How did this happen? How did my little boy, who was always so compassionate to everyone and everything, become a soldier? The same little boy who used to bring injured animals home almost every day, who never met a person he wasn’t instantly friends with, who never met a stranger? Who now talks about having to escort injured children to the medical clinic under armed guard?

But yet, I still see glimpses of him every now and then. When he tells me how these same small, frightened, injured children were so needy and so poor. How his heart hurt so much for the littlest one who had been burned so badly. Of how he found a jacket for the smallest one, and gave them his own socks for their feet. How he gave them coloring books and candy, backpacks and shoes. How they let him take their picture with him, and how they are all smiling. I still see the little boy in the smile that he wears in every picture, and how his eyes still shine with the compassion that he has always felt. I still see him in the hope that he expresses, that by his service and sacrifice others will have a better life.

And I realize that under the cloak that he wears on the outside… the persona of a soldier… that he is still the same loving, caring, and compassionate person. Only now, he is a loving, compassionate man. Oh, Lord, may he ever be so!

My Mother’s Gift

Each of us has in our lives a person who has a profound  impact on us, someone who helps to mold and shape us. For some it is a teacher or coach, for others it is a minister or  a friend. For me, that person was my mother, Faith Hill. My mother shaped and influenced my life by giving me a precious gift — the gift of music. As I was growing up, our house was filled with music. The sounds of swing, big band, soundtracks from the old musicals and sacred music were a constant accompaniment to our daily lives, a colorful background of sound.

My mother was short — only five-foot, three inches tall and plump, with beautiful, thick, wavy hair that was already going grey by the time I was born, but she had the voice of an angel. She was forty years old when she had me; the last of a “brood” of children. She had a quick wit and a fiery temper when roused to anger, but she was gentle and soft-spoken most of the time. I had trouble reconciling the older woman that I saw every day with the willowy, auburn-tressed beauty that I saw in old photographs.

She was born in Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1927, to well-off parents. Her father was a Master Electrician who owned his own electrical company, as well as several other local businesses. Her mother ran a boarding house from their home and they spent their summers on “The Cape”, as Cape Cod was known to the natives. They also operated a summer villa called “Pilgrim Acres” to which the tourists flocked during the warm months.

My mother was a child prodigy, receiving training in both voice and piano. She gave her first recital at age six, and went on to perform in many other local and college productions. She was a classic operatic soprano, and I remember the songs she would sing to me when I was a small child. She received her Master’s Degree from Boston University and went into social work as a profession. She endured a short, painful marriage to a “local boy” and divorced after only a few short years. After her divorce she moved to St. Petersburg, Florida, where she met and married her second husband — my father.

My “real” relationship with my mother did not begin until I was an adult. It was then that she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It seemed as though my entire world stopped turning the day she asked me to look at a lump she had found in her left breast. In a blur of activity, we ran to the doctor, then to the surgeon, and finally to the hospital. Before I knew it she had undergone surgery and was lying in the hospital bed, looking frail and small. She came home from the hospital to my house, where I cared for her as she went through the many long, long weeks of chemotherapy. I vividly recall the day that her hair started to fall out from the effects of the poison that was meant to kill the cancer cells, but in reality killed much more than the “bad” cells. I was helping her to bathe, and as I washed her hair it began to come out in clumps in my hand. Those beautiful, wavy locks just seemed to give up and go away. I reassured her, saying, “Oh, Mom, it’s not too bad. You still have plenty of hair left!” as I cried quietly behind her.

As we went through the years and suffered many setbacks and celebrated many victories together, she began to tell me many things that she remembered from her childhood, and from the years when my siblings were children, before I was born. I remember the cold, rainy November day when I found her crying in her room, and she told me about the day that my sister, Norma, had died. I had always known that I had a sister that had died as an infant, but it was abstract to me since she had died before I was born, and we didn’t talk about her. I saw my mother’s pain that day as she told me about finding her baby dead in the crib and her need to protect her other children from the horrible event that was unfolding around them. In those days, the late 1950′s, the death of a child was an event that was supposed to be dealt with and then moved on. There was no grief counseling or group therapy. The child was buried and then not really talked about any more. That day those events became real to me as I realized that my mother still grieved for her child that was lost so long ago.

As my relationship with my mother began to deepen, she encouraged me to continue singing. Although I had grown up singing with my brothers and sisters, I had never been part of an organized choir. In 1993, I auditioned for and was accepted into the local college choir. Mom was so thrilled when I told her the news! She enjoyed looking at my music with me and helping me to practice. She would even play my part on the piano to help me learn the right notes. She received such joy from the music and faithfully attended all of my concerts, raving about how well we had done. I would find her face in the crowd and I would sing to her from the stage. She would look at me and smile such a beautiful smile of  joy that I could feel the love and support emanating from her.

One of the biggest regrets of my life is that she and I were never able to sing together as adults. In 1986, Mom had a stroke that cruelly robbed her of her beautiful singing voice — the voice that gave expression to the music in her soul. I did not truly understand the depth of her loss until one day, while driving to yet another doctor’s appointment, she asked me, “Do you think that when I get to heaven I will be able to sing again?” That question revealed to me the agony of her spirit, the pain that she felt at having her voice silenced forever.

In the fall of 1998, the cancer spread to her spine, her pelvis, and her hips. She decided that she was tired of fighting and wanted to spend her last days with her family. Once again I moved my parents into my home, where I could care for my mother in her final months on this earth. I made sure that her last moments were filled with joy and music. We spent many long hours talking together and I made sure that she knew how much I loved her and how much she had helped to shape my life. The day before she died, I spent eight hours singing to her, and when my voice was too tired to sing anymore, I played her favorite music on the stereo beside her. By that time she was in a coma, but I knew that she could still hear. I wanted her to be able to leave on the music, as she had lived her life.

Mom is gone now but I still sing to her. She was more than just my mother. She was my best friend. She encouraged me in everything that I tried to do, and I miss her gently spirit and the way that her face would light up when I sang to her. She was, and still is, the driving force that helped to shape my life. Now it is my home that is constantly reverberating with music, my heart that is filled with perpetual song. I wake up in the morning and reach for the music as others would reach for a cup of coffee or a cigarette. When I perform I can almost sense her there, looking on and continuing to encourage me. Since her death I have gone back to school to pursue a degree in music. The purpose of my life is to bring music to others, to pass along the gift that my mother gave to me… the gift of music.

But the reaction from some of my friends was the most unexpected. Those that I thought were closest to me withdrew, and those whom I barely knew charged to my side. I remember a phone conversation with a dear, trusted friend in which he told me, “I just don’t know what to say to you anymore.” I replied, “Why can’t we just talk about the same things we always talk about? I haven’t changed, I still like everything that I used to like. My diagnosis did not instantly change who I am.”

There was so much information to go through, so much to read and learn. I made every effort to learn everything that I could before we made any decisions. One of the tests that I had done was a test to determine the genetic markers and the risk of the cancer coming back. I made up my mind that if that test was positive that I would have a double mastectomy. My husband and I discussed it, and I had his full support.

One of my nephews was still reeling from the shock of it all. He began to talk to my husband, telling him that I was over-reacting in wanting to have a double-mastectomy, etc. I finally had a face-to-face talk with him, a “come-to-Jesus” meeting, if you will. In addition to sharing with him all of the research that I had been doing, I told him quite frankly that if he was unwilling to support me in the way that I needed him, then it would be better if he just didn’t come around. That put an end to his “suggestions” rather quickly.

I found that it was important that I tell each person what I needed from them, and to just be blunt and straightforward about everything. That was not in my nature to talk that way, so it was a learning experience for me.

During this time I leaned on the Lord more than I ever had before. I just thought that I had been leaning on him in the past year with everything that we had already gone through. It was an odd situation for me, in that I didn’t do a lot of “churchy” things. I didn’t pray more, didn’t read the scriptures much at all to be honest, didn’t “cry out” to Him in words and sobbing. In fact, I didn’t cry at all. But I turned to my music even more, as that was the source of my greatest strength. I have always had a passion for music, but now I immersed myself in it. I would listen to my music and let the words of those songs fill my heart, as they were the words that I wanted to say. I would sing along with the music,  or just sit quietly by myself and listen to it. I would just sit there and “be with” the Lord. And, invariably, I could sense Him with me.

One of my favorite songs from that time is “Bring the Rain” by MercyMe. I am including the link to it here, if anyone would like to listen. I find that this song still applies as much today as it did then. Anytime that I am struggling with something, I remind myself that the situation is a passing trial, and that the Lord is still the same. He is always with me, He is always in control, and I will always love Him, no matter the circumstances of my life.

I hope you enjoy this song, and may you have a blessed day!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8HgAVenbUU

In thinking back, I remember going to the doctor for the results. Somehow, I just knew that the biopsy was going to be positive, even though I had already gone through several biopsies before, and everything was normal. I remember the look on the doctor’s face when he came in the room, and I remember feeling like I was just wrapped in cotton. My poor husband looked like he had just been kicked in the stomach by a mule when the doctor gave us the news. But I was utterly calm. My mind just immediately kicked in to “action mode”… what do we do now, where do we go from here.

I had lost my father only about a month before this, and I was so glad that he was gone so that I did not have to tell him this news. My mother died from breast cancer, and I know how much it would have devastated him to know that his daughter now had the same disease. I made the necessary phone calls to family and friends, and asked for prayers. I remember having a discussion with God at some point in time, and asking Him that if I truly had to go through this, that I could do it in such a way that others would be able to see Him in me.

I have chores and errands that I have to do today, but I will pick this up again later. I am just sharing ramblings and musings this morning. My mind is going back through this again today, so I thought that I would share some of it.  May you each have a blessed day.