Ouch, Thorns Hurt

You know when you're doing something and the whole time you are doing it you're thinking, "I should not be doing this right now." I think I relived that moment over and over today. The moment that most epitomized this was when I was pruning rose bushes and cutting back grasses. I had been running around from teaching to doctor's appointments to tennis lessons to grocery shopping and finally arrived home. I needed to take groceries in and take garbage out, but I became fixated on one thing. Pruning those roses.

So, in my heeled sandals, my capri pants and my turquoise blouse I got the clippers out and was on my way. The groceries sat patiently in the car while I sank deeper and deeper into the soil in my cute little sandals. Not only did I not have proper footwear on, but I decided I didn't need to have gloves on either. Guess what? Roses have thorns; sharp, pointy, ouchy thorns. There were thorns in my thumbs, thorns in my arms, thorns on my legs. You would think after the first one jabbed me I would have gotten some gloves. But, no, I just kept at it. Even the dead portions of the rose bush had thorns. Crazy. That is just crazy. Ouchy.

As I kept pruning, I noticed how the branches were intertwined. Live, green, fresh growth mixed with brown, ugly, dead limbs. I don't know how I thought it would look. I guess I figured once the plant had died, it would lose all its substance, all its potential. But, it still hurt. I could have protected myself from feeling its sting. In some areas of my life I am very practical and bright, in other areas, not so much. I kept reaching my unprotected arms and hands into the dead branches. I was so happy to clear it away and see the fresh green, red growth that meant I would see flowers soon.

The dead parts of the plant didn't keep the rose bush from growing. The dead branches, and the live branches were intertwined. That is how it works sometimes. Death still hurts though. Even when you see the fresh growth, new life, and all the potential that is just waiting to spring forth; the part that is dying still causes pain. I can't explain why some things have to die, or the timing that death takes. Today I found out that my dad is not going to have anymore chemotherapy for his lung cancer. The doctor is calling in hospice care. I am relieved, and yet, very sad. Sadder than I thought I would be. It almost feels like life and death are intertwining in my dad's body. There are parts of him that are so alive. His wicked sense of humor, his quiet yet firm discipline, his short tempered responses to his own limitations are all as powerful and alive as ever. But, parts of his physical body are dying. Air isn't moving in and out of his lungs, he is weak, shaky, and tired.

I can't imagine what it was like for him to say to the doctor that he didn't want to do chemo again. He is not a quitter, nor one to avoid a challenge. I think the past 7years have been his way of proving that he was stronger and braver than anyone ever knew. We all already knew it though. We wish he didn't have to go through this long, ugly illness. I am proud of him for fighting. He will continue fighting, just in a different way. Instead of medical interventions, he will fight with his sense of humor, his pride, and his loyalty to those who love him. It is painful watching him suffer. It is like when I stuck my hand into the rose bush. It scratches and pricks my heart to see the struggle. The beauty that is intertwined with the death of this disease isn't evident right now. But, I don't doubt that there will be life in the midst of the loss of his physical life.

I am afraid to go pick up the dead branches that I cut away today. They are in a pile next to the freshly pruned rose bushes. Life and death right there in the midst of the garden. Tonight I will go to sleep wondering if my family is afraid too. We will go through this together, and I know that my dad will find beauty in seeing us stand beside one another. That is the the life and the beauty that will grow when God prunes away the suffering and pain of this long disease.