One of my reading goals for Sept/Oct was to read a work of fiction, for fun. You know, a “chill out, don’t underline anything” book. I wanted to have a story to be in other than my own, and Joanne Ramos’s book The Farm did the trick. I was drawn in right from the start and read it in just under a week. That is saying a lot, considering what my last week has been like. Then again, the timing to escape from my real life was a helpful distraction and comfort. I’ll explain further in a minute.

There ended up being maybe three or four sentences in The Farm I would have underlined, were it not a library book. They were lines I liked because of how the author strung the words together to deliver the feeling she intended. However, one line in particular, which happened to be on the Acknowledgements page, stood out to me because of its validity in my own life:

Another writer I like, Dani Shapiro, said the same thing another way. First, I must precede Shapiro’s quote with this quote from my beloved Annie. In her book Bird By Bird, Lamott says, “All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions…" What a relief!

What a relief, I say again. Writing is how I digest the world and how I know what I feel. Writing is the answer to so many of the questions in my life. Writing is a rampart, a peace, a conviction, a hope. It is a gift that I give myself and it is the way I keep showing up to my life as best I can.

But what I had to show up for in my life last week was not easy. Cash got a very bad case of poison ivy from pulling up roots of an “unknown” plant at their school’s Service Day recently. The reaction occurred a full seven days after exposure, and at first we thought he simply had some bug bites on his legs. We soon found out how mistaken we were, and I watched my child suffer through many hours of miserable itching as we tried everything I read or had recommended to me by friends as a way to provide relief.

After several long days of seeing no improvement yet seeing many tears shed by Cash, we were able to get him on an oral steroid, which still took a full three days to take enough effect that he felt a decent amount of relief. He is going to be on the steroid for several more days as we wait for the itching to subside completely. That kid has been sprayed, lathered, iced, and more - more than you want to know - in the last week. Many hours were spent of him either sitting in a chair under the grapevine out back with ice cold cloths on his legs, or laying on his back on a towel trying to get through a miserable bout of itching. Now I can finally say we are out of the woods, and plan to stay out of the woods.

Add that to the list of childhood traumatic experiences for our family: Story’s forehead wound needing stitches on the day of the solar eclipse, Sailor’s pinworms and lice (thank God, not at the same time), and Cash’s extreme case of poison ivy. Bauer’s daily sneezing and nose-blowing appears to be his burden to bear. Curse the curse, I say. And yet, this past weekend, I got to see how much my friends care for me.

When Story came down with a stomach bug on Saturday morning, on one of the worst days of Cash’s poison ivy, and TJ was out of town, it was more than I could bear alone. Numerous friends offered a meal, and we had a lovely dinner of chicken tortilla soup delivered by one of them. I had a friend who offered to drive my other kids home (at least thirty minutes out of her way) if Cash couldn’t go to school. I had many people praying for me and asking after us numerous times. I had a friend’s husband even offer to call in the steroid prescription for us, which was a life saver to my psyche in those low moments over the weekend, not to mention a life saver to Cash’s body as the steroid worked its magic so he could begin to recover. I even had a friend today offer to bring cinnamon rolls this weekend as a gift of comfort to our family. It’s never too late, I told her with gratitude.

I realized what a gift we have in these people who know and love us. And I also realized that I want to be THAT friend, the one who jumps to bring a meal, offer a ride, say a prayer, send another text, and do anything I can to make the road of suffering less scary.

What I digested of my world over those difficult days was that I control less than I think and my friends love me (and my kids) more than I think. I woke up on Tuesday, finally having all the kids back in school, and saw any hours I got to myself that day as a complete gift. Usually, I have my whole day on both Tuesday and Thursday each week packed to the gills with the things I want and need to get accomplished in my hours alone. But this past Tuesday was different. I approached the day from a much more humble state, having known the trials that started small (bug bites, ha!), grew big, and stayed big for much longer than I would have liked. The end, as it should be, was love and humility and gratitude and a fuller experience of life.

I am so thankful we do not have to relive this past week, but I am convinced that we could if we had to. My suffering led me to ponder Job’s suffering and all that he lost when God allowed severe afflictions into his life, many of them at the same time. It is good to think thoughts like these, instead of This is my life and how I’m gonna spend it. Instead I want to thank God for teaching me what love looks like and reminding me how little I control. I want to stay humble and open to life because Life is like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s good. I can’t tell you who said that, but I can tell you it’s true.