Christmas is one of the most anticipated celebrations by children and adults alike; and while it has an official date on the calendar, it has become more than a one-day holiday. Christmas has taken on a life of its own and grown into a months-long season that now overlaps Thanksgiving and sneaks into stores long before Halloween becomes a chocolate lover’s memory.

It has truly become the celebration of celebrations and the holiday of holidays to many!

“Mr. Christmas” himself, Andy Williams, sang a song in the early 1960s called, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” The lyrics paint a picturesque scene of the magical season with “kids jingle belling, parties for hosting, marshmallow toasting, caroling out in the snow, much mistltoeing, and hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near”….and don’t forget, “it’s the hap-happiest season of all.”

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“I can’t believe Carl has cancer!” The man’s declaration about my husband’s terminal illness threw me for a second.

“Why can’t you believe that?” I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

“Well, because y’all are so involved with your church!” YEP, there it is….

I replied, “Jesus never promised us a trial-free life, only that He would be with us when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Just because we are Christians doesn’t mean we are immune to the sufferings of this world.”

I heard the words coming out of my mouth and I knew them to be absolute truth…but somewhere down deep in my heart, the sting of the word “cancer” released fear and dread throughout my entire body once more.

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My husband, Carl, and I were running errands and decided to stop and eat at a local sandwich shop.

The young man that delivered our food seemed somewhat shy and wouldn’t look at us as he nervously asked who had the mac and cheese with their French Dip. His speech wasn’t really clear and it was obvious he was doing his best in a world that he didn’t quite fit in with.  

But he was super sweet. You can always tell the sweet ones…

I don’t know if it was my “Momma’s heart” or me being ultra-sensitive, but big, giant tears began to roll down my cheeks as I watched this young man awkwardly doing his job, a job well done, nonetheless.

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Greeters at the door…check. Stage with pulpit…check. Coffee and donuts…check.

I sat on the back row trying to avoid any type of eye contact with those people who obviously realized I was a visitor and was doing their very best to welcome me. A fake smile, a quick handshake, and a brief name exchange and I could go back to peering through the eye-holes of the mask I put on for just such an occasion.

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He had a very sweet and gentle spirit about him…and his eyes were kind. Not in that condescending or sympathetic manner either. I could tell he’d done this before.

I couldn’t be a doctor; especially one who can say the hard things with that much poise and grace.

The doctor stood there with his kind eyes and gently delivered the horrific blow, “It’s a cancer of the blood… in the same family with Lymphoma and Leukemia. It’s called Multiple Myeloma.” We sat there in stunned silence. “…and, there is no cure.” His words delivered the final punch.

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“Your story is the key that can unlock someone else’s prison. Share your story.”

This quote is hauntingly bittersweet to me.

To tell my story, I’d have to bear my soul. To bears one’s soul is to break down the walls so carefully erected for sanity and self-preservation.

To tell my story is to rip open all of my wounds and scars exposing every hurt, shame, and humiliation… as well as the years of assaults on my heart and mind while telling the world, “Would ya take a look at that?!”    

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