My husband, Gary, and I climbed several mountains during his cancer years. The highest elevation we ever reached was a trail ending at an icy-cold lake in the Colorado Rockies — 13,850 feet up.
Author: Marlys Lawry Page 19 of 54
There was the statement that resonated with me: “If we’re not content single, we won’t be content married.”
A close friend’s husband has cancer. They’re saying maybe three, maybe four months.
And then there’s my sweet friend who lost her husband and young son to a sneaker wave. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Tragically.
My flight to Tucson earlier this week included three legs and two layovers that totaled twelve hours from drop-off to pick-up.
But I was prepared. I brought reading materials. And an intention to look for opportunity to do a random act of kindness. Or two.
In my ramblings on central Oregon trails this past week, several imperfect trees caught my eye. Not because they were imperfect. But because they stood out. In beauty. In uniqueness.
“You probably don’t want to make any major decisions within the first six to twelve months of widowhood,” my husband, Gary, said in one of our conversations about where his cancer was taking us.
How vital is it to see our world through the eyes of a child or an Alzheimer’s patient, to carry wonder as part of our inventory?
A couple months ago—while a solitary guest in a log cabin on a gazillion acres surrounded by high, snow-covered hills—I posted a blog about embracing “aloneness.”
While undergoing cancer treatment, 15-year-old Jan-Willem Knapen (JW) had the idea for a “home away from home” – a welcoming place close to the hospital with overnight lodging where families could stay together during a medical crisis.
Mother’s Day. With no children living nearby, I tossed my snowshoes into the back of my rig and headed up into the Cascades.
