all. I didn't see any sign that it had spread to his liver."

This was a great relief, but I waited for him to finish.

"We won't know until we get the pathology report in a couple days, but I'm hoping that it's a form of lymphoma and not colon cancer."

I considered this. Huh? Lymphoma can't be good...yet it's preferable to colon cancer?

Later that night, I waited beside my husband in the recovery room. I tried to overlook the gray pallor of his face and the concern in the nurse's voice as she ordered another two units of blood. For the first time in my life, I needed to be the strong one. I struggled to push aside my fears and show a brave front.

At two in the morning, a groggy C.R. urged me to try getting some sleep. I finally left his side and crawled into bed. (Earlier, Barb had helped me settle into a guest room on the top floor of the hospital, one reserved for the family members of patients.) Before I fell asleep, I stared out at the wintry city and asked God why this was happening to my husband.

There didn’t seem to be an answer.

Still, I knew deep inside that whatever happened, God is good.

I clung to that truth in the months that followed, through C.R.’s bumpy recovery and chemotherapy treatments. (The pathology report showed that it was stage III colon cancer and had spread to a few lymph nodes, although not to any organs.)

During that time, many people loved and supported us, but one person stood out for the way she uniquely demonstrated God’s goodness.

Barb became our general practitioner - completely free of charge. She used her healthcare connections to make certain that C.R. had access to the best doctors and hospital care. She called in a late night prescription to relieve his nausea. She listened as we shared our medical concerns and helped us cope with the emotional toll of a major illness.

We were amazed when she stopped giving us our water and garbage bills and paid them herself. She lowered our rent and even let us bring home a cat from a local animal shelter to help with C.R.’s recovery.

Barb was that kind of friend.

God, in His providence, met our needs through an unexpected friendship.

In December 2002, nearly a year after C.R.’s diagnosis, we told Barb that we’d decided to move back to the West Coast to be closer to our families. She said she’d miss us and, a few days later, brought down a beautifully wrapped Christmas gift with Santa inside.


Every year since, the Santa cookie jar has held a prominent place in our home at Christmas time. Each time I see it, I’m reminded of God’s goodness and faithfulness to us through this special person.

God bless you, Barb.

The Gift - Part 1

At Christmas time, Santa has a place of honor in our home.

Strange for a couple of Christ-followers, huh? You know, since Santa sometimes overshadows the real reason for Christmas and all...

But it's not just any Santa who matters in our home. It's this one:


A porcelain "Father Christmas" cookie jar - made by Lenox - with pearl detail and gold trim. This beautiful piece takes up residence in our living room every year, where it (sadly) never goes near an actual cookie.

It was a gift from Barb, our friend and former landlady. We lived on the first floor of Barb's duplex for almost three years. She lived upstairs.

Before I get back to that Santa gift (um, tomorrow), here's the beginning of the real story.

* * * *

I'll never forget the moment I met that 1920's duplex and its owner for the first time.

C.R. and I had been looking for a place to rent, and we'd heard about a place near my work. It was late spring when we drove down a cobblestone, tree lined street, and admired the stately brick homes. We pulled in front of a tidy two-story duplex with an enormous tree towering over the front yard. Hundreds of bright pink and red impatiens cascaded from a second-story balcony, while an inviting porch framed the doorway to the first story.

I was completely charmed. I probably would've agreed to rent that place without ever stepping inside, but I liked it even more when I walked through the front door directly into a cheery sunroom with hardwood floors. I even liked the kind (if slightly brusque) owner of that duplex.

I had no idea that during the next two-and-a-half years, I'd grow to love her.

Barb, a recently-divorced woman in her late forties, worked as a cardiac nurse practitioner at a large downtown hospital. Always impeccably dressed, she exuded confidence and a capable professionalism. Since she lived alone, Barb was happy to find in us tenets that she could trust. Meanwhile, we were glad just to find a nice place within walking distance of my job and a major bus line to school.

So we signed the lease and moved in.

Like most people we met while we lived on the East Coast, our landlady was a private person. It took awhile to get to know her, but once we did, we started to feel a little like family. We even weathered a couple storms together - the death of Barb's beloved shih tzu and the tragedy of September 11.

Then our own personal tragedy struck.

During a trip home to the West Coast for the holidays, C.R. found out that he was severely anemic. We rang in the 2002 New Year from a hospital room, where he received four pints of blood. C.R.'s doctor identified the source of his anemia as a small ulcer in his stomach, but recommended that C.R. get a routine colonoscopy when we returned to graduate school. Just to be safe.

Naturally, when we got back, we talked with our own resident nurse practitioner and she immediately scheduled a colonoscopy for C.R. at the hospital where she worked. A few days later, we took the bus downtown for the routine test, neither of us concerned about a simple procedure that would take less than an hour.

I sat in the waiting room, casually reading magazines. One hour passed. Then another. Finally, after three hours, I began to wonder why it was taking so long. Barb joined me to chat (I assumed) while we waited.

A few minutes later, the doctor came into the room, looking grave. I could read disbelief in his eyes even as he shared the findings of the colonoscopy.

"We found a tumor close to the size of a tennis ball in your husband's colon," he explained. "I'm amazed that his colon wasn't completely obstructed."

Shock washed over me.

"A tumor?" The C-word jumped to the forefront of my mind, but I was too afraid to speak it. The doctor gave me a compassionate look before answering.

"I believe it's carcinoma."

As he detailed his findings, my mind wandered. I tried to make sense of the news that my 26-year-old husband had cancer. It was surreal. Then the doctor brought me rushing back to the conversation.

"I want your husband to undergo surgery today to remove the tumor. I'll give you a few minutes and then I'd like you to join me to give him the news." With that, he walked out of the room.

I turned toward Barb and couldn't hold back the tears. Embarrassed, I apologized for my weakness. She hugged me. And I'll never forget her response. (I hope you're not expecting something sweet and sentimental...)

"It's okay to cry," she said. "This is shitty news. It just is."

She was so right. I wouldn't have used those words, but it was exactly how I felt. And I knew that she understood because she didn't promise me that everything would be okay or give me any other platitudes.

She was simply honest.

I later found out that, before talking to me, the doctor had first called Barb about C.R.'s tumor. She didn't want me to be alone when I received the news, so she cleared her schedule and stayed with me for the next several hours.

It meant everything to have a friend when I got that terrible, life-changing news.

News that was just the beginning...

* * * *

I'll post Part 2 tomorrow.