Four years ago as cancer was picking up speed, there was so much kindness and amazingness surrounding my husband, Gary, and me.
With each generous gift, with each acceptance of help when it was offered—apparently something I wasn’t good at doing until Daughter Summer pointed it out and started lecturing—God was reminding me I couldn’t carry this load alone; I needed this fiercely supportive team of friends, family, co-workers, cancer community members.
Photo by NordWood Themes on Unsplash
If we’ve lost something of incredible value — our health, a way of life, someone who is precious beyond words — then it’s important to grieve. To take our time and grieve in our own way.
At some point, though, it will be to our advantage and good health to set aside our sorrow and take a stab at living again. And while we’re learning to live again, see if we don’t become more attractive in the process.
Photo by Caique Silva on Unsplash
Not too long ago, I stumbled across an email sent in November 2014 as an update to our kids and siblings two weeks before my husband, Gary died:
“We’re home from Hospice House,” I wrote. “Gary’s still pretty sharp, his sense of humor is still intact, but there’s been quite a bit of change in the past week.”
Photo by boram kim on Unsplash
A couple years after my husband, Gary, died—after I took an early retirement and relocated to southern California—I discovered that I left my heart in Oregon.
One of my goals was to relocate back. The only [huge] problem was, the destination resort area at the foot of the Cascades that had been our home for 14 years isn’t known for affordable housing. I moved away because it was impossible to stay.
Photo: Pentax Forums
In time, though, and through miraculous intervention, I am now happily ensconced in a beautiful little guest house high on the side of a hill overlooking Bend, Oregon. With my own deck and sweeping views. And at an incredibly affordable cost.
Impossible. Done. Check.
My friends, Mac and Allison, invited me to join them this weekend for a game in Autzen Stadium in Eugene, OR. They have a grandson who plays football for the University of Oregon Ducks.
A tight end. Six feet, 5 inches tall. Two-hundred thirty pounds. A little, scrawny guy.
My friends’ grandson, Cameron McCormick (Photo SportsPress)
I was looking through some photos of my recent, more-fun-than-ought-to-be-allowed road trip, and came across this pic of my big brother and me standing at an observation deck above Snowbird in a gorgeous land called Utah.
Hanging out with big brother above Snowbird
Four more days until the September 22 Porch Fairy Challenge!
All photos: Marlys
A Porch Fairy is someone who leaves thoughtful gifts on a front porch—or on the hood of a car, or on the desk of a co-worker—when the occupants of the house, car, desk could use some encouragement.
Road trip! Three Mountain States in nineteen days. I’ve been to a gorgeous high-altitude ranch above Aspen, Colorado; a Utah ski resort busy with summertime activity; and as I write this, I’m holed away in a cozy, remote cabin in Idaho.
Photo: Pixabay
It seems I’m not afraid of road trips alone. Or staying in remote places alone. Yet, for all my bravado, there is something I’m a little afraid of.
A blog reader recently sent email about his wife who died too quickly after a cancer diagnosis. “I was unprepared and now alone. My awesome wife and friend … was now missing from my life,” he wrote.
Photo: Gary Johnson
At a one-day writers’ conference last spring, I had a 15-minute meeting with a literary agent. She asked me to tell her about my book proposal, and then provided excellent feedback from someone inside the publishing industry.
“I like a phrase you used: ‘How to live well through adversity.’ What do you mean by living well?” she asked.
Photo: Unsplash
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
