Gifts

     I was supposed to be writing.  I had been at my desk for over two hours. I assembled my notes.  I checked email. I looked over the title I'd selected. I looked at Face Book. I reorganized my notes.  I read an Opinion piece in the Washington Post.  I re-checked email.  I wrote nothing.

     Frankly, I can't concentrate.  It seems that since the ever narrower and looming sides of the shadowed valley have come, concentration has gone.  

    So many that I know and love have cancer. I almost dare not call to mind their names as I will moan in anger and grief.  I, too, have cancer.  Two years I've lived with this mess.  My back reminds me of that grim reality every time I move.  I lay under whirring machines preparing for radiation therapy.  I endure needles that deliver immune therapy.  Every one is so kind and careful, but the reason for their kindness and care is, after all, my illness.

    Anya found a meme that superimposes the shout, "Fuck cancer!" over a cartoonish raised middle finger salute.  And you know what right now I couldn't agree more. 

    I am supposed to be composing a sermon to encourage the saints on Sunday.  All I have done is fidget and fume.  The texts prompted an idea that seemed so clear.  The hymns seemed to match the texts and sermon theme.  Yet as I sought to get beyond musing to actual words on a page...nothing but mouse clicking to mask anger and sorrow.

     A walk was the only answer.  And there I found gifts.  Not one more word for the sermon, but gifts for my anger, sorrow, and fear.  Sun dappled paths that led to calm waters.  I can want for nothing else.  Gifts. Relentless mercy and long nurtured goodness just waiting for me.