A Purposeful Peek

Since working in pediatric oncology and bone marrow transplant, I have attended more funerals than I would like to count. These are funerals of children who were someone’s beloved daughter, son, sister, brother, niece, nephew, grandchild, student, classmate, and friend. These children faced tougher battles in their young lives than many adults will ever comprehend. These families were robbed of future years with their beloved child, and they are left clinging to the memories of a young life gone too soon.     When I attend a child’s funeral, I am always struck by the vast number of people who were impacted by their life. It is not proportional to their years, as some of the youngest children have impacted lives around the world through the testimony of their faith and strength through their journey.  I see people of all ages, genders, ethnicities, cultures, and backgrounds mourning the loss of the child, some who did not even know them personally. I see grieving family members being em

Between the viral pandemic around the world and the heightened racial tensions that have exploded around our country, 2020 feels like a year where the entire world is literally on fire. It is a fire that is blazing with no clear end in sight, and the heat of it has impacted nearly every person in one way or another.   But fire not only burns; it also refines. When we go through fire, we don't escape unchanged. Though it may be a painful transformation, we are made new.  Speaking of fire, that brings us to the holiday that Americans have deemed Independence Day, 2020. The day of grand fireworks, patriotic music, all the red, white, and blue you can imagine, all centered around social gatherings to celebrate the U.S.A. Leading up to this day, I’ve been feeling the tension between celebrating our beautiful country and at the same time lamenting the ugly parts of our [ongoing] history. Can I really say, "Let freedom ring!" when it has become so apparent to me that so many in

A jar of caterpillars sat next to a vase of flowers as the centerpiece on our kitchen table for many days leading up to Easter. They were the talk of every mealtime, as the girls gathered around and pressed their faces together to see how much their beloved critters had grown since the last meal. We watched them grow from tiny baby insects     into plump, furry, hungry caterpillars, day by day.   To our girls, these weren’t just bugs; they were special members of our family, each deserving of a unique name.  Fuzzy Wuzzy. Archie. Isla. Kyla.  Banana Boat.  Suddenly, cocoons formed, and the caterpillars retreated into their hiding place, suspended from the vented lid of their jar. At this point, they weren’t much to look at from day to day, but we knew something special was happening inside.  So we waited. And waited.  When the timing seemed right, we transferred the cocoons into their butterfly habitat (read: when we realized we had accidentally thrown away th

2020 was the year of Big Dreams for me.  In January, my husband and I spent an overnight getaway to strategically plan our year, discuss our goals, and set a plan for the course of our family's next season ahead.  In February, I was meeting regularly with my life coach to talk about my big dreams and some new ambitions I've had swirling around in my brain.  I attended a Dream Big event with Bob Goff, one of my heroes in the faith and inspirations for living a larger life outside of myself. Then it was March, and life as we knew it came to a screeching halt.  I awoke from my year of dreaming, eyes flying wide open, to the harsh realities around me. I experienced turmoil in my personal life that rolled into collective angst during an unprecedented worldwide pandemic.  The surreal scenes flashed before my eyes not only as a healthcare provider, but also as a patient.   It was a Tuesday when my symptoms began.  Chills, fever, a nagging cough, body aches.  A stop at Urge

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, a day filled with lovely gestures from people who are dear to us. Cards, flowers, reminders of how much we are loved, or reminders of how much we've lost. For some people, it was just another day. Today, I stood in a hospital room as the walls closed in. The chest compressions weren't enough. The countless rounds of epinephrine weren't enough. My silent, pleading prayers weren't enough. A hope unexpectedly lost, a heart no longer beating, an entire family shattered. Meanwhile, for the world outside that room, it was just another day. Life and death are simultaneously happening all around us; some days one is simply more apparent than the other.  I spend a lot of time in a place where first breaths and last breaths are simultaneously taken under the same roof, so this irony is never lost on me. I think about it as I walk the hospital halls, imagining the first shrill cries of a newborn and the happy tears of a new mother.  In the