For the love of finding Me

Ok...so I can finally kind of say it - I have cancer. Actually, it's easier to say, I have Lymphoma because that's some how not as scary. But, a very clear distinction has developed for me - I am not cancer, nor am I defined by cancer. I am Jana. This is my current physical struggle, but it isn't who I am. Somewhere between staring at my steroid bloated face, imagining what I'm going to look like bald - trying on wig, after wig, after wig, being poked and prodded, and questioned and terrorized with IVs (all for my good of course), Jana is easy to lose sight of. But I've had this gnawing feeling that the me part of me wants to break out and run free.

I am family
I am faith
I walk with Jesus
I am laughter
I am strength
I am tears
I am compassion
I am smiles
I am good food
I am quality friendships
I am humor
I am quiet
I am patient
I am children
I am learning
I am growing
I am gifts
I am time
I am tea
I am talking
I am helping
I am healing
I am passion
I love to love and be loved
I am free


Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths (make straight your paths)

Proverbs 3:5-6

The Search for Light, on the Darkest Day of My Life

It's never easy to tell someone that they have cancer.

That's what the thoracic surgeon said.

I wanted to assure him in that moment, it wasn't easy to hear it, either.  The overnight thirteen hour episode that had led up to that point had been the strangest, most frightening, and surreal thing I had ever experienced. The hardest part though, was that he was talking about me, and not someone else who I didn't know real well. Some distant figure or face, that I could feel both sadness and fear for, but ultimately brush aside. 

It was me. 

And what he was telling me, that from this moment on, and for the foreseeable future, your life will be totally and completely on hold, stopped, upside down, something that you can't yet understand. He was right. It hasn't been the same since. 

It was like the darkness had found me. Swirling around and closing in over my head, too far to reach and if it was up to me, on my own I would have drowned, right then and there. But somewhere in the chaos of that moment, as quiet and steady as a deep, unknowable river I knew that Jesus was with me, and in fact he hadn't left me. 

He heard me cry, wail actually, and he was there.
He heard me deny, and get angry, and then cry again. He's heard me each time over the past week and a half, whenever fear, doubt, anxiety crept into my voice, or fell in tears down my cheeks. But I am with you. 
I have heard him speak,

I know he is.
I can see it over and over and over.

The lymph node in my thigh that went crazy, swelled up and got painful, which isn't typical - and is ultimately what sent us to emergency. 

My kind neighbor who came over in the middle of the night, the instant we called to be with the kids.

The very careful doctor who insisted on an x-ray, and the radiologist who pointed out the problem.

The fast acting system that had me in a CT scan that very morning. 

My sweet sisters who I woke at the very break of day, and who jumped into action, collecting our kids, taking them where they needed to go. Providing a home for them, a piece of normalcy that was a huge interruption to their day. Bringing me the things I needed, thinking through what I might need, and anticipating my needs perfectly. 

My parents who were on the road immediately, and on their way to help.

To each Doctor, Nurse, and care provider that I have encountered over the last week and a half. Their ability to give strength and encouragement, and even to help me to laugh. 

My husband who has been at my side for each and every minute, hour and attempt at putting an IV in my arm with his calm, warm and gentle way. 

In these instances and so many more, I see Jesus with me. This is something I am learning today, and will likely know more as the days carry on. God does not promise us a pain-free life, but what he does promise is that he will walk with us through every thing that we encounter good, bad or cancer. That I can tell you, is true. The Doctors believe that I have Lymphoma, and we continue to walk and wait to hear what the next steps will be, and whatever they are I know that they will be with Him. 

Black Olives for Papa

I don't remember a time when John Ganzert wasn't a part of my life. As a child, learning and trying to pick up cues to understand and be a part of the adults in my world, he was always a constant, steady presence. I knew he loved me because though he maybe never said it, his actions never gave me any reason to think otherwise.

Recently the adult in me has been a bit frantic about the fact that perhaps I was losing sight of the Papa I remember as a child, but as I have been sitting and reflecting, I am finding that somewhere knit into the fabric of who I am there are things I know about my Papa.

Like, seven straight lines of Solitaire cards, a rescue from a bus ride gone long, iodine smiles on bleeding knees, and a hand to hold on walks to the park. Story books on his lap, Square dancing and waltzes with Nona, sometimes not even anywhere special, just at home. Polka music in a warm car, Stroke survivors and endless soup lunches, a hearty appetite, golf and curling - now there was something that appealed to me as a little girl, after all Papa and his friends getting together to curl hair seemed perfectly natural. Imagine my surprise when I learned that curling was a sport, and actually had very little to do with hair.

There was never a missed birthday or a missed hug, the big silver shovel Ali and I could sit in together, and walks to the post office. Afternoon naps, giving up control of the remote even during hockey and baseball seasons, and waking very early to turn on Saturday morning cartoons. Countless sleep overs and help scrubbing purple elephants off arms and legs. Cinnamon and sugar pie crust treats, Papa's walks up the mountain, the smell of earth and the summer garden. The way his steps sounded coming up the stairs and feigned surprise when he saw we were visiting coupled with his reliable greeting, “hello, hello!” no matter what he always seemed happy to see us.

We had strange kinship, both of us beating the odds of illness.  It was, in fact, during those difficult days at four years old, I put five black olives on my fingers and showed my parents, declaring “this will make Papa better!” I’m here to tell you that it worked, linked of course with the grace of a loving God, and though faith wasn't something I ever remember being discussed, it was embodied through a lap to sit on, a crossword puzzle to examine, a steady, unchanging, unalterable love expressed through kindness, generosity, stories and laughter.

Perhaps that's a childish view, to gloss over imperfections, but it seems to me that in the fabric that pulls together to make me, those are the strands that bind.

I don't know a world without my Papa, and though I'm not overly keen to, I know that he would take a strong, steady step forward and so shall I. Knowing that he has shaped me in a quiet, consistent way.

One last thing, when you're sad remember, Black Olives for Papa, that will make it better.

On a Journey I'm still on...

I'm finally ready to make a truthful confession. I haven't been to church in a year, and I haven't even attempted to find another one. I'm not backslidden, I don't hate God, I don't dislike the church, I have just stopped going. I'm not going to lie to people any more, to tell them we're "in a transition", or that we just didn't "fit" into the last two churches we were in. I honestly can't say at this point when or if we will ever go back.

But why? Church has been an integral part of my life ever since I was small. Why would I just simply walk away?

Because I couldn't answer the one question that haunted me.

Jana, do you know me?

I thought I knew God, and how to live my life in the right way. I thought I knew what pleased him, and more importantly what displeased him. Of course I was "saved by grace" but I thought if I just repeated the Bible often enough, or if I attended church enough, or took care of babies in the nursery, or if I made coffee and served it to people, that would make the difference. But, the question kept coming. Louder. Stronger. So, I dived into teaching by pastors, and my anxiety grew. I was so consciously aware of the fact that I could never live up to the things that they preached, it was physically painful. I knew that deep down I could never truly be good, kind, thoughtful, respectful, loyal and on. and on. and on. So I pretended that I was those things until I finally knew the truth. I was a total and complete fraud.

On a Sunday morning, I would see my three precious children, dressed up, hair brushed and perfect, standing in our row, and all I could hear was the anger in my voice as I told them to hurry up and eat - we'd be late. The shouting I'd done over where exactly everyone's shoes were. The complaining I'd done all the way to the front door about running the coffee cart, and the knot I carried in my gut that both longed to be welcomed by people, but pushed people away because getting too close to people hurts. The smile on my face was followed by the distinct flavor of bitterness. Still, I couldn't answer that question.

Jana, do you know me?

It's been a strange year, not in church. Sometimes frightening. Sometimes lonely. But sometimes, beautiful and exciting. I have had the opportunity to start to really get to know the heart of Father. To ask some deep questions myself, even questions that sound heretical to my own ears, but that are always answered or discussed, or left for another time. I'm not afraid any more, and I can honestly say that we've had "church" come to us, in conversation, outings, driving to places, even at the very top of an old fashioned Ferris wheel.

I'm not saying this path is for everyone, I'm not here to convince you. It just happens to be the one I'm on. Walking with Father day by day.

The Silence of Shame - Thoughts on Normalized Sexual Assault

The resounding cry from women in the past few days: that sexual assault happens more frequently than we'd all like to acknowledge. That the reason sexual assaults are under-reported, is because women are afraid that they won't be believed and in reading some of the more aggressive, angry comments, they haven't been.


Several years ago, I participated in a study for women who had just had a baby. As a part of the process, I was interviewed extensively. At one point the interviewer asked me if I had ever been sexually assaulted. Immediately I answered no. I remember feeling surprised by the question, and relieved that I could answer no. It was the following questions that gave me pause.


"Have you ever been touched in a way that made you uncomfortable?"
"Have you ever received unwanted sexual attention?"
"Have you even been kissed, or touched in a sexual way that was unwanted or inappropriate?"


As the memories came flooding back, I can remember just being able to choke out a yes to all three. The memories were so vivid, and attached to deep feelings of inadequacy, self loathing, and shame, that those questions rolled around in my head for days, I talked about it with a few friends. I told them about the different times, when a guy I knew had sidled up to me, pressed against me, blocked me into my seat on the bus. When another thought a kiss was an invitation for a lot more, and another groped me, simply because he had the opportunity. When a grown man used to stare at me, tell me what a nice girl I was, what a good girl, and say over and over what a lucky guy my boyfriend was.


The sad thing? The stories my ladies responded with, were not just as bad, in most cases they were worse. Sweet girl friends of mine have been touched, fondled, kissed, groped, and even raped. Did they report these things? Talk about them at the time? Get help or support? No. Not a single one. Why? These guys were friends, boyfriends, adults in their lives. We had a plethora of excuses for them, he didn't mean it, I didn't think he realized what he was doing, how could he know what he was saying was making me uncomfortable? I didn't say no, or tell him to stop. I let things go too far. It wasn't his fault. I brought it on myself.


Of it all, what I remember most distinctly, is the shame. Of course I couldn't tell anyone at the time. They would look at me and say, you asked for it, didn't you?  What was a good Christian girl like you doing, out at night with a boy? I'm not really sure how God is ever going to be able to forgive you, now that you've utterly separated yourself from him. So, I never told anyone, I just left it to bore a deep, dark place, just deep enough to messily cover up, hide, and forget. I blamed myself for each and every time, I thought I had stepped outside of the cover of God's grace, and was irredeemable. Of course, I could make up for it by being "good enough", but the problem is, the shame never really goes away. God couldn't forgive me, because I couldn't forgive myself. Shame, it sits in the back of your throat and chokes the truth away, and in it all, I could never be good enough.


But, I'm learning something about God.  That he never left me. Even in those moments, where I was shocked, vulnerable and alone, when I felt dirty, and so low. He was even there, beside me in those times that I was intruded upon in the most intimate way. He loves me in every moment. I thought I hid from him, but was never hidden from him. That in his sight, in his love, shame can't breathe, thrive or exist. 


To my sweet friends who have been in these situations, and much worse. Shake free of shame, and speak. I believe you.

The Trouble with Blessin' Gettin'

Just recently one of my social media pages was clogged with a series of  “Blessin’ Gettin’” prophetic quotes and videos. It seemed that all I had to do was to click on the short video, watch it, then add a comment to the growing page - to be sure to receive my own portion of the excessively abundant blessing lined up to flow from the very throne of God to only those in humanhood fortunate enough to click “like”. To not click “like” and leave a comment implied that I would in fact NOT appreciate a blessing from the Lord...and that’s where things started to get awkward. As I scanned through several of the posted comments, my heart seemed to be torn in a two places. On the one hand, there are a lot of people out there who genuinely need some type of divine intervention in their lives - calls for new jobs, healing and restoration, and strangely, a resounding notion that, “It’s about TIME I received MY Blessing!!” I couldn’t help but feel desperate to point out, that these good Christians, are solidly missing the point.

Or are they? Have we not been taught that God loves us, and he shows us that love by showering blessings down upon us? If God is okay with what we’re doing, we might get the benefit of good health, food on the table and a nice family. But, if God is really happy with us, he’s going to bless us (because I’m going to keep telling him to) with piles of money, the perfect job, the perfect spouse, an exhilaratingly happy marriage and (when we’re extra special) a position of power and authority and our own personal following of devout people seeking our unending spiritual wisdom. Because of course, those are the things that would make us happy. Therefore, those things are blessings - because we exist for God to make us happy. Right?

Wrong. I can no longer understand the attitude toward God that reduces him to a mere genie. Is that really what we want? Imagine if my relationship with my husband echoed how I’ve treated God in the past. I would meet him at the door with my hands out, wondering what he’s brought me after work. When he only brought me one rose, instead of an entire bouquet, I would pout until dinner time, feeling deeply hurt and disappointed by him. When he finally put dinner on the table, I would wait expectantly for an after dinner surprise, and instead when Brad would ask for help with the dishes, I would pout extra hard, and throw the plates into the dishwasher. After dinner would likely not be any fun, as Brad might choose to play online games with his brother. This of course would lead me to growl, snap and cry until my eyes were swollen slits, after all - why wouldn’t he want to focus his attention all on me? At bedtime I would give him an earful about how he needs to think about his treatment of me. Of course, we wouldn’t go to bed angry - he would apologize.

I highly doubt our marriage would last very long. Enough. Really, enough. Stop and take a look in the mirror. What are we doing? The God of the Universe, wants to walk in an intimate relationship with each one of us, he sent his only son to die so we could be cleaned of our own sin, and how do we respond? We demand that God finally bless us, for all of the good we’ve done for him.

I can’t do it any more. My heart breaks, and cries out. It leaves me no where but feeling lost and deeply alone. The churning, growing desire for a relationship with God can no longer be satisfied by a relationship where my hands are held out asking for God to bless me. The turn has come, and I choose to walk in an intimate relationship with my Father. It’s terrifying - the control freak in me is rocking back and forth nervously, repetitively, but it’s time to trust. To put each circumstance of my life in the hands of my Father, and trust that he holds the outcome in his hand. To hear his voice say, come walk with me, and from there to follow.

Religious Disallusionment and the Rise in Snake Oil Sales

Lately I’ve found myself to be on a faith journey. It’s not one I started deliberately, and from where I stand now, it’s more than a little uncomfortable. I feel like I’ve climbed about halfway up a cliff face, and knowing what I know now, I can’t go back down, but pushing ahead looks like it’s going to be a challenging climb.

I grew up in an Evangelical Christian environment, with roots in the Word Faith movement. Because that was my whole world, it came as quite a shock to my parents, when I told them I wanted to date a CRC boy. Yes, we were both Christians, and yes, we both loved Jesus, but because of his lack of Evangelicalism I was somewhat concerned for his mortal soul. He married me anyway. These feelings lingered for several years into our marriage, and though my dear husband loved me, he never fully accepted my blatant evangelicalism. As wives do, I prayed fervently to God, asking him to please fix my husband, and I think that was when I had the first turning point that put my feet on a different path. God spoke to me. He said, “I don’t need to fix him, I made him that way.”

That was a kick in the gut for me. So, after all, God even loved people from the CRC tradition.  He wasn’t nervous about their non-charismatic theology, old songs, Apostles Creed, or long pre-written prayers. In fact, he loved their heart-felt worship, kind hugs and handshakes, and sermons. He appreciated their twice-a-Sunday services, and energetic kids Bible camps, and maybe - just maybe, I was on the wrong side of this one.

The idea that my Evangelical friends and I were just a cut above all the other Christians was an idea that didn’t want to vacate easily.  (After all - the Evangelicals are getting in to Heaven first) Then my Christian world imploded. I experienced a situation in which people who I admired and looked up to were angry, malicious, dishonest and cruel - all in the name of Jesus. Maybe that shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. I had bought into it all, the theologies like - God blesses those who bless themselves, God gives bigger and better to those who give bigger and better, good things will happen when you have enough faith, and other assorted beliefs. Leaving my relationship with God somewhat one sided, and scattered in pieces on the floor. 

In an effort to pick up the pieces and put them back together I’ve found myself breaking even more with certain Evangelical perspectives. So much so, that if I was asked to identify with a specific Christian background for myself - I don’t think that I could. I can no longer stomach the money driven Evangelical doomsday prophets who are touting fear and Trump at every opportunity, who are twisting the truth of the Bible and fully wearing an ALL-ABOUT-ME Christianity, just so they can say to those foolish enough to not want this brand of Christianity -  I told you so. People who are somehow okay with church members hiding in pornography on Saturday night, and then cursing out a Gay family on their way in to worship Sunday morning. Who think that love and forgiveness should only come on their terms, and to people who think exactly like they do.

I can no longer stop the questions that are bubbling up from my soul that demand an answer. How do we welcome Muslim refugees? What is our responsibility to people of other faiths? How do I get rid of my own racism and fear of the future? How do we get beyond irresponsible Christian platitudes like “love the sinner, hate the sin”? How do I actively LOVE my LGBTQ brothers and sisters like Jesus would? What will make my own faith relevant to my children? Will they see my faith centralized in the person of Jesus Christ - his life, death, burial and resurrection? How do I love the people who want to hate? How do I respond to people with love, even when they think differently from me?

I asked God these same questions. He answered me. Matthew 7:7 - Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you will; find. Knock and the door will be open to you.

I never thought about the measure of faith it takes to knock on a door - yet, we practice it every day. Once you knock, there is always a period of waiting and trusting that the door will be opened. I also never thought about God’s invitation to ASK and SEEK. For a very long time, I’ve let good religious people tell me what to think and how to think it. It’s time I started to think on my own. God isn’t worried when I read Matt Walsh’s blog, nor does he get concerned when I read John Pavlovitz blog, he isn’t threatened when I question the messages that I hear, and it doesn’t even bother him when I don’t agree with my Pastor. He wants me to ask and seek for him, and I know that I am not able to wander too far from my good Shepherd’s side.