Someone To Blame...

Have you ever wanted to blame someone for something? To say - the reason I am going through all this pain and agony is because of YOU, or even ME. At least I can point the finger, narrow it down and say THIS, this is what caused all of this and now i'm going to avoid it. 

Just recently I have met a young lady who miraculously has gone through exactly what I am going through right now. It's a blessing for a few reasons, the first because 10 in 100,000 people in my age category are diagnosed with this disease every year. Second because she loves Jesus too, and not only does she get exactly what I'm going through, but she asks really good questions, and makes strong points. 

We were talking about the temptation to blame. The temptation to demand an answer to WHY? Especially why ME? When I'm sitting, and reflecting I can't help but thinking - ok, if there is this huge mass on my chest of cancer how did I not notice? The inevitable answer comes back with hindsight being 20/20. I hear something like you knew. You saw the strange signs, and symptoms. You were just scared to deal with it. Maybe that's true. Can I list my symptoms? Yes, but so can any website talking about Lymphoma. In all honesty - I was feeling off, I thought I had a cold which was affecting my ability to swallow, and something weird going on with the lymph nodes in my thigh - but my doctor assured me they were nothing to be concerned about. So, I can't really blame myself - can I blame someone else? 

I suppose I could blame my doctor, or even both doctors I saw before I was diagnosed who brushed off the symptoms as something less - but it's not really their fault either. I tend to be a hypochondriac, my doctor's first instinct with me is always "calm down Jana"  and she's usually right. 

I could look to blame something I ate, or something I didn't eat. I could blame not getting enough exercise, or maybe getting too much. I could blame my job for being stressful, for relationships that over the past year have fallen apart, failures I've had in dealing with my kids, my sometimes crushing awkwardness in social situations, my quick bite and lashing out in anger in the privacy of my van. Sure - I suppose it could be any of those things - or none of them.

I mean at least we can look at a heavy smoker with lung cancer and say really clever, helpful things like "Well what did you expect?" I mean, that always makes US feel better, or safe or something. 

If I can't find something to blame for this cancer - what am I going to point others toward blaming? 

So, when I'm out and I've forgotten that my hair is gone, and when someone stares at me with a mixture of horror and painful compassion I can almost hear what they are thinking...

"Dear God, what did she do to end up where she is??" I know - I'm not claiming I'm clairvoyant - it's what I was arrogant enough to think to myself. It's then I realize I'm not so different...

And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him. We must work the works of him while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. Having said these things; he spit on the ground and made mud with the saliva. Then he anointed ht man’s eyes with mud and said to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam.” (Which means sent). So he went and washed and came back seeing.”

John 9: 2 – 8

There it is. There's nothing to blame, no one to blame - not even me. There's no silver bullet, there's no quick cure. This is just the journey my feet are walking, and the very best part is, I'm not alone. I can walk, my hand in the very hand of God (though sometimes I feel like I'm just hanging on to his robes from behind) and trust him to lead me. Past, present and in to the future. To take off blame, and leave it where it is. There's no point taking it with me. 

Fight Like a Premie

Just before my first round of chemo, we were driving through a parking lot and saw the bumper sticker that has become my mantra, fight like a premie. Being born at 32 weeks, it seemed like I knew something about fighting when one is literally helpless. That's how I feel most of the time - helpless. 

There is nothing that I can do on my own to fight this disease in my body, literally every step, every push back, every blast given to this disease is administered by another dear, specialized person, and when the chemo works in my body - that is the hand of God, healing me one cell at a time. (The cancer cells explode when the chemo hits them - it's the little things folks). 

To truly fight like a premie, there were things I needed to know - 
- Premies can't check statistics
- Premies can't google their symptoms 
- Premies don't know what their odds are
- Premies don't spend time worrying or stressing
- Premies sleep, rest, cuddle 
- Premies like me are BALD 
- Premies don't need to understand what life is all about, they just know it's worth it
- Premies trust. 

Another thing that Premies have, is perspective. They aren't overly puffed up about "who they are" or "what they deserve." Lately, perspective comes frequently, and usually in the form of another soul. A young man, far away from his family, his body not responding to chemo. A little girl, with big eyes in the wig shop, she's only 7 and she's going to lose her beautiful brown hair. A grandmother, no longer able to care for herself, cancer for the fifth time, hoping for the social worker to find her a new home. A father of a baby girl, worried about how to care for his family while he's fighting for his life. A young man, a big smile, announcing that he is going to ring that bell on Saturday morning - his fight coming to a close. My dear friends - perspective. From where I'm sitting, I don't have it that bad, and that is how I am determined to fight, a healthy mixture of trust and perspective. I need to lay in the hands of my Father, and fully trust that he is fighting on my behalf.

Here's to round 2!
Merry Christmas to all! 

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.