Hope is a Powerful Motivator

This is my second 90-minute scan since Thursday. Wow, this journey is exhausting. I didn’t fully understand how tough fighting cancer was, and like I keep saying, you never know what someone else might be going through. Be kind. 🤗

Anyway, I can hardly wait to get home, give the kids their charms from the gift shop (they love it 💓), play a board game with Mike, and snuggle Borah.

I met a family from Africa today. They were so grateful to be at the Huntsman specifically. It sounds like this cancer center might be their only hope at beating the exact cancer they’re facing. I need to remember to pray for them. To travel from soooo far away… Just the thought was sobering. And I act like Idaho is far 🤦‍♀️😅

One single day—the value of time

The dream is always the same, my mind’s way of processing terminal cancer.

In my dream, I’ve died and I’m missing my family, wishing I could see them, talk to them, hug them… one last time.

“Would you like to go back and repeat a day from your life on Earth?” God’s voice is strong yet gentle, just like His hand—the one I’m standing in right now. I look at the giant lines on His palm and the callouses on His fingers. What type of work caused callouses on the hands of God? Is He a musician like me? Does He work and toil too?

“Any day?” I ask, unable to hold the eagerness from my voice. To see my kids, Mike, and my loved ones again, well, that sounds like… Heaven. It’s suddenly ironic how subjective Heaven must be.

“Yes, Elisa. Any day.”

I think then about the days each of my kids were born, their milestones and triumphs; the moment I met Mike, our first kiss, our honeymoon; running a newspaper in Blackfoot, Idaho, and chasing so many stories my boss nicknamed me “Scoop”; visiting Italy, Mexico, Arizona, or Missouri with family; playing my violin for crowds and feeling the pulsing unity only music can bring… Each of those days were incredible, but would I want to experience them again? Or would that tarnish the memories? Plus, I wouldn’t want to change a thing. So, I shyly look down at my clasped hands, and I do something that surprises me.

“If it’s all right, God, I’d pick a regular day, nothing special. Just a day when I can talk to everyone I love.” I think about the words then. How interesting: What my life boils down to isn’t about my career, degrees, accomplishments, or experiences. At the end, to me the only thing of value is that my loved ones KNOW how much I love them. That I believe in them. That I’m proud of them. That they matter in general but especially to me. That is all I want in the end.

“A regular day. You’re sure?” He asks.

I nod.

“Well, to talk with everyone… You met a lot of integral people toward the end of your life. What if it’s a day with suffering? After doctors discovered melanoma had gone to your brain? You’d still pick a day like that?”

I think for a moment. “As long as I can talk to everyone I love. Well, then it would be worth it.”

—

I wake up then, and most of the time after having this dream, I’m groggy and half asleep, wondering if this is my one day to “live” again. Seconds later, I shake off these thoughts and slowly start my day. But even though I’m living in a new “normal,” and I can’t walk quite right since melanoma ate my L3 and doctors removed a section of my spine… Even though I’m actively getting treatments and throw-up bags seem to be my best friend… Even though there are days when I want to complain because doctors say I’m slowly dying… After I’ve had this dream, I stop.

If I had died and this were my “one day” to re-experience life and tell my family and friends how much I love them, would the pain and sadness about cancer matter quite so much? Probably not.

So, it’s 5 a.m. on Dec. 24th, and I woke up after having this dream again. My back is flaring with pain and the damaged nerves in my legs and arms are tingling with electric shocks and as if they’ve simply fallen asleep from lack of blood flow. But I know this is “normal” when my pain medicine wears off. When faced with something like cancer, trauma, or any terminal illness, each of us discover what price we will pay in order to live. This. Is. Mine. I chose this. And you know what? That’s okay.

So, I’ll treat today as if it were my one special day to come back. I’ll reframe the pain, try to bring joy to people around me, tell everyone in my life how much I love them, and hope today will be as wonderful as it can be.

Although I’m not in remission, my crappy attitude sure is. Even though there isn’t a cure for the mutation of melanoma that I have (yet!), I would be a fool to forget how lucky I am to even be alive. My life is pretty good. I’ve lived a year longer than doctors expected, and I’ve realized the true value of… time.

The “Little Caesars Dancing Man” worked tirelessly, spinning his sign on the corner of Antelope and Main. Regardless of how hard his job must’ve been, he beamed, so happy and ALWAYS kind.

My kids were still quite little, and they’d smile and point as he’d spin the sign on his foot and flip it over his head. We saw him from our car nearly every day, and no matter what kind of crappy mood I’d been in, this stranger would always make my day better.

In fact, I received some really bad news one particular afternoon, but as I drove home, I spotted the #LittleCaesars Dancing Man, just rockin’ away to some unheard beat. The light turned red, so I continued watching his complete exuberance for life. I fully realized then; he's perpetually happy even though he's out there, working in the blistering sun or the freezing cold. He waves back and smiles. You’d think he didn’t have a worry in the world, but in actuality, he must have been so tired.

That day, I turned right instead of going straight home, parked by the dancing man, and decided to finally meet him.

“I’m Raymond.” He grinned, offering me his hand.

“I’m Elisa!” I smiled and knew an awesome friendship had begun. Then I told him what an inspiration he is—how he might not know it, but he makes life better every day for people like me and my family. He grew quiet, and I thought the words meant far more than I knew.

When I got home, I friend requested Raymond through Facebook and blogged about my experience.

A couple of weeks later, I received a letter from Little Caesars’ corporate office across the country. They’d actually read my blog and sent two $20 gift cards! They had one request: for me to keep a card and give one to someone else. I remember reading the letter in the post office, then I gave the second gift card to the post office employee, John. He said the story was even better than the money!

The whole experience felt surreal at the time. And to think, if I’d never stopped that day, I would’ve missed out on the whole adventure.

Raymond and I became friends for well over 10 years. I watched him experience good and bad times—and he smiled the whole way through… just like he used to when he danced for Little Caesars. Then, in 2020, after doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer, he became one of my biggest advocates, sending me encouraging messages and kind words when I needed them the most. Who would’ve thought all this would start after I saw him spinning a sign on the corner of Antelope and Main? Life is such a miracle.

I’ve had the most wonderful people, like Raymond Lowery, come into my life over the years and show me how to be strong, smile when life is the hardest, and keep going against all the odds.

Rest in peace, dear friend. You made such a positive impact on my life. I think you did that for everyone you met though. You, well, Raymond… you were incredible. Put in a good word for me, all right? Maybe save a seat for me in Heaven? 💓

#wholesome #heartwarming #heartwarmingholidaystory #holidaystory #ecstilson

Throughout my life, I’ve written letters, addressed them to God, and dropped them off at the post office. I did this when my first son died, when I got divorced, and when I finally attained my bachelor’s degree after being a single mom. I never included a return address or a clue to my identity. This was just my message in a bottle, so I felt like Heaven heard me…

Today, I thought about this at the pharmacy. Mike had tried getting my prescription, but there are national shortages on many medications—and mine are some of them. “They ran out,” Mike said, coming back to the car. “Sorry that took forever; there’s a huge line.”

“But… my oncologist called yesterday. They have just enough for 18 days.” And then I did something I rarely do in front of Mike; I cried.

We walked back into the pharmacy to see six people in line, and as we stood there, my right leg began to shake. “You should go sit down.��

“It’s okay,” I told Mike. “I don’t wanna miss when it’s our turn.” They hadn’t listened to him. Maybe they would listen to me.

At different points, each person in front of us glanced back. They all seemed around my age (40) or younger, healthy, probably doing some Christmas shopping. Then, I had the audacity to think, “Why don’t they offer to let us go ahead? Mike was just in here. And I can barely stand this long.”

One man in line called his mother and complained while we waited. “Hi, Mom.” He paused. “Yes. Just at the pharmacy. There’s a huge line.” Another pause as he glanced back, listening to her reply. “Right?! He said he can’t even face his friends unless he gets a new gaming system this year.” He exhaled with such force that I clocked it at 50 mph. “Oh! And you know I take Nicki on a shopping spree every year? It just never seems to be enough. I hate this time of year. Are all women that needy? No wonder men joke about marriage.”

Mike looked at me and smirked. I plastered a smile onto my face, but it felt subpar. I thought of this woman, “Nicki.” Meanwhile I’m just praying for another week, another day, another moment with my family.

After a bit longer, they called us up and my leg shook so badly that I held the counter in a death grip. “I have terminal cancer,” I said, my eyes pleading with the pharmacist and my knuckles turning Porcelain 10.

“It’s for Magagna, right?” He looked at Mike, remembering him from earlier.

“My oncologist called yesterday and said you have enough for 18 days,” I begged.

“But like I told your husband, we can’t fill this for the full 30 days. We don’t have enough for this prescription.”

“My doctors’ office is closed for the weekend, and I’ll be out of this tomorrow. If it’s not too much to ask, can I please have the 18 days?”

He typed something into the computer, and my breath stopped. He practically held my life in his hands. “This’ll take about 15 minutes. I’ll come get you when it’s ready? You can take a seat over there.”

I noticed then how stressed the pharmacist looked. “I’m sorry about the line,” I suddenly said. “This must be a stressful day for you too. Thank you for your help.”

His peered at me and Mike, his eyes widening with disbelief. “What you're both going through is so much worse. I’m sorry you have cancer.”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t ask for it.” I tried to laugh, but it came out like a hiccup. Then I turned away.

Mike decided to shop for some ice melt, and as I walked toward the chairs, I fought falling into the throes of irony. A private corner seat, behind a display of reading glasses, seemed ideal. I felt secluded as I mulled my thoughts. Why had this hit me so hard? Then it came to me, the thing I’d said to the pharmacist: “Let’s just say I didn’t ask for it.”

One of the hardest things about cancer is knowing it can affect anyone. I’d gone from participating in marathons to barely being able to walk to my mailbox. I faced the pharmacy’s northwestern wall and tears flooded my cheeks. I have terminal cancer. And there’s no denying it. Every moment in pain is a reminder.

God, not this! Not here. Wiping my face with my scarf, I dug a medical bill from my purse and flipped it over. “Dear God,” I wrote, hoping to calm down.

Dear God,

I didn’t choose this situation, and right now that’s hard. I don’t want to have terminal cancer anymore. I want a day where I don’t feel sick at all. Even ONE day. Just to remember what that was like. I’ll appreciate it so much. God. I feel trapped in my own dying body.

I hate knowing that without certain medicine I’ll die. I hate that these are my fears while some man’s wife is upset that she won’t get as much STUFF as she did last Christmas. Seriously?! I need strength. Strength to stop judging people.

Strength to keep getting cancer treatments. Strength to not complain and let this turn me into a bitter person with a curdled soul. No one can uncurdle milk! (Well, I guess YOU can.) But anyway…

Another person called last week and said I should quit getting treatments because I don’t have a quality of life. I laughed at first, but on my hardest days, I remember their words and it’s hard to keep going.

God… I’m sorry to be so judgmental. I really am. I’m working on it.

AND… if it’s not too much to ask, can you please give me strength? I know you’re gettin’ a lot of requests though, so if you can’t, I understand.

-Elisa

—

At that moment, I glanced toward the counter and spotted a woman who looked 10,000 times worse than me. She’d lost her hair and probably weighed 100 pounds—even with her walker. She could barely walk and hunched so badly; I wanted to pick her up in my arms and hold her tight. Why hadn’t I looked back when I was in line? Why hadn’t I offered to trade HER places? Screw my aching hips and shaking leg. Why hadn’t “I” done more? Then the answer came: Because I was too wrapped up in my own problems. And that’s exactly why other people hadn’t offered to help me…

Woah. Mind blown…

I suddenly felt sympathy for the man whose family always wants more. I felt bad for his wife who doesn’t know what really matters. I felt even more compassion for the pharmacist who’d just been yelled at and wiped sweat from his brow. And I felt a bit of strength come with every second that I stopped focusing on myself.

“You wanted to swing by the post office?” Mike asked as we walked out of the store.

I looked at the letter I’d written on a medical bill. It simply had my first and last name above all of the numbers. For the first time, I’d broken my one rule: to never write a letter to God that included personal information. “No, it’s all right. We can just go straight home,” I said.

With one hand, I crumpled the bill and threw it into a big garbage can at the front of the store. God had already answered my prayer. He’d given me strength AND empathy. I guess He really can hear us anywhere, even in a pharmacy in southeastern Idaho. Plus, He didn’t charge for same-day delivery or anythin’.

For more posts like this, please follow my page at https://m.facebook.com/realecstilson .

The Key to Happiness

I couldn’t help thinking that despite cancer, I truly have everything. But the brunette who vented at the table across from mine felt far differently. "I'm just soooo miserable," she said to the woman with her.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but Sky had gone to the bathroom, and I couldn't stop myself from listening. "We don't have ANYTHING.” The brunette pouted. Her beautiful sweater glistened under the restaurant's lights.

I shoved some fettuccini into my mouth and chewed. Maybe this would keep me on track. It’s not nice to eavesdrop.

"If he worked harder, we'd have a bigger house."

"I know, honey. He promised you so much," the gray-haired woman responded.

"Check!" I waved down the waitress.

Later that day, Trey and Indy asked if we could visit the music store. I agreed, thinking maybe it would banish the brunette’s words from my thoughts. Maybe there was more to her than what met the eye? But she’d complained about everything: the food, her friends, that her husband didn’t make more than 100-grand a year…

I couldn’t stop thinking about it or why it flummoxed me. That’s when my nausea peaked and the fettuccine almost made a comeback. See! That’s what eavesdroppin’ will do to ya!

“I'm gonna step outside,” I told Trey and Indy.

So, I stood on the curb, hoping the cold air would cure me. Then I noticed something; a few feet away, three rough-looking men stood talking. "God is so good," the tallest man said. He wore a hat, a scarf, fingerless gloves, and a massive beard. "Being homeless was the worst experience of my life, but now I see that it’s happened for a reason."

I took in a big breath, grateful that the sickness had momentarily passed. Then I dug through my pockets and found a $5 bill. "Um…" I walked up to the men. "Maybe you can use this?"

The tallest man nodded, and I couldn't help smiling. His skin crinkled with age, but his eyes shone, and I bet his grin could've lit a thousand fireplaces.

“How's your day been?” I asked, leaving my previous worries behind. Who can worry about nausea when they're talking to a Jack Sparrow lookalike?!

"It's cold," he said, "but God's in it. And He makes it beautiful." He seemed so happy, not just feigning contentment but genuinely grateful.

"You have a wonderful day, Miss," his first mate said, little clouds billowing from his mouth as he spoke into the freezing air.

When the kids and I got home, I had to mull over the day. What was the difference between the disconsolate brunette and the joyful pirate? How could someone with nothing be happier than someone who had everything?

I decided the difference is gratitude.

I hope you'll remember this as you enjoy your family and friends over the holidays. Whether you're experiencing grief, loss, sickness, financial trials, or any other hardships, I think it's important to realize that true joy comes from gratitude.

Today I might be sick and life might be a bit scary because I know how I'll die (I just don't know when). Despite that, I'm grateful to spend any second that I can with my family. Looking back at my life, and after thinking about the brunette and her plight, I'd much rather be like the homeless man.

Dealing with Terminal Cancer

Sometimes I get scared to die, but at least I’m not in denial. https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8U4Fq9x/

My Son Died…

We're walking along a beach, and I find myself holding his hand even though we haven't seen each other in years. “I've dreamed about this," I say, tears in my eyes.

“So have I."

We continue like this for miles with bits of sand gathering between my toes. It’s so chilly then that I use my free hand to pull a shawl closer to my shoulders. I should fasten it with both hands, but I'd rather die than lose contact with him now.

After a time, we both turn to the sunset. “Once,” I say, “when I was very young, I said a prayer."

He smiles. “And what did you pray?"

“For God to give me a sign that He still loved me."

“Did you doubt His love that much?” he asks.

“I guess I did." I pause, wondering over the small moments that make up our lives. “I expected something huge to happen after I prayed, but almost the entire day passed without anything. Finally, I knelt next to a rock and cried, begging God for an answer.” I took a big breath, just remembering the power of the moment. “I didn't hear His voice at first because it felt… like silence. Then, after a long while, I looked at the sunset. The clouds stretched orange—my favorite color.”

“And you knew God loved you because of the orange sky?” He still gently holds my hand as he looks down at me. “You thought He answered your prayer?"

“I knew He answered it. I realized how He painted the sky for me—for each of us—every single day. His love shines everywhere, through almost everything."

“And that's what you hold onto whenever bad things happen?” He studies a shell by our feet, and I don't say a word. “You remembered that, even when I died?”

I don't want to talk about his death, not when he's standing beside me. I need to answer his question though; he deserves the truth. "Not at first, but yes. I remembered that sky. I couldn't lose sight of His answer to my prayer or the gifts God has given me each day of my life."

Zeke—MY son—just nods. I can tell he's thinking hard about something before he breaks the silence. “I'm glad God picked you to be my mom."

His words hit me like a hot iron, shaking the core of my being; they're something I always longed for and never thought I'd hear, even in my dreams.

“But we’ll see each other again," he continues. “Orange is my favorite color now, too, a reminder…”

Tears fill my eyes. He's so strong and healthy, much different from the infant who died after two and a half months in the hospital.

He did love me. He WAS proud, although I had to take him off of life support. I remember how hard he fought to live, even as he took his last breath in my arms.

“I'm so proud you're my son. You never gave up on life. You never would have given up on me." I try acting brave in that moment, so my pain, guilt, and regrets can't hurt him. "I've done everything I can so people will know you; your life won't be forgotten."

My eyes close and a deep part of me starts fading. A heart once full, seems a bit empty, and my fingers close on themselves because HE is no longer holding my hand.

I breathe slowly. It's okay, though. Peace remains because the warmth of his touch stays on my skin like perfume, and somehow it will never leave. "Please know I won't forget you," my voice drifts away just like my son did.

When I’m just about to leave, I feel something. It’s just a nudge at first, then a word surfaces through the silence: “Look."

My eyes turn toward the sunset. Those colors wrap around me, giving me new reasons to live. I no longer simply long for eternity because I realize the truth in its meaning: Eternity is part of right now.

My spirit wakes up with an unflappable resolve. Someday we'll see each other again, someday beneath a golden sky.

Happy 21st birthday Zeke. You are not forgotten.

To learn more about my oldest son and his story, you can find that memoir here: https://a.co/d/e8GFSP1

They Found Another Brain Tumor This April

Waiting rooms at the Huntsman are intriguing because of numerous bookcases that section seats off from one another. You might think you’re alone, when actually someone is only a couple of feet away, waiting through the wall of books. So, my last time at the cancer center, I’d gone alone. A couple of workers studied me sadly, thinking I didn’t have anyone. But they had no idea; I’d asked to come by myself. Sometimes when you’re going through something devastatingly hard, it’s nice to be alone…without embarrassment, so you can have time to process emotions by yourself. Stand strong if you want to; cry in the bathroom if necessary. I sat, far away from anyone else, perusing a naughty romance sure to take me far away from the cancer center, the aftermath of horrific surgeries, and conversations of death. That’s when I heard what sounded like a teenage girl and an old man on the other side of the bookshelf. They had no idea I could hear them—or that I even perched on the other side of the books like a disabled book-hoodlum, reading a very naughty romance about lace knickers and rippling biceps. “But tell me about you,” the man said. I sighed. Because of all the empty seats, I couldn’t believe they’d sat by me. “Grandpa, you can hardly breathe. I want to hear about you and cancer.” “That’s temporal.So many people my age, they just talk about this ailment and that. I’ve heard about more hemorrhoids over coffee than…. Anyway, they forget to keep living. I’m done complaining. That’s between me and God. I want to know about your school. Life.” He chuckled and then coughed—large, scratchy coughs. “And the boys you like.” “Grandpa, I love you so much. Thank you for—Grandpa! You don’t look so good.” “I’m…fine,” he huffed. “Just…” I stood up, and both of them appeared shocked to see me, peeking from behind the shelves. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” I waved, probably looking like a lunatic. “Hang on!” I found a receptionist and asked if a nurse could come out. Within moments a nurse took some vitals and turned even paler than me. “He needs to go to the ER. Right now.” Read the rest at http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/2023/03/more-inspiring-than-page-53.html?m=1 https://www.instagram.com/p/CqGN8noJIBi/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Your smile is your logo 🥰 https://www.instagram.com/p/CpWCRn-vses/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

I patted my huge belly. “I wish I could have some sort of sign that I’ll never have a baby die again.” I cried though the storm, and shortly after my words, I turned a bend. “Rainbow!” Ruby giggled. ”Two, Mama!” And she was right, we saw two huge rainbows just outside of the storm. I wiped away my tears, thinking how if we wouldn’t have traveled through the storm, we never would’ve appreciated the beauty of the rainbows. I thought of God’s promise to Noah in Genesis, how He sent a rainbow to tell that old man He’d never flood the earth again. Maybe this was my promise from God. “What should we name your sister?” I asked Ruby. She stared up at the double rainbow and grinned. “Sky!” So, Ruby named her little sister, and the two have grown up to be best friends: my beautiful Ruby and Sky. I thought about Sky, my rainbow baby yesterday. That’s actually what they call babies born after one who has died. Sky was quite sick yesterday, but she still came to talk with me and make sure I was okay because I’d been fighting a fever all day. She hugged me and asked if there was anything she could do. And after she’d taken some medicine and started to feel a bit better, she came and cheered me up. True to her rainbow baby name, Sky knows how to bring joy after any storm. She told me about the exciting things she did over the weekend and how happy she is about her inner growth. As she talked, I couldn’t help forgetting my fever and my sickness because she made me smile. I’m just so proud that she’s only 18 and she’s already begun to figure life out because she knows what really matters: love. So many people spend their lives trying to look for the pot o’ gold at the end up the rainbow; unfortunately, in their fight for status, meaning, riches, fame, and achievements, they forget the magic of seeing a rainbow at all. It’s sad, but the contentment that eludes them was there all along, the roadmap to a treasure that never even existed. At one point last night, I glanced over at my second-oldest daughter and saw her giggling as she squatted, holding a cat she got for her 11th birthday! I HAD to take this picture. https://www.instagram.com/p/CoFXX_iLiZC/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

***Update*** THE GOLDEN SKY currently No. 1 for women’s memoir! I’m so grateful his memory is living on. Thank you to everyone who has downloaded this story on the anniversary of Zeke’s death. … … … From now until Feb. 2, the Kindle version of my memoir about Zeke, THE GOLDEN SKY, will be available for free download on Amazon. You can find that by searching “The Golden Sky EC Stilson” on Amazon. https://www.instagram.com/p/CoDOyrhPkqe/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

The funeral service for my friend, Layton Funk, went beautifully. It came time for me to play my violin. I can’t stand and play anymore because the pain from the tumors in my spine is too bad. And even with pain medicine, it hurts my neck to hold my fiddle. But no one could’ve pried the instrument from my hands in that moment. I forced out all of the emotion and sadness and gratitude for Layton, life, love, and friendship. I thought about the people I’ve lost and the love that I’ve gained. And I played with all of my soul, and I know this might sound far-fetched, but I swear Layton stood by me as I played. And I know he knew how much I loved him and appreciated his friendship. When I walked back to my seat, a bunch of people sobbed, even Trey—my teenage boy—leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help crying. That song you played, was overwhelming. I’m so glad I got to meet Layton, but I’m sad he’s gone. You know, we went there thinking we’d cheer him up. And he’s the one who changed our lives.” I thought about Zeke, my son who died 20 years ago today. That beautiful baby whose soul must’ve been too perfect for this world... It’s interesting that he was on life support, just like Layton and that they almost died on the same day just decades apart. I always worried Zeke didn’t know anyone in Heaven, but now I remember friends and relatives who have passed since his death, and I have faith they’ve met each other. So today, I’m grateful people like Layton and my son aren’t trapped in imperfect bodies anymore. I think they’re enjoying the afterlife. And when they’re bored, maybe they occasionally stop by when they’d like to hear the fiddle. From now until Feb. 2, the Kindle version of my memoir about Zeke, THE GOLDEN SKY, will be available for free download on Amazon. It actually became a No. 1 bestseller for women’s memoir. I’m so grateful Zeke’s memory is living on. This first pic is of Layton before the car accident that changed his life. The second pic is from one of my visits to see him. He was the greatest! https://www.instagram.com/p/CoDAj9XJDOf/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

I’m watching Trey, thinking about how tenacious and hilarious he is. He adds so much to our family: humor, silliness, and a sort of quiet resolve. He’s constantly playing the guitar or drums, perfecting rhythms and writing new melodies. He plays for several hours each day, and in moments when I’m exhausted and it’s hard to keep fighting, I often think about him. “Nobody gets anywhere unless they work for it,” he said one day, and I nodded. I’d just gotten infusions, and my whole body ached. But instead of staying down, after hearing Trey’s words, I made myself a cup of coffee, wrapped myself in a blanket, and listened to Trey’s guitar. As I sat, so close to the day my first son died, I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t noticed my right hand, face up as if someone held it. The realization made some of my pains and worries dissipate. It’s been nearly twenty years since my first son passed away, and yet, sometimes I think there’s not much stronger than a mother’s love. It’s can’t be diminished by time, or distance, or even death. I often wonder if he looks down, just to see what we’re up to … Although his body was broken and imperfect, the feeling of his soul and spirit remain embedded in my mind: his quiet resolve. So much that I see in Trey. “You all right?” Trey suddenly asked, standing in the hall and holding his guitar at his side. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m just so glad I have all of you … Grateful for the memories.” It’s strange when you really face death, the only thing that matters is making a positive difference for the people you love. And when all is said and done, and years have passed like a rushing wind, I think the only thing strong enough to withstand the test of time … is love. That’s what remains of my first son. I hope that’s what will remain of me. (at Pompeii Ruins, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cnzrbc6PFQy/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

I met a real-life Angel in Italy 🥰 Read the full story at ECWrites.net. This was so incredible. @palattellaangelo https://www.instagram.com/p/CnQQ3DNvXWP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

All of our worries dissipated when we looked to the left. There, tucked amidst apartment buildings, the chaos of a modern city, and more people than New York, we spotted the Colosseum. “It’s … It’s just right there,” Sky said, immediately taking pictures. “This is so cool.” It’s hard to describe what that type of ancient building can do for one’s soul. You start thinking about the people who have been there. The people who have died amid its walls. The Caesars, gladiators, peoples, and kingdoms that have risen and fallen with time. And the travelers, like me and my family, who will continue to visit because it’s so enormous and profound. In fact, it’s hard seeing something that brutally majestic and realizing people built it so long ago. One might even say it “feels” infinite, but—or course—it’s finite like we all are. Someday it will be gone like the people who made it. Like we all will be … That’s the thing about Rome. You’re just walking around, traversing a busy city, or eating incredible food, when suddenly you stumble upon an excavation site where they found more ruins. Rome is a treasure trove of wonder, art, and an opportunity for reflection. Full story at ECWrites.net. https://www.instagram.com/p/CnCaY4yLuiZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

My cousin, Farrah Pendray, is the most gifted photographer. She just posted this story with my engagement pictures from 2014. 💓 From Farrah: Today, I saw something I never anticipated when I took these pictures. As an artist, I am most comfortable when I’m expressing myself in an creative way, but I also like to tell stories with my photos. They should be accurate and true to the person I’m photographing. I’m sure that comes from my work as a family history consultant. Looking back on our ancestors and their stories, can help us learn so many things about families and ourselves. I guess with that experience, I viewed these photos and reflected on the challenges that my cousin, Elisa, has gone through in the last couple of years. She was diagnosed with stage four melanoma and given two years to live. These pictures were taken a few years before that diagnosis. Mike is her husband and has faithfully rescued her over and over through his actions, love, and I’m sure a shared fear at times. I love seeing how these pictures represent Mike and Elisa. Notice him picking her up and removing her from the oncoming danger of certain death. If only to give her a little more time. These pictures perfectly capture the relationship between Mike and Elisa, as Mike has struggled to rescue her from what looked like certain death—the doctors only giving her two years to live—and Elisa SMILING and putting full trust in Mike and God, while she is suffering and tied to a chair (now sometimes a wheelchair) she is laughing and smiling and in complete control of her emotions. Mike is still picking her up and taking her to magical places that help her to escape the danger of the oncoming train. I love Mike and Elisa very much. They mean the world to me. I look to them in their example on how they live life, and how they face trials, that I might be more heroic in facing mine. If you want to learn more about Elisa‘s battle with cancer and her awesome family, you can find her at ECWrites.net. She has many published books and a wonderful blog. Her family just returned from Italy, and she’s currently sharing their comical adventures. Even one that takes place in a train station. 🚉 https://www.instagram.com/p/CnAtBjrv_eZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=