Cancer.
A word no one wants to hear.
Unless, of course you are talking about the astrological sign where it is said for you to be known for your loyalty, caring, and adapting qualities.
Cancer.
A word I never wanted to hear.
It was August.
My father and I had grown apart, once again.
We could never agree on anything, it didn’t matter what it was.
Gay rights, politics, the existence of God, these were only some of the topics we argued about, constantly.
I remember saying things like, “I hate you!” and “I wish you were out of my life forever.”
“I hope you die.”
I hope you die.
Four simple words. Horrible words.
Words I only said once out of anger.
Add never between you and die and you completely change the meaning.
Later on, I would wish that I had added the never.
I was listening to the song “I’m Gonna Love You Through It” at full volume trying to block out my mother and fathers fight.
Only now do I see the irony.
My parents left the room.
I listened as hard as I possibly could only to make out the words, Malignant Lymphoma.
My world would completely change that August.
They say that when someone is diagnosed with cancer, everyone around them is as well. I never understood that, it wasn’t me that was dying, until I saw him come home from his first cancer treatment.
He was exhausted, my father, the man of steel could barely stand.
My life became morphed into the what ifs. What if he doesn’t make it? What if I lose my dad?
My life became mutated into a twisted picture as I tried to find every answer in text books and statistics.
18,990 people die from this cancer every year.
My dad always joked he would never make it to see 51…he was 49.
My mom broke down, often, gasping in air as if she would never breathe in again.
As if, she had forgotten how.
I stopped breathing. I had no estimation or approximation of when I would breathe in again.
Malignant Lymphoma. Cancer. Dying.
Those three words were all that I could think about.
I wanted to escape. I wanted to pretend like I was clueless. They say that ignorance is bliss.
I think that was about the time I stopped believing in God.
That night, as I tried to bring myself to pray, the words got stuck in my throat.
I couldn’t understand why.
Soon, treatment began, was unsuccessful, and now the cancer is spreading. .
That’s the thing about lymphoma.
It doesn’t go away.

He sits being torn through words of scorn
The realisation is starting to form

Through broken letters of hate and neglect
One finds his own inner respect

Now understands what they call "forgiveness"
Even though these lines are relentless

They're broken attempts to dismay his heart
These segregate demons apart

For he is now a growing system
Growing stronger in rhythm

Accepting light in new places
Welcoming new faces

All he desires is be the best he can be
That being said
"He" is me

-Joseph B Schneider

to bring bucket-fulls of peace back
and pour it out;
this is the object of your meditation

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.

The thought hits me that I "could" someday
be a great writer and captivate audiences.
I "could" be brilliant.
I couldn't even claim my own success,
what with all these sycophants
eager to pull the rug from under me
and call it their own.
Being a musician made me a musician.
Being a writer made me a writer.
Being an artist made me an artist.
Everything else just happened,
and even if it was poignant,
none of you feeble minded ****** built me.
Remember that waking up is the last step,
and the rest is incidental.
If it all blows up in my face
you'll remind me whose hand
was in that bomb, happily.
If it tips and falls over harmlessly,
you'll want to tell me how much
your guidance meant to me.
I can't even claim my own success.

Just a story.
When I was a kid... yes there was a time I was a kid, the garden was just South of the house.  Mom and I worked in the garden a lot.  Sometimes when she was not in the garden I would lay between the carrot rows, pull a carrot out of the sandy soil, brush off the sand and have a very fresh yummy carrot.  They were soooo tender they seemed to melt in my mouth.  Anyway, when I was finished eating the carrot I would put the top back into the hole.  No one was the wiser.  No one knew the difference or so I thought.  I did notice the carrot top would wilt which looked a little suspicious but... there was a gopher problem so maybe the gophers ate the carrots.  Sounded like a good story to me.  "Did the gopher eat the carrot mom?" "Yes probably so."

I found out years later.... Mom knew who the gopher was.  BUSTED.

I was telling this story to my grand daughter Lucy after school one day.  Her eyes brightened up and said, "That is a funny story grandpa."  So here it is added to the memories of a grandpa.  Lucy keeps telling people, strangers even, "you should hear this. Grandpa tell them about the carrots."  The story has latched onto her 5 year old brain and won't let go.

So... the next time you are eating a carrot... don't fib to your mom.