Many towns will be having the "Relay for Life" tonight, a fund-raiser for Cancer. For the participants, it is a night to show support to others, and for many, a night to celebrate a victory over this disease. A year after my father died of pancreatic cancer, I wrote a book about his, and our, journey and the impact on our lives, called Cancer Can't Destroy Love. The selection shared today is a section lifted from a longer piece called, "Reflections on the Night." It shares the joy of the Survivor's Lap and more about my dad's battle. Today's passage is only a section of the part of the same name in the book, so you "enter" the reading after it has already started.
At the Relay for Life last year, as I watched the
Survivors take their lap, I also thought of my dad. The spring before, just a year earlier, he
thought his life was on track and it was smooth sailing ahead. By the fall, he lost his only battle with
pancreatic cancer.
While the teams usually spend the night and there are
activities to do, one of the most special events, held near the end of the evening,
is called the “Luminaria.”
For this event, they put out sand filled bags with a
candle in it around the track. My family bought bags in honor of teachers, and
in memory of Bev and my dad. Each bag, either “In Honor” of a Survivor or someone living with cancer or “In Memory” of someone that did not make
it, shines out like a beacon of hope for the future.
The bags are arranged in an endless circle, but they
are no longer bags of sand with a candle inside. As they are lighted and shine
in the dark spring night, they are transformed in some beautiful, magical way.
Muted lights flicker bravely, creating a shimmering
beauty that is unmatched by any other.
It is breathtaking, at once calming and uplifting. It is a reminder of the many people touched
by cancer. For every one of the softly
glowing lights, there were dozens of people affected by it.
Walking around the track, you see the names, some that
you recognize, of those that are special to someone there. Each name, while highlighting a loved one,
was yet another way of raising funds in the fight against this disease.
When you see the name of your own loved one, it is a
touching moment. It was as if he were
with me in some way. I had a hard time viewing the Luminaria last
year. I felt more alone than I recall
being in my entire life. Although I was
there with a group, none were with me at that moment.
While I was alone in body, my soul was not alone. I felt God’s embrace holding me up, and held
tight many loving memories of my father.
As hard as it was without him, I knew I would survive, for I was not
truly alone.
Perhaps that is appropriate. While the person with cancer seems most
affected, the loved ones are scarred for life as well. Even if surrounded by friends and other
family members, each person makes his or her own peace, or not, with cancer
individually. Sometimes, it takes time.
Sometimes, it never happens.
As I prayed for the people still fighting, and
celebrated with those that had survived, I also remember saying over and over
to myself, “It’s not fair. It’s not
fair.”
One of the things that my father frequently told my
sisters and me growing up, and later, his grandchildren, is that “Life is not
fair. Deal with it.” He lived that in
the way that he dealt with cancer, never losing his dignity or sense of
responsibility towards his family.
My father was a good man, well loved by so many. He was kind and never knew a stranger.
No, it is not fair.
Cancer is never fair.
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