A Cool Morning and a Long Exhale

This morning I'm sitting on the deck in my pajamas with a pink zip-up sweatshirt wrapped around me.

On the first day of August.

I can hardly believe it.

After rain the past couple of evenings, the air has turned wonderfully cool. I never would have imagined needing a sweatshirt this time of year, but I'm certainly not complaining. The older I get, the more I realize I don't enjoy extremes of any kind. Give me temperatures somewhere between forty and seventy degrees, a light breeze, and a cup of coffee, and I'm perfectly content.

The wind is moving gently through the trees. The wind chimes have been singing off and on, geese occasionally call overhead, and everything in the garden seems refreshed. Even the lemongrass looks greener this morning.

Yesterday was Rachel's first chemotherapy treatment.

It was a long day, but not much different than we expected. The biggest surprise wasn't the length of the appointment but learning that her treatment schedule would be changing. We had anticipated one rhythm and discovered that the clinical trial follows another. It means more frequent visits than we expected, especially during these first twelve weeks.

It wasn't the news any of us hoped to hear.

Not because of the number of treatments themselves, but because we had been clinging to the recovery time between them. Even so, some things simply aren't ours to choose. Once we understood the reason for the change, we did what families do.

We adjusted.

We'll rearrange calendars, routines, and expectations.

One week at a time.

Rachel handled yesterday with remarkable grace. We're watching carefully to see how her body responds over the next several days, thankful that, so far, she's doing well. There are little things to stay ahead of—drinking enough water, managing medications, paying attention to side effects—but those are simply part of learning a new rhythm.

I continue to be amazed by the kindness surrounding her.

A thoughtful card.

Fresh flowers.

Someone stopping by simply to introduce themselves and say, "If you need anything, here's my number."

Encouraging messages.

Prayers.

None of those things cure cancer, but they remind us that no one should have to walk through something like this feeling alone.

Yesterday also confirmed something I'd already been thinking.

I'm going to keep using CaringBridge for Rachel's updates. I briefly considered creating another place for family and friends to follow along, but the simpler I can keep things, the better. CaringBridge allows us to share updates while my blog remains the place where I process the journey from my own perspective.

They serve different purposes.

One tells what happened.

The other tells what it felt like.

The grandchildren have been here this week, and I've found myself quietly grateful for the peaceful atmosphere in the house. It's been good for all of us, especially for Rachel. Sometimes caring for someone isn't about doing something extraordinary. Sometimes it's simply helping create an environment where rest can happen.

John and I are hoping to spend a little time together today while Aaron stays with Rachel for a few hours.

We've realized we're out of practice when it comes to dates.

After forty-plus years of marriage, that sounds funny to say, but life has a way of filling every available space if you let it. Relationships need tending just like gardens do. They don't flourish simply because they've been there a long time.

Speaking of gardens, mine continue to remind me that every season has its own work.

The basil has begun to flower, meaning its season is beginning to wind down. The tomatoes, however, are at their peak. Last night, after one too many sweets, I found myself craving something fresh. A plate of garden tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh mozzarella, and a drizzle of lemon vinaigrette tasted better than any dessert could have.

Sometimes our bodies know exactly what they need.

My thoughts continue to wander to HYFIELD.

Every day the vision becomes a little clearer.

We're excited not only because of what the property is today, but because of what it represents for generations to come. More and more, it feels like we're investing in something that reaches far beyond ourselves. It's a place where roots can grow deeper, traditions can begin, and family can gather for years to come.

This fall, when everything becomes dormant, I'm hoping to transplant many of the berry bushes, fruit trees, and other perennial plants from this yard to HYFIELD. It feels fitting somehow. The things we've nurtured here won't be left behind. They'll simply begin a new chapter in a new place.

As I sit here finishing my coffee, I realize how thankful I am for this cool August morning.

Yesterday carried uncertainty.

Today carries hope.

Neither one changes the faithfulness of God.

And that, more than anything else, is what gives me peace.