there’s something about mary
I was looking through Facebook when I read a post from my dear friend Mary Curtis that stopped me dead in my tracks.
She was recently diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic and liver cancer. Given the advanced progression of the disease, she and her family decided to forego treatment and to instead concentrate on living a beautiful life until the very end.
Mary encompasses the best of us, all rolled up into one generous, kind, and ridiculously funny package. Simply put, I adore her.
So this, my sweet friend, is for you. I love you more than you’ll ever know.
Dear Mary:
This is now my fourth attempt at writing this letter. Each of the previous times, I’ve gotten so wrapped up with emotion that I literally couldn’t see through the tears.
So I did what I often do when facing an outcome I don’t like: I cried, and I felt sorry for you, and then I felt sorry for me, and then I felt sorry for us, and then I prayed. When I finished, I took a deep breath, and I started again.
I love words. I always have; you know this about me. Unfortunately, they now seem inadequate, like fragile little boats trying to navigate an ocean in distress. Learning about your diagnosis has shaken me; even so, my heart is full of gratitude for the extraordinary gift of your friendship.
I knew very little about anything when I became the director of public relations at the hospital in Cambridge. I was just 24 years old, and in charge of a department I knew nothing about in a field that seemed frenetic and overwhelming at times.
And then one day a few weeks in, I was called to the emergency department for a meeting, and I met an amazing group of nurses, each one as kind and caring as the next. What a blessing it was for me to be in the presence of you girls. There was so much going on at the time, I didn’t even know where to stand to ensure I was out of everyone’s way, but then you invited me to come behind the desk and sit next to you. That small act of grace changed everything, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.
That moment, seemingly so small at the time, set the tone for every success that came my way. Every award I won, every speech I was asked to give, every committee and board I was asked to chair, came as a result of that single gesture of kindness.
Why? Because you showed me the beauty in vulnerability and the strength in authenticity.
There are so many threads of you woven into the fabric of who I am that it’s nearly impossible for me to separate the person I am today from the influence you’ve had on me. You’ve not just been a friend, you’ve been a guiding star and a wellspring of inspiration.
You’ve always celebrated the triumphs of others with such genuine joy, as if they were your victories. You believe in others, Mary, even when they doubt themselves. What a wonderful gift that’s been to so very many.
And during the darker times when the world felt too heavy, you were always there for me.
My father’s death from cancer was my first real loss as an adult. I’ll never forget that when I came back to work following his burial, you called me down to the emergency department, took me into an exam room, and hugged me while I sobbed. You didn’t say a word, except that you loved me and that you’d keep praying for me.
And you did.
Your empathy and ability to truly listen and offer solace have been a lifeline on countless occasions. You’ve a rare and beautiful gift for making people feel seen and understood, and I’ve been the fortunate recipient of that gift time and time again.
I’ve learned the importance of resilience by watching you navigate your own challenges with grace and love. Your innate ability to connect with others has inspired me to be more empathetic and understanding. You’ve always found joy in the simple things, and your ability to see the good in every situation has made me want to do and be better, in every way, every single day.
These aren't just abstract concepts, Mary. They’re integral parts of me, shaped and nurtured over the years by our friendship.
Your legacy isn’t just in the memories we share, but in the profound impact you’ve had on so many lives, mine most certainly included.
I promise you, my dear friend, that I’ll carry your influence forward. I’ll strive to embody the qualities you so effortlessly exude: your kindness, your strength, your unwavering spirit. I’ll share your stories, your wisdom, and the lessons you’ve taught me. I’ll champion the values you hold dear and work to make the world a little brighter because you were in it.
Most importantly, though, is that you stand on the edge of glory, knowing the King and the promise that awaits. Your destination beyond this Earth is one of unimaginable joy because you’ll be in the presence of our Savior.
Your strength and grace during this time are truly inspiring, a testament to the love of Christ that dwells within you. Always remember you’re surrounded by love, even as you prepare for your ultimate homecoming.
Until that glorious day when we embrace again, I’ll smile knowing you’re resting in His perfect peace. Your journey ahead is filled with light and everlasting joy, and while we’ll all miss you dearly, we’ll rejoice in the victory that’s yours in Jesus. May you feel His loving arms around you now and always.
I love you, sweet friend.
listopia
A few important lessons I’ve learned in the past year …
I had a personal encounter with Jesus that dramatically altered my life. He completely changed me from the inside out.
A line becomes a circle from a farther perspective.
Nothing is more dangerous than a family member whose texts aren’t returned.
Cats are jerks in every country.
Sledding down a hill on a table can end very badly.
If you’re really lucky, one day you’ll find yourself smitten. It’s a beautiful thing.
Sit at a piano long enough, and you’ll end up playing Disney songs for an enthusiastic audience.
Hugs are a universal language of love.
When in doubt, always go with ice cream.
Dancing cures everything.
Slasher movies would be much more believable if the first person to get stabbed was always the guy who won’t shut up about CrossFit.
Sandwiches always taste better when someone else makes them.
There’s no law that says you can’t use a tiny pancake as an eye patch.
You really can build a house out of straw.
You’ll never know what you don’t know unless you jump.
No story worth repeating ever began with, “This one time when I was eating a salad … ”
GPS will occasionally fail. Learn to read a map.
Never pet a burning pig.
Thirty minutes goes by a whole lot faster than half-an-hour.
Life is tragically short. Don’t waste a minute of it.
thank you
A month ago, I began a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. It seemed a simple enough challenge: write at least thirty minutes a day, every day, for thirty days, and then post your thoughts to social media.
It was more difficult than I’d imagined it would be, primarily because cancer’s taken so much from my family and friends through the years. Because of that, I wanted to write with intention and purpose so that the words would mirror the spirit and courage of those who won and lost the battles.
I learned a lot along the way, and I can say without hesitation that I’m better for having accepted the challenge.
And so this evening I finish the fundraiser by sharing with you a few of the more important lessons I was blessed to learn this month. Here’s hoping that they’ll ring true with each of you.
Learn to be less selfish. You get more joy in helping others than in helping yourself.
Be true to yourself, and everything will be all right.
Believe in God. There will be innumerable times when your belief is shaken, but this is when you need to stand rock steady on the road of Faith. He will never let you down. Trust me on this one.
Try to spread smiles. It doesn't cost much, and it brings rewards tenfold. Not material rewards that are temporary, but permanent rewards such as connecting with another person, or seeing their eyes light up with joy.
Always live without fear of getting your heart broken, and you'll enjoy life in its truest form.
Empathy. We’re all blessed at birth with this quality. Use it to help someone. Anyone.
Lend an ear. Hold a hand. Give a hug.
Make the time to stop and smell the roses.
Remember: work isn't everything.
Puppies make everything better. Everything.
When you're angry, count to ten. Words can cause wounds that never heal. Words are more powerful than actions, so use them well.
Tell the people you love that you love them. Often.
Don't ever give up. The light may be closer than you think.
Know that it’s darkest before dawn.
There’s joy in everything and around every corner, my friends. Just look.
My thanks to those of you who made this journey with me, and my most sincere appreciation to those who donated cash or time or prayer. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.
ispirazione
I've been listening lately to the various works of Giacomo Puccini. I share his passion for bearing witness to others with specificity, grief, and love. Sometimes deep listening is the most potent activism; it keeps alive what nothing else can.
Of particular interest is the beloved aria Un bel dì in Madame Butterfly — the deep song to which I've done my deep listening — which informed and nourished a life’s work spent chasing a thing that can be described succinctly in Italian, but in English only with dissertations:
Ispirazione.
There are attempts to reduce the translation to one English word, such as inspiration or authenticity. My understanding of the concept is limited, but both seem to apply, as one might give separate names to each facet of a delicate carving. The definition that seems most apt to me is the one I heard first, a long time ago, words burned into my memory by dark eyes and dim candles, from a poet who fairly brimmed with the stuff himself. It was three hours before the sun rose, and we were idling, and we were talking about everything and nothing, and he called ispirazione “the memory of lives the Italians never knew.”
That seems like a good take to me.
I feel sometimes as though all of history and physics demands my attention in an instant, the nervous system of the earth surging up through my soles, all the intrigue and joy of a billion years charging each breath, each swallow, with beauty the result. This may seem an odd assertion in a time when the word “sublime” is used to praise a slice of cheesecake, but those who remember its older sense of wondrous beauty will understand. Mountains in winter are beautiful. Mountains in winter as the snow and ice cover everything at once? Sublime.
If Whitman turned up no “foul meat” with his plow and spade, it was only for lack of seeing what was there. Authenticity comes from burying what you love in the ground, a connection that can’t be rent through years of exile. A deep song lived here with me and is buried now, its component notes feeding the trees. And then what’s left when you lose that loss?
Ispirazione.
It doesn't translate precisely into English, but some languages will serve better.
where
When you’re lying there in the stillness after dark, before you drift off to sleep, and your life is finally quiet, your field of vision blank.
When the world seems both possible and impossible.
When everything from the days before and coming starts sliding in and out of you.
When your body is aware of the texture of fabrics around you, your skin high on giving in.
Where does your mind go?