I originally wrote this as part of the first post about my last radiation treatment. But the post was too long, and I don't want you to miss this story.
On the last day of treatment, the radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaurant, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right?
There's nothing brave in that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person--this is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I came to believe and feel in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah. I thought 2 things:
1. "Oh! I keep forgetting to call her back!" and
2. "She mentioned wanting to send something earlier, but not quite getting around to it yet. I guess this is it!"
We pulled in. Piled out. Got inside. I opened the package. In it was a sweet note wishing me a year of--I am not making this up--"Hope and Courage."
She sent a pad of paper with "Hope" written on top.
And a pearl bracelet with a clasp that says "courage."
I tell you. . . it's almost too much love for one life to hold.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Radiation: End of a Road
These last 5 treatments of radiation have been different. I mentioned this already--about the electrons and it being focused on the scar line.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
Haiti Orphans Update
It's Monday night as I write. I read in this morning's news about the children who've been joined with their families.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Haiti Orphan Update
Yowza!
The 82 Colorado-bound orphans are in the air as I type, being flown to Florida. Governor Ritter has chartered a flight with a medical crew to meet them there and fly them into Denver. They'll be medically evaluated while in the air.
Then their families will pick them up this evening! They shall sleep in their new beds tonight!
Our church alone will be welcoming 19 new children this weekend.
(I think that's the number. . . And, actually, I doubt any of them will be brought to a church service so soon upon arrival. But still!)
Thank God for their arrival, for their families, for the hundred of workers on both sides of the border who worked to make this happen.
And let's continue to pray for the orphans who were not already matched to families before the earthquake. There is still hope that they will be evacuated, too, under a humanitarian visa.
The 82 Colorado-bound orphans are in the air as I type, being flown to Florida. Governor Ritter has chartered a flight with a medical crew to meet them there and fly them into Denver. They'll be medically evaluated while in the air.
Then their families will pick them up this evening! They shall sleep in their new beds tonight!
Our church alone will be welcoming 19 new children this weekend.
(I think that's the number. . . And, actually, I doubt any of them will be brought to a church service so soon upon arrival. But still!)
Thank God for their arrival, for their families, for the hundred of workers on both sides of the border who worked to make this happen.
And let's continue to pray for the orphans who were not already matched to families before the earthquake. There is still hope that they will be evacuated, too, under a humanitarian visa.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Breast Loose and Sugar Free
I have a lot to share from the last week or so, but Bryan has been out of the country this week, so I've had extended kid-duty on top of the extreme fatigue from radiation.
After reading that, I know what you want to know, so I'll tell you: Naples.
He's due home in an hour. I'll be sure to tell you if he got me anything nice. . .
Speaking of promised reports, perhaps there is a question among you about my hair. It is coming in. 2 weeks ago, Josh felt my head and said, "You feel poky." One week ago, he felt it and said, "You feel like a caterpillar." Yesterday: "You feel like a cat."
It seems to be as thick as before. It also seems to be the same color, though this is deeply disappointing for Gemma, who was hoping for purple. It's not long enough to know yet whether it is curly.
My body hair is back, too. Up until a few days ago, I had gone 5 months without touching a razor! Of course, I went longer than that once while in college, with a very different result, but that was not cancer-related.
The shocking part about the Return of Hair are my eyebrows. There they are! I had gotten used to seeing my face bald, and had been drawing in thin brown lines when donning a wig. But here are the real things again and can I just say that eyebrows are strange. Go ahead and look in a mirror right now. Stare at your brows. What are those things all about??
But enough chit-chat. Time to turn to our title for the day:
The radiation is burning through the layers of my skin such that I cannot wear any supportive garments. Way too uncomfortable. Instead, I've been wearing Bryan's big denim shirt over a top and that has at least protected me against an appearance that is both immodest and freakish, what with one swinging free and all.
I've been able to exercise each day (so the fatigue can't be as bad as that from chemo, I keep reminding myself), but even then, athletic support is not an option.
I happened to explain all this to Mandy who expressed utter disbelief. Wasn't I completely uncomfortable on that side? Wasn't it killing me not to be supported?
Hmm. Come to think of it: No. And that's odd. I figure it's because my breast is trying to stay under the radar right now, kind of like, "Hey, girl, don't mind me. I'm totally fine here. Not going to bother you at all. Not going to turn cancerous on you. So, like, there's reason to cut me off or anything. It's all good."
"Yeah, well, you know what, breast? I appreciate your co-operation and all, but next week I'm calling Mayfield's office to schedule your date with destiny."
So now you all understand the phrase "Breast Loose."
As for "Sugar Free," let me back up to about 3 years ago. In January of 2007, I started experiencing screaming headaches and throwing up a lot. I saw a few doctors. We ruled out things like ciliac disease and lactose intolerance. And I eventually figured out that I couldn't tolerate refined sugar. There was something about the chemical used to refine it that was toxic to me, and even a small dose of it sent me into the same symptoms as food poisoning.
A lot of good came out of this. For starters, I broke what was actually an addiction to sugar. I had been swamped buy a post-pardem depression that just wouldn't go away--until I stopped eating sugar. On the whole, I was very, very glad to be free of it.
And I could eat organic sugar, which is not refined in the same way. So it's not like I've had nothing sweet to eat for 3 years. The difference is that once broken of the addiction, I had few cravings for a dessert. Chocolate no longer held power over me!
The intolerance was still evident as recently as this past Christmas, when I did a lot of baking with the kids. This required testing the batter (and I wasn't using organic sugar), and just a lick would trigger the start of the headache, so I knew not to eat more and trigger the rest of the consequences.
Then. Then. Then. . . The kids decorated a Gingerbread Train. And the jelly bellies on the rim of Gemma's box car called to me. Surely one wouldn't cause a headache. And one did not. Nor did two, nor three, nor, well, that was the end of the box car trim. I ate them all. To no ill effect.
Hmm. Maybe the makers of jelly bellies don't use refined sugar. Maybe it's all fructose corn syrup. How about Twizzlers? Josh had slapped a few onto the side of his car with great abandon. And. . .nope! No problem at all!
Boy, this was strange. Last week, there were Holiday MnM's leftover from our baking that were having such a fun little party together in my cupboard, I couldn't resist joining them. I loved to eat them! They loved being eaten! I tried just a few. . .no headache! Later, I ate several more. . .still fine!
And so it is. No more intolerance to sugar. I feel like I've been healed. (Yes, that's a little rich, coming from someone who has escaped the grip of Stage III breast cancer.) And I've been having a great time revisiting my favorite deserts of yore: Culver's Chocolate concrete with peanut butter cups; molten lava cake from AppleBee's--not to mention their spinach vinaigrette salad I'd had to forgo because the dressing is made with sugar.
Ah. . . The week has been delicious.
I don't at all know what to make of this. I don't think I'll know, this side of eternity, what was going on inside of me. And I don't think I would mind if the intolerance returned, though it is nice to partake of some yummy things.
It's a good sign that, though I've been Sugar Free (e.g. free to eat sugar!) for a week, I am actually down 2 pounds of weight. I have the ambition to avoid an addiction this time around--the secret of which, I think, will be to eat only the sweet things that are really terrific, and to avoid the myriads of other sugar sources ever present.
In short, I think I'm going to be OK.
After reading that, I know what you want to know, so I'll tell you: Naples.
He's due home in an hour. I'll be sure to tell you if he got me anything nice. . .
Speaking of promised reports, perhaps there is a question among you about my hair. It is coming in. 2 weeks ago, Josh felt my head and said, "You feel poky." One week ago, he felt it and said, "You feel like a caterpillar." Yesterday: "You feel like a cat."
It seems to be as thick as before. It also seems to be the same color, though this is deeply disappointing for Gemma, who was hoping for purple. It's not long enough to know yet whether it is curly.
My body hair is back, too. Up until a few days ago, I had gone 5 months without touching a razor! Of course, I went longer than that once while in college, with a very different result, but that was not cancer-related.
The shocking part about the Return of Hair are my eyebrows. There they are! I had gotten used to seeing my face bald, and had been drawing in thin brown lines when donning a wig. But here are the real things again and can I just say that eyebrows are strange. Go ahead and look in a mirror right now. Stare at your brows. What are those things all about??
But enough chit-chat. Time to turn to our title for the day:
The radiation is burning through the layers of my skin such that I cannot wear any supportive garments. Way too uncomfortable. Instead, I've been wearing Bryan's big denim shirt over a top and that has at least protected me against an appearance that is both immodest and freakish, what with one swinging free and all.
I've been able to exercise each day (so the fatigue can't be as bad as that from chemo, I keep reminding myself), but even then, athletic support is not an option.
I happened to explain all this to Mandy who expressed utter disbelief. Wasn't I completely uncomfortable on that side? Wasn't it killing me not to be supported?
Hmm. Come to think of it: No. And that's odd. I figure it's because my breast is trying to stay under the radar right now, kind of like, "Hey, girl, don't mind me. I'm totally fine here. Not going to bother you at all. Not going to turn cancerous on you. So, like, there's reason to cut me off or anything. It's all good."
"Yeah, well, you know what, breast? I appreciate your co-operation and all, but next week I'm calling Mayfield's office to schedule your date with destiny."
So now you all understand the phrase "Breast Loose."
As for "Sugar Free," let me back up to about 3 years ago. In January of 2007, I started experiencing screaming headaches and throwing up a lot. I saw a few doctors. We ruled out things like ciliac disease and lactose intolerance. And I eventually figured out that I couldn't tolerate refined sugar. There was something about the chemical used to refine it that was toxic to me, and even a small dose of it sent me into the same symptoms as food poisoning.
A lot of good came out of this. For starters, I broke what was actually an addiction to sugar. I had been swamped buy a post-pardem depression that just wouldn't go away--until I stopped eating sugar. On the whole, I was very, very glad to be free of it.
And I could eat organic sugar, which is not refined in the same way. So it's not like I've had nothing sweet to eat for 3 years. The difference is that once broken of the addiction, I had few cravings for a dessert. Chocolate no longer held power over me!
The intolerance was still evident as recently as this past Christmas, when I did a lot of baking with the kids. This required testing the batter (and I wasn't using organic sugar), and just a lick would trigger the start of the headache, so I knew not to eat more and trigger the rest of the consequences.
Then. Then. Then. . . The kids decorated a Gingerbread Train. And the jelly bellies on the rim of Gemma's box car called to me. Surely one wouldn't cause a headache. And one did not. Nor did two, nor three, nor, well, that was the end of the box car trim. I ate them all. To no ill effect.
Hmm. Maybe the makers of jelly bellies don't use refined sugar. Maybe it's all fructose corn syrup. How about Twizzlers? Josh had slapped a few onto the side of his car with great abandon. And. . .nope! No problem at all!
Boy, this was strange. Last week, there were Holiday MnM's leftover from our baking that were having such a fun little party together in my cupboard, I couldn't resist joining them. I loved to eat them! They loved being eaten! I tried just a few. . .no headache! Later, I ate several more. . .still fine!
And so it is. No more intolerance to sugar. I feel like I've been healed. (Yes, that's a little rich, coming from someone who has escaped the grip of Stage III breast cancer.) And I've been having a great time revisiting my favorite deserts of yore: Culver's Chocolate concrete with peanut butter cups; molten lava cake from AppleBee's--not to mention their spinach vinaigrette salad I'd had to forgo because the dressing is made with sugar.
Ah. . . The week has been delicious.
I don't at all know what to make of this. I don't think I'll know, this side of eternity, what was going on inside of me. And I don't think I would mind if the intolerance returned, though it is nice to partake of some yummy things.
It's a good sign that, though I've been Sugar Free (e.g. free to eat sugar!) for a week, I am actually down 2 pounds of weight. I have the ambition to avoid an addiction this time around--the secret of which, I think, will be to eat only the sweet things that are really terrific, and to avoid the myriads of other sugar sources ever present.
In short, I think I'm going to be OK.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Haiti Orphanage Press Release
AP!: They might have made it to the Embassy at the time of this posting. But if not yet, then, God, please complete that journey for them and bring every last one safely there. And please provide water for them at the Embassy as they await their transport.
Orphans begin procedures to depart Haiti at U.S. Embassy
(Port-au-Prince, Haiti)
On January 20, 2010, 133 orphans from the Maison des Enfants de Dieu
(Children of the House of God) orphanage will begin the difficult process
outlined by the U.S. Department of State for humanitarian parole and onward
transportation to the United States. In accordance with instructions received
from the State Department, as relayed by the Joint Council on International
Children's Services (JCICS) at 8 p.m. today, orphans along with orphanage staff
members have been instructed to arrive at the U.S. Embassy as early as possible
on Wednesday morning. JCICS warned that no food, water or facilities
would be available for the children while processing at the U.S. Embassy
Port-au-Prince.
JCICS further relayed that orphanage requests
to the U.S. Embassy for security and transportation for the children have been
denied by the State Department. The U.S. ministry associated with this
orphanage, For His Glory Adoption Outreach (FHG), was also asked to stop
requesting security, transportation or even water at the orphanage location.
Following discussions with staff and board members in Port-au-Prince, the
difficult decision was made that all 133 children, including approximately 60 children under the age of 3, will begin early in the morning of January 20th to walk the over 2 kilometers to the U.S. Embassy Port-au-Prince. This decision was made due to the limited staff available and the increasingly dangerous security situation at the orphanage in Port-au-Prince.
The staff will carry as much water, food and baby formula as possible with
them for the orphans while processing at the U.S. Embassy. JCICS relayed that
once processing is completed, the orphans will travel to the United States on
"cargo jets to locations that are not often known until an hour or so before the
flight leaves."
Kim Harmon, President of FHG, acknowledged that "this
arrangement is far from ideal for the safety and well-being of the children. We
are calling to all who care about these precious children to pray earnestly for
their safety tomorrow."
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Haiti Update
There is a tremendous story unfolding for about 300 orphans in Haiti. 54 of them made it home to PA, as I'm sure you've heard. My friends here have been told that the way has been cleared for them to come to the States within a week.
The big concern right now is transporting the children to an accessible air field. The other concern is for the orphans being adopted by Canadian families. There is some kind of big hitch between the Canadian and Haitian governments. . . We hope that can be straightened out very soon.
As my friend Suzanne points out, a lot goes into these international matters. I didn't mean to suggest that there's one piece of paper in front of the leader of each country that simply awaits a signature. But at the end of the day, there is either the will to make something happen, or there is not. All indications show that our Secretary of State wants to see these children evacuated. The big question was what kind of attitude the Haitian government would have. Thank God, it seems they are willing enough.
Let's continue to pray for these children as they await the execution of plans designed for them. Scarcity of clean water is still their biggest danger, and of course, lack of medicine for those infants who need it.
I so look forward to reporting to you about the day I meet these children at church! It's not that their survival and joining with their families makes the devastation any less heart-breaking. But it is good to rejoice when we can over what we can.
The big concern right now is transporting the children to an accessible air field. The other concern is for the orphans being adopted by Canadian families. There is some kind of big hitch between the Canadian and Haitian governments. . . We hope that can be straightened out very soon.
As my friend Suzanne points out, a lot goes into these international matters. I didn't mean to suggest that there's one piece of paper in front of the leader of each country that simply awaits a signature. But at the end of the day, there is either the will to make something happen, or there is not. All indications show that our Secretary of State wants to see these children evacuated. The big question was what kind of attitude the Haitian government would have. Thank God, it seems they are willing enough.
Let's continue to pray for these children as they await the execution of plans designed for them. Scarcity of clean water is still their biggest danger, and of course, lack of medicine for those infants who need it.
I so look forward to reporting to you about the day I meet these children at church! It's not that their survival and joining with their families makes the devastation any less heart-breaking. But it is good to rejoice when we can over what we can.
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