Good morning…
One line lingers from a poem I shared this week: “Your ache. My ache.”
After last week’s church service, several of us stayed behind to lay hands on Julianna, a 38 year old mom of four who is a committed member of our small group. We spoke intimate blessing over her and her husband, as she prepared for surgery this week to remove her colon cancer. In prayerful solidarity we expressed, “Your ache. My ache.”
As a written word community, many of us have been diligently praying for 37 year old Elizabeth, wife, mom of three, and daughter-in-law of a dear friend in our Friday group. Enduring harsh treatment for her advanced colon cancer, Elizabeth posted following her recent scans: “We are still moving in the right direction, which is a blessing, but we are also weary and tired of the mounting unknowns and continued effects of chemo on my body. Thanks for your continued encouragement. This is a long road.” In prayerful solidarity we continue to express, “Your ache. My ache.”
Together we have also prayed for Marleigh, a 36 year old wife, mother, and daughter of my special friend, whose metastatic breast cancer had spread throughout her body. While starving her cancer with a strict, healthy diet, she also had a hysterectomy this week to aid in her cancer fight. Another powerful tool in her treatment is our ongoing prayer, “Your ache. My ache.”
Talking with my parents this week, they are concerned about my mom losing weight, having difficulty eating. They detected a hiatal hernia and she had an endoscopy to learn more about what’s going on. It felt good to hear her smiling voice after her procedure. The next day she went shopping with my sister to get her dress for our son’s wedding. From miles away, my heart is in Ohio with my parents, “Your ache. My ache.”
Audrey DeShetler, a high school senior, entered treatment at Children’s Healthcare of Philadelphia following the fourth relapse of her neuroblastoma. Yesterday she had her car-T cells and stem cells collected, and Thursday she begins a week of isolation as she receives radioactive therapy. Three weeks of treatment, eight weeks at home, this will be her repeating pattern. Receiving texts and photos from her mom last night, I deeply felt “Your ache. My ache.”
One friend laid to rest her mother this week, and the mother-in-law of another dear friend went to heaven yesterday. A few friends are tenderly negotiating the evolving influence of Alzheimers on their loved ones. I pray regularly over the private prayer list from our church, counting this habit a great privilege. My heavy heart expands to embrace it all, “Your ache. My ache.”
Now in the middle of the night, I revisit the simple poem speaking our truth this week, Sympathetic Resonance by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
All day, I feel the throbbing
of other lives, other pain,
as if I’m a string on the piano
that goes unplayed, and yet
vibrates when the hammer
strikes other strings, and then—
your ache, my ache,
two strings, one song.
A song of Oneness resonates and, beneath our shared ache, we surrender all.
The Eternal is the source of my strength and the shield that guards me. When I learn to rest and truly trust Him, He sends His help. This is why my heart is singing! I open my mouth to praise Him, and thankfulness rises as song (Psalm 28:7, VOICE).
…Sue…
