Have you ever had one of those days? Mine was yesterday.
We overslept...every one of us. This was followed by much rushing around, random barking of drill-sergeant-like orders, whining of children (because no one likes to be barked at), sibling squabbles, and a mad dash out the door, backpacks and lunch bags dragging haphazardly behind.
As I threw my make-up in my purse to be applied at some later point, I grabbed for my keys and happened to glance down at my bare toes...my disgusting, chipped-polished, neglected, bare toes. I sighed in complete frustration. "How do those moms do it...the ones with hair and make-up in place, manis and pedis freshly done, children fashionably dressed and coiffed, and arriving everywhere in time?" (As if those moms exist outside my imagination, right? Someone, please tell me I'm right.) I threw some nail polish in my all-purpose purse and headed out the door.
An hour-and-a-half later, I was relieved to make it (on time!) to my first appointment of the day. Both kids made it to the right school with the proper backpacks and lunches. Milk had been purchased and dropped off in the fridge at home. And I had managed to apply my make-up and a fresh coat of toenail polish in the parking lot (
after I parked). Whew! I had made it!
I glanced around the waiting room for a seat and pulled out my phone, thankful for a few minutes of calm to check my e-mail and peruse Facebook before my name was called.
"You can sit here," a sweet voice caught me off guard. There were plenty of available seats, so the offer of one right next to a complete stranger took me by surprise. I smiled, thanked her, and, trying to follow social protocol, took the next seat over.
Ahh...back to my phone.
"Are you here for treatment?" came the sweet voice again. That was the first moment I had truly thought about where I was. Of course I
knew where I was...my oncologist's office. The appointment had been on my calendar for months; yet another routine follow-up.
I smiled at her. "I had treatment a year and a half ago. I'm here for a follow up."
"Good for you!" she gushed. I looked up at a tired, ashen, 60-something face, and that's when I first noticed it...the smile. That weak and weary, yet determined, I'm-going-to-get-through-this-and-be-a-survivor smile. If you've had cancer, or known someone who has, you (hopefully) know that smile.
My beautiful, new friend, Sarah, told me how she had a mass in her side. They had to remove part of her kidney and her adrenal glands. Her husband had lung cancer; they had to remove one entire side of his lung. He was on oxygen now, "but he's doing good." Now her cancer had returned and she was undergoing radiation treatments. If her radiation doesn't work this time, "it's just up to God" she said. "He's big enough. He can do anything."
Sarah and her husband had to sell their home with acreage and move into something smaller and more manageable. Their friends and family had moved them while they were out to dinner one evening. She was never able to have children, but her step-daughter drove her an hour one-way for treatments. They were "holding onto God because He always comes through."
This woman had a laundry list a mile long of things she could be griping about or frustrated over (the least of which was toenail polish!), and yet she chose to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger and bring a little encouragement.
Not long ago, I had visited this office every day for 7 weeks. I was just like Sarah...waiting for another round of radiation in my sweatpants and T-shirt. I was tired. I was weak. I was working hard to make it to treatments and get through my days.
Now that my life has (for the most part) returned to normal, those days seem so long ago. When I completed my treatments, a fellow-survivor told me "This gives you a whole new perspective. You'll never sweat the small stuff again." It's true...cancer changes you like nothing else will. Facing it, and surviving it, will change your perspective. It did mine. But my friend had no way of knowing how deep my Type-A Personality runs. Not even two years out, and I'm already "sweatin' the small stuff" all over again.
The all-too-familiar voice came over the loud-speaker, "Sarah Brown to the treatment room." Sarah leaned over and gave me a hug. "Congratulations," she said, "and take care."
I looked around at all the other patients waiting for treatment. Each had a story like Sarah...like me.
I realized I had learned two invaluable lessons from my friend, Sarah:
1. Focus on the positive. An old song puts it this way: "Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative." Philippians 4:8 says to "think on these things: whatever is...lovely, admirable...excellent, praiseworthy..." Sarah could have easily grumbled about her own health, her husband's health, or any other trial she had faced in her long life. Instead, she celebrated with me in a victory that had faded among the busyness of daily schedules and routines. What if I had made the choice that morning to focus on God's blessings instead of my shortcomings? Maybe I wouldn't have been so worried about a little thing like toenail polish.
2. Take the time to show a little kindness and give a little encouragement. If Sarah hadn't gone out of her way to offer a seat and strike up a conversation, I would have been content to keep my nose glued to my phone. I might have read a few e-mails or caught up on Facebook updates, but I also would have missed the opportunity to meet a warrior named Sarah who turned my whole day around.
As she walked off for another round of radiation, I told Sarah I would pray for her and for her husband. I intend to do just that. If you think about it, please pray for my precious friend Sarah.
As you go through your day take a moment to thank God for His blessings. Find someone to be a Sarah to...it might just be what they need today.
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.jpg)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
