Maundy Thursday, another significant gathering time for the Christian community, arising out of the Passover meal. The people at table together. Jesus's prediction of suffering. He knelt and washed their feet as an act of service and compassion. A neighborly act for dusty feet two thousand years ago, but striking that the host would cleanse and soothe the feet of travelers, a task usually performed by servants. We still long to gather at table and compassionately care for the guests beside us. We hold hands, we laugh, we cry, we note those who are no longer with us, we pause to cherish this moment for it may never be the same again. We eat the bread, we drink the cup. We remember. And join the psalmist: "Thank God because he's good, because his love never quits. Tell the world..."The Message, Psalm 118.

I've been meditating on this scene this week. The stones and the moss were moved two years ago from gardening friends of ours who sold their life-long home to move to assisted living and who offered their garden to all who wanted parts of it. We bought home several carloads of flat stones to create a patio off the south side of our deck and Judy planted the moss between each stone. And just like last spring, green fills the cracks between the stones. Have you noticed how green fills cracks? Sidewalks, street cracks, brick and stone walls. I noticed green is invading my shed. Cedar trees grow in the cracks along the stone cuts where the highway cuts through the hills. Wherever the surface is disturbed and broken, green grows. Life will not be denied. Sometimes we call it weeds because it's growing where it's unwanted. But it still grows to reclaim. There are broken places in our lives, cracks, disruptions, opportunities for green to poke though. When it's unexpected. These days, this week, I call it hope. 

The first chemotherapy session is done. We didn't get a lot of clarity as the bone marrow results are not in yet, and the nurse did her job, as Dr. Thompson said she would, to tell us of all the possible side effects. That was the only nauseous moment of the day as she factually described unpleasantness. I have a plastic, electric powered injection machine that is supposed to deliver medication tonight that emits a bright green flash every few seconds. I'm the first firefly of the season to show up at the Hideaway. And I picked up two additional nausea medications plus Prednisone from the pharmacy that I am supposed to take for next five days. Go back in a week to check white blood count and do it all again in three weeks. I did see that I am stage IIE which means it's early and is located in extranodal tissue (my stomach) as well as a lymph node. It was a long process as I was in the clinic for 8 1/2 hours. Plus rush hour traffic both ways. We timed that right, didn't we? 

We are so appreciative of all the encouragement and prayers. It means a lot to receive the messages.

Today is the beginning of my healing. My first chemotherapy session. I admit that I am anxious about all that I don't know: results of tests, the procedure, my physical reaction to chemo and all the days following. Fascinating that I begin this journey as the Christian community begins holy week. 22 weeks ago I began to look toward the future and imagined that by Easter, we would be vaccinated and spring will have burst out with proclamation of new life, and we would begin some semblance of "normal". I kept reminding friends how many weeks until Easter as the calendar pages were being turned. I did not expect this turn of events. But I am fortunate and blessed, surrounded by prayer partners. When I told my Kurdish neighbor Sabrina that I had a different kind of cancer and needed her prayers, she stopped our conversation, covered her hair with her black lace scarf, lifted both hands with palms to the sky and began to pray. It was a holy moment. My healing has begun as the tulips bloom in the backyard of the Hideaway on Holy Monday.

Even the most nominal church-goer recognizes the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem with the crowd waving palms and welcoming the Messiah into the occupied city. Change is about to happen, in ways that few can anticipate. 

The lesson from Psalms for the day cites portions of Psalm 118 which begins and ends with the phrase "his steadfast love endures forever!" Constant, unending, compassion and grace is announced over and over, not only by this psalm, but others which affirm this experience of God's love. God's love will not weaken or disappear. God's love is for this moment and all those that follow. Change will happen in our circumstances, but our experience of God's care for us is an embrace that will not quit. Ever.

Lymphoma.

At first I heard nothing else as my doctor gave me the news. But the reality began to sink in after a few days, diffuse large B cell lymphoma.

How could that be?

Last summer, 9 months ago, I listened as another doctor told me I had aggressive prostate cancer, and the best option was to surgically remove the cancer. I had recovered well. My PSA was zero. No, the previous cancer had not returned; this is a completely different cancer, and even more perilous to my health. 

So the last two weeks have been filled with blood tests, and CT and PET scans, and doctor appointments, and counseling. I have a good prognosis with the test results from last Friday revealing that in addition to cancer in lymph tissue in my stomach, I have cancer in the lymph node under my left arm. Fortunately, miraculously, this cancer was found before I have any symptoms, and with little dispersal through my body. I have heard too many stories of patients who were diagnosed too late. DLBL is a serious threat; it can be fatal.

I am hopeful. My oncologist is confident that the cancer can be, will be, cured.

Next Monday I begin chemotherapy with a combination of four drugs. Every three weeks I will get an infusion that will take 3-4 hours. Nasty side effects may follow each week following treatment. The doctor said I may need radiation following the chemotherapy. And I will have lowered immunity with the risk of infection.

I got my second vaccination against Covid in late February. Supposedly, I am immune. I was ready to break out of isolation, see my friends, invite them to my home, eat in restaurants, go to the theater, hug my granddaughter. But I have something new stalking me. 

So I have a new journey ahead, not unlike the multitude of times I escorted parishioners through this perilous land. Except this time, it's my journey.

Of course I won't be alone. My neighbor said I certainly have more resources than the typical cancer patient: world-class medical facilities, amazing physicians, prayer partners including my Buddhist and Muslim neighbors, my wife and family, and my faith in God's healing.

I expect to be riding a roller-coaster of emotions, and sometimes the future may appear murky. But I have hope that I will be twice-cured.

New Year's Day, January 1, 2001, was a glorious day in our neighborhood. Windy, warm, with a high of 73 degrees. It was quite a change in weather from the previous day when it was cool and rainy. So we spent much of the day outside. Haircuts for both of us. The third or fourth time I trimmed Judy's hair during the pandemic while Judy has regularly cut my hair for more than 15 years. And we walked. The puddle near the road was still and the surface did not reflect the sky and beckoned me to use my new phone to record an image. Simple fun.

Like everyone else in the world, I am eager to see 2020 move on. But the reality is that a new calendar year is a bit of an illusion. Today is not much different from yesterday, especially when one is retired. Nevertheless, there is a freshness about a new calendar, a new budget, a new president (soon-to-be).  I'm glad to be done with cancer, and hopeful for a COVID vaccination. I'm eager to be out and about again, and looking. This image is one I discovered last week as I was processing some photos from the autumn of 2015. I may have tweeked the saturation a little, but it does portray what I saw with the stack of basalt rocks at the Interstate State Park in Minnesota. I am looking for different in the new year, a different hopeful spirit in the country, a desire for justice and equality, a quest for peace, and images that will make me dance and sing (even at my age.)