Because We Have Hope...

Once again Anna and I are participating in Relay for Life, Wylie/Sachse event, April 29th.

At the event, our team will camp out overnight and take turns walking around the track to raise money and awareness to help the American Cancer Society. The first year we participated I wanted Anna to see that even a child can make a difference. This year we are participating for a different reason. This year we are participating because we have HOPE.

I walk because I have hope...

I hope my being here, wearing a Caregiver shirt gives courage to someone else wondering how they will endure the trips to the doctors', watching their loved one sick from treatment, and the letting go that may ultimately be required.

I hope to give someone a smile, a laugh, a better day because I'm here.

I hope to be the hand up when someone feels like they cannot take one more step.

I hope that when I hit that wall that says I can walk no further someone sees me take one step more and knows he or she can, too.

I hope to share the story of my mom with others who know the importance of the immortality of stories, the words of love, and I hope they share theirs with me.

I hope to scream into the crowd, into time, and into the face of the enemy that I will not be defeated, I will not bow down, and I will not quit, but I will walk as long as their is someone who needs someone to walk with them, who needs someone whispering, "Yeah, the road is hard, but you can make it," who still has hope, too.

I am walking because I hope to make a difference in the minds, hearts, and lives of those fighting their own battle with cancer, whether that be through medicine, keeping head high even with the worst of prognosis, or grieving a loss. I am walking because I believe even greater than research is relationship and knowing in this fight no one is alone.
--Jerri Phillips, 2011, profile page

Please prayerfully consider supporting us as we hope and we encourage others to hope as well.

God bless you and yours,

Jerri and Anna Phillips

Anna’s Page

Jerri’s Page:

Please do not feel you need to donate to both of us. If you are trying to choose between us, it is my desire that Anna’s fundraising goal be met. And if you are unable to support us financially, would you consider praying for us and maybe sending a note of encouragement to Anna? If you email me on her behalf, I will gladly forward it to her, or you can feel free to email her yourself. Thank you for your support.

Grief--The Unfamiliar Territory

The fact is I just want to talk about my mom.

I was shocked when I was sad earlier this week. I haven't been sad like that in several weeks. I couldn't figure out why being separated was knocking me for a loop now. It wasn't until I was talking to someone about the weekend and how hard camping was that I realized why I was so sad.

My mom is dying.

We can use every euphemism known to man, and it doesn't change the fact that one day in the not too distant future I will wake up and my mom will not be here. I won't be able to call. There will be no need to buy a Mother's Day card, and a whole slew of "big hole where Mom was" things. I've done this before. I know I will be okay. There is another side, and we'll get there.

However, between here and there lies a land I've never been through. Oh, yeah, I lost my dad. I've been through the "terminal" span of time, but it wasn't like this.

With my dad, we knew he was dying. He and I talked openly about it. We laughed, made morbid jokes, got choked up, held hands and said nothing. We knew what was coming, and we chose to meet it head on. It was just another step into another adventure, and while it was hard, we were together in it as far as we could go. When he was gone, all the business was taken care of and all that was left on the table was the understanding I'd meet him some day there, but everything here was settled. It was painful but peaceful.

I told my friend John I knew how to do this. I knew my role, but I'm finding this is all new territory, and I'm having to figure out one step at a time. Where my dad saw death as simply part of the process of life, my mom sees it as the enemy...something to fight with anything and everything she can. Where my dad tried to squeeze all the life out of his time he could, my mom has imploded. Where he laughed often, my mom has turned angry and yells. Where my dad and I talked, my mom and I are silent.

And I am grieving.

I am grieving the time being lost, the memories not being made, the laughter that is silent. I am grieving my inability to do anything...make jokes, laugh at memories, hold her hand in silence.

With Dad, I was the warrior saying he would live...until the last week when I knew we had reached the end, which we embraced with grace. With Mom, I am trying to understand how the warrior stands down and becomes the observer who sets aside her own emotions in order to respect another's. I know how to be the leader, to be the strength. This is taking all the strength I have.

I'm not used to being seen as the enemy.

However, I understand brain tumors. I understand fear. I understand desperation. I understand that my role had little to do with me and everything to do with her, and right now, she doesn't want me as a leader or as her strength. She doesn't want someone to talk through the time left or walk with her into the next adventure.

...And we both grieve...she in her anger and defiance...I in my sadness and determination to squeeze every drop out of life.

Familiar territory and yet, completely different than anything I've experienced. And I keep praying for wisdom to know how to traverse it...for me...for my children...for my mom.

Obviously Here

The children are in bed. The television is off. The house is quiet, and I am feeling...lonely.

It is one of those moments when I want to reach over, touch someone near me, and feel grounded. Instead, my fingers tap across the keyboard. I reach out through the ether and wonder if anyone is reaching back.

In truth, I know they are. Friends around the world are lifting my family...and especially me...up in prayer, sending emails regularly, making the phone calls to hear my heart via my voice. People are reaching out. People are pulling us in.

Still, tonight, I feel lonely.

Tonight I feel heavy with the prognosis of three months for my mom. My mind is speckled with thoughts seemingly absurd and pointless that I try to stuff into the you-can't-be-serious box, but in truth, I am mentally taking out emotional treasures, turning them around in my mind, trying to figure out how to keep them intact as much as possible while not letting them shatter me.

I have spent untold time today trying to remember the recipe for Mom's dressing. I think I know. At the grocery store I buy the supplies to make it...three or four times...make sure I can get this right...before she isn't here to tell me how to fix it if I get it wrong.

I go through my monthly bills, think about Christmas shopping, figure out in my head if I will have enough for what I want to buy the children or if I need to tighten the belt a bit more each month. Then I think of other family members, do a quick count, figure out a general budget for everyone else...

...except Mom.

According to the doctor three months might be a hopeful guess. Three months...Christmas.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Christmas shopping for Mom has become an event for me. I would go out by myself, have some pumpkin spice coffee, and head to a specific clothing store. For the last few years I've bought Mom clothing at a fun store next to the bookstore where I buy the children's school curricula. I wonder how long I can avoid that store, driving into the parking lot, and looking at the clothing store I have always enjoyed visitingin search of just the right thing for Mom.

In my mind I can see the store through the windshield of my car. I can't move. I only stare...with no reason to go in.

Will she even be here Christmas? What if she is, but evidence appears that God is not going to work a miracle? Which is harder: having no one to buy for or not knowing what to buy for someone whose life will not offer her time to use it? Then I shake my head like an Etch-a-Sketch. "Harder" doesn't matter. Whatever comes will be hard enough.

In a moment of emotional numb, I punch in a text to a friend. "My mom is going to die." I stare at the words...and erase them. He knows already. I know. Telling him again won't help. Seeing his reply, "I know, babe. I'm so sorry," again won't help.

I toss the phone to the empty side of the bed, pull my pillow against me, and lie quiet.

God, I feel so lonely.

I hear Him speak through the words of a verse that has repeatedly come before me throughout the last two weeks.

The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.--Zephaniah 3:17

A smile comes to my face as I remember a phone call from earlier in the day.

The doctor's office called to clarify some information concerning Mom. Laura, the woman who spoke with me, had lost her dad to the same cancer Mom has. Laura's heart was so tender, and her words, so gentle. The five-minute call turned to thirty as we discussed my hometown (where she owns a historic home), the chocolatier on The Square who makes fabulous truffles, and the pain of feeling powerless. Then she said, "You'll be here Monday with your mom, right?" Yes. "I have to go up to the house this Friday. I'll pick us up some truffles, and Monday you come early. We'll sit, eat truffles, drink some coffee, and talk."

The Lord your God is with you...with truffles, coffee, and compassion...

He will quiet you with His love...as I lie on my bed, my mind filled with treasures that make me ache...that bring me such joy...

I sigh deep. The ache still throbs in me...in Him. The loneliness of pending loss is still real...but so is He...Earlier today He reached out His heart...in the form of a phone call and some truffles...and found me...Now, in the quiet, I reach out my heart...and find Him...

Life May be Hard, but I'm Still Okay

As some of you know, this is a hard season for me.

My husband and I separated at the end of June after nineteen years of marriage. Needless to say, that has been a trial.

On July 30th, my mom was taken to the ER with indications of a stroke. Three hours later, I sat in a conference room as images of Mom's lungs and brain revealed multiple large masses. We went from concerns of paralysis to a prognosis of weeks or months to live.

Since then, my life has been an insane rollercoaster ride.

The difficulties and pain are more than dealing with separation and an expected divorce or cancer and the concept of "terminal". They are the well-meaning friends who want to drown--I mean love you with Starbucks and let you listen--I mean talk all you want. The pain is the family members in denial, hoping for something...anything...that will make a difference. It is watching the person breathing just find, suddenly catch a breath and hold it so long you wonder if you just witnessed the last one...and then feeling sorry that it wasn't. It is learning to turn off the phone and the computer and feeling no remorse.

It is continuing to breath when the person you love so much is gone...or going...and it hurts so much that you are sure your heart will be crushed by the pain.

I know. I'm living it...and I'm talking about it...as openly and honestly as my heart and mind can allow. I am being open about what helps, what doesn't, and why. I'm sharing my honest feelings and thoughts...even when some of them are far outside others' comfort zones. I am rejoicing in hope...and being honest about the hard days. And I'm refusing to play a role for anyone. I'm taking it moment by moment as it comes...the laughter, the tears, the life, the death, the rejoicing, the grieving...and I'm finding it's okay...I'm okay.

If you or someone you know is in a hard place and needs to find refuge or share hearts, come join me at I Really Am Okay. Maybe you'll find out you are okay, too...or that you can be.