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It’s hard to even describe the impact music has on me.  But not being for lack of words, I’ll give it a go.

In joy music can make us smile, move, sing and shout

In preparation music can inspire exceptional performance

In our environment music can change the mood of us and others around us

In sorrow music can extract tears from the deepest pool in our bodies

In worship music can move us beyond words, even taking our breath away

For me, I long to experience music that moves me beyond my ability to function.  Does that sound crazy?  I have had moments, both in sorrow and in worship, where I no longer have the ability to speak.  Music as a reminder of experiences and relationships, in sorrow, can feel like the heaviest of weights, yet it’s cleansing.  Music as a vehicle in worship, can take the very words away.

I have a hard time submitting to God, and every now and then, He reminds me of its importance.  Giving Him worship… forgetting the place I’m at, the people around me, the circumstance I am in – almost always results in a time when I have to gather myself.  When I can’t get past tears, not of sorrow, but of a recognition of who God is.  And I can’t speak.  The feeling is amazing.  I can’t fully explain it.  And still, I long to REALLY experience that.  I’ve only scratched the surface.

I was standing in church, overwhelmed by God in worship, watching a person who was in their own space, even dancing, arms stretched to the sky and Totally Experiencing God….

                                                        …. I wondered what that’s like.

Cold, dreary, wet.  The kind of day in Colorado that really only happens this time of year.  It’s not a bitter cold that tightens up your skin.  It’s actually like walking through a mister at a summertime tourist location.  You know, when you’re standing behind 100 families but you can see the sprayer up ahead, most of the water evaporating into the air, but j-u-u-us-s-s-t enough coming down to cool you off for the few minutes you’ll hold that spot.  But… here in Colorado, late March, this is a mister that envelopes you.  You can’t get out of the water.  There’s just enough ice in the mix to let you know its actually cold, and snow is coming.  We’re due for a decent storm tonight.

Just enough time to catch an early morning meeting and then off to Pop’s for treatment.  Day 4.  I think everyone I passed by this morning and had an exchange of hello’s with, reminded me that I picked the wrong day to wear shorts.  Probably not the best meeting dress, but I hadn’t planned on making that one.  Since I was out and had the time, I figured I’d head in for the meeting to get the ‘latest’.  I threw a pair of jeans in the truck just in case it got to be too much, but comfort is key when grabbing a chair in the hospital for the day, and the jeans will remain there.  Good meeting, good vibe.  Breakfast was served.  I love breakfast.  Its time to head south and pick up my Dad.

Missed day 3 last week due to another storm.  They actually closed the highway between our place and the folks.  It’s about a 25 mile stretch between our houses, then another 20-30 down to the hospital.  But there’s just an area about 5 miles long that seems to have its own weather conditions.  I think its around 7200 feet, shouldn’t be such a big deal, but it’s location seems to always get the most snow and ice from Denver down to Colorado Springs.  Dad was able to get out on the other side of this infamous area called ‘Monument Hill’ and made it to his 3rd treatment. 

Two days prior he had gotten some great news – white blood cell counts are good.  Lymph nodes are shrinking.  Things are going well.

Today Dad is snoozing.  No reaction, which is great.  Keeping the drip slow, just in case, but this is the smoothest one yet.  I know the news last week has his spirits up.  Praise God for this.  I am so thankful.  I know our extended family are thankful as well.  He, God, is so present in this thing and in so many ways in our lives right now.  Let me not miss the opportunity here to say this;  I know He is present and SO good, always.  We often miss the ways He reveals it.  This just happens to be one of those ‘in-your-face’ times in our lives.  ‘Our’ clearly includes my extended family in how we see His blessing.  Though we don’t share same-views on our faith, I am thankful they give me the freedom to share mine.  Back to the ‘Our’ part … Micki and I and our kids are the our in this one – We’ve been in the midst of busy-ness and loose chaos, but in and through that has been great blessing.  Right now, that blessing is so evident.  Our kids are seeing effective prayer.  We are seeing it.  And, I’m not a great prayer leader – so this inspires me to be one.  I love how God works.  I love opening my eyes to see it.

He corrects my ways and directs my steps.  In times like this… I actually pay attention.  My hope is that out of this, I do a better job of paying attention. Hoping that, out of this I do a better job of leading the troops – of setting the example.  I’m thankful for lessons like this.

Getting colder out now, late afternoon.  Wrapping up todays visit.  Can’t see the mountains through the fog and ‘misty’ air.  But this drive back is filled with clarity.

Day 2 of ‘A Journey’.

We’re an East Coast family.  My Moms family – Massachusetts and New York.  My Dads family – Connecticut, New York.  My Step Moms family – Philly.  All of our ‘East Coast family’ did what comes naturally … they migrated to Florida.  Me … I’m all Florida, born and raised, with a couple years here, couple years there.  Having a split family growing up I moved around a bit.  All East Coast with a short bounce to California.

Something that comes with the territory, I mean, East coast territory, is a love for a great sandwich.  Some say Subs, some Hoagies, but any way you say it, a great sandwich from a sandwich shop is an instant walk down memory lane.  I’m finding that these days with my Pop are flooded with memories.

Dad and I love to fish.  Growing up, especially given the often complicated dynamics of a split family, fishing was always a special time for us.  An escape from it all for me, fishing just became a quiet reservoir for me.  Still water.

I remember stopping in at one of our favorite shops, Albert’s, to order up a couple of meatball subs before we hit the water.  Walking into a place where there really was a guy named Dom who’s stare punched you in the face when you walked in.  White kitchen pants and a white undershirt, stained with sauce.. ‘Gravy’ to call it right.  Dom would give my dad a smirk along with a couple of familiarities they would exchange.  He was a regular, a local.  My pop makes friends with people when he goes out, and loves to engage with the people he does business with.  They all remember him when he comes in and know exactly what he gets.  Dom made a great sandwich.  I remember sitting at a picnic bench with Dad crushing a meatball sub before we went out on the water to drop a line in.  Quiet.  Conversation without words.

Day 2 in the chemo room.  The room is not as full today.  All different folks in here besides my Dad and a lady sitting by the window, she was here last week.  We changed areas today so dad could get a chair that had all the gear on the right side.  Have to switch sides every week.  We’re in the biggest part of the room today.  More chairs for more people, but today there are a lot of empty chairs.  A little nicer to have more room, but a little eerie all the same.  Dads into a book he likes a bunch.  Then he’s sleeping.  Another reaction to the drugs brings everything to a halt for a bit, they all rush in to manage it, then they get the drip going again.  All is going fine now.  A little progress already, at least in the way Dad feels.  Some of the lymph nodes have shrunken just enough that he can feel the difference.  He can breathe a little better when he sleeps and his voice doesn’t sound so raspy this week.  Good stuff.  I sit back and remember great times, a lot of fishing memories, along with a trip to New York and Connecticut where we dug for clams.  I have a picture of that one.  One of my all-time favorites.  I can’t remember a sandwich that far back, but I’m pretty sure we put some down, being in New York and all.

I told Dad we weren’t eating hospital food this week, last week it wasn’t so good.  I asked him what he might want for lunch; “hey Pop, how about a sub?”.   I convinced him to try one that he hadn’t yet.  We’re in the chemo room with a #14 plus provolone.  He loves it. I love it.  I love my dad.  A lot of empty chairs, a great sub and great memories.  Conversation without words.

Day 1 of ‘who knows’.

Sitting in the Chemo-Room at Penrose watching my dad drift off to sleep with round one. Not his first rodeo. Diana, Lauren and my pops have been battling through this and adopted this ‘way of life’ for about 25 years. Several more hours spent here than I knew about. My dad is a recognizable face in this place, yet, he’s been around here more than many of the employees.

I was here for a couple trips during one of the early fights. I was here for one of the hospital stays 8 or 10 years ago when it was looking rough. But this journey, the one that begins today, is a new one for me. I was so convicted when Diana broke the news to me that “the monster is back”. Dad wasn’t ready to tell me yet. And I know why. He wanted to know more about where he was at and what the strategy was going to be this time. Diana actually called to let me know, but even more to give me a kick in the pants to call Dad. Dad and I are great, but both really bad about calling each other to check in. Now, with my oldest son in college and away from home. I’m getting a taste of what that feels like sometimes. Letting your kids go out in the world is quite a change, but I am learning now how important it is to fix the communication gaps now – not to wait. It has just become easy for Dad and I to touch base once in a while and forget the importance of frequency. So, circling back to focus – when I saw that there was an opportunity to designate myself as Dad’s official ride for chemo, I grabbed it. Thank you Diana for letting me jump on that. I never even asked, so I appreciate you letting me.

Deep focus. Reflection. Driving into Dad’s neighborhood this morning I got a great pause to see the clouds enveloping the mountains near his house. Beautiful. God = Amazing. I love Creation, His Creativity. Even more, the times like that when I feel He ‘made me look’, so I wouldn’t miss it. Lots of time here today and for the first couple of rounds. The sessions get shorter as time goes on. For me being honest, I’m always petrified to be away from the office. Worried about leaving things hanging, missing a call. But, as much as this circumstance is unwelcome, this time with Dad, this time with God – sitting in the Chemo-Room at Penrose watching my dad react to the drugs he’s getting – irreplaceable. Critical. Blessing in the midst of uncertainty.

Now 1 hour into day 1. Long way to go.
Dad’s having a reaction to the first dose.
I look around the room and there are lots of stories like this. I am absorbed in this time, writing and watching my dad for signs of a reaction – then I look up and around. More chairs get filled. People are getting hooked up.