Pilgrimage to Troldhaugen- 10 yr BMT reflections

 I cried trudging up the hills alone. For me, and the life I'll never have. For Kathleen, and her life ended too soon. The walk was silent, save for the crunch of my boots on the snow and the trickling water dripping off the giant stone faces, seeming to sob with me. The few heads I saw turned curiously towards me, as I walked through quiet neighborhoods, a brown stranger in their tranquil place.

But I didn’t care about anything else, because this walk was for me. I could walk 15 min to a bus stop, find the right bus and buy tickets in a foreign country, with entirely non-English speaking people, and trudge uphill another 20 min after. My lungs did it. My navigating brain did it. My heart did it.

My eyes overflowed the entire house tour too.  The house empty of children, except for the painting. The mutual love between Nina and Edvard Grieg. The respect. The commitment despite his poor health.

Today was a pilgrimage: visiting a site I'd long dreamed off, to complete one more step in my grieving process. My pilgrimage took me to Troldhaugen.

I wish I could adequately convey what this visit meant to me. The beautiful fjords, the tranquil water, the bracing air. The best of all Norway had to offer, complete with the music of the land. I remember the heart wrenching disappointment of not being able to compete in my music competitions, and the sadness of not performing well in auditions due to the neuropathy from chemo. But i was determined music would not leave my life. When I relapsed and knew I'd be inpatient, i spoke with the Rainbow Babies and Children’s hospital music therapist and obtained a keyboard for the duration. I spoke to my piano teacher Kathleen and asked her for a new challenge: I wanted to learn a piece of music during transplant. She returned to me with Wedding Day at Troldhaugen. Carefully chosen to be interesting enough for a challenge yet simple enough not to overwhelm me, and cheerful enough to lift my spirits every time I played the bouncy notes. She shared with me how Grieg had an escape route if he saw visitors and wasn't up for it, as well how he struggled with poor health as well. I remember the day she arrived bearing her gift: printed music in a binder, protected sleeves, and the fingerings already penciled in.

I've learned a lot of music in my day, but this piece was different. I learned it at my worst possible physical state, and it was for me. I've never played it post-cancer. It seems almost sacred to try to.

Hiking to Troldhaugen, standing looking at the incredible views that inspired Grieg’s music, and breathing the bracing cold air, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. To be here was a dream come true. I only wish I could share my experiences with Kathleen, but I'm forever grateful that she introduced me to this amazing music.

It's been more than a month since, and still, I think of this walk often. Ten years post-transplant looms in one month. And then? Another 1 year, 10 year or 50? I don't know. But this is now. This is life, more abundantly.

And the music hasn’t left my life. Yesterday, I played Blessed Assurance unexpectedly accompanied by a pastor with a rich tenor voice. A reminder that even if my hands don’t work like I remember them to, the music in my heart can never be dimmed.

To celebrate 10 years, I'm trying to raise $10,000 for an organization I'm involved with and believe in. Please consider contributing at this link, thank you! 

Jen's 10 yr fundraiser

Happy Easter 2022!

Happy Easter! I know it's been literal years since I wrote on this blog, but I had thoughts to write, and this felt the most appropriate medium to share. Life update coming at a later time, as I'm toying with reengaging this blog again.  But for now...thoughts on Easter this year. 

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

I remember my most desolate Easter weekend. 2013. In-patient for transplant. Confined to the four walls of the hospital room. Saturday was, as usual, empty of most of my family. Christina spent Saturday night with me, but left early Sunday morning for church. My family would come after the morning service. I remember feeling so alone. That day, even the nurses seemed to reduce their frequent stop-ins. Easter is the largest Christian holiday, and it was always a huge celebration at my family’s house. For years, we had many extra guests that would sometimes join for a morning service, but always for a large lunch, games, activities, and a fun day together. Growing up, I often accompanied the large and energetic choir on piano or organ, a joyful anthem to open the service. And that day was so quiet and alone.

My second sad Easter was 2020. Under lock-down, and missing out, once again, on the wonderful celebrations and worship. More recently, I often played keyboard/organ to accompany the packed auditorium for all three services at church. Michayla and I solemnly dyed all the eggs we could find in the fridge various colors, to add a burst of cheer to our fridge in the days to come. We discussed our family traditions, and each made some of our favorite Easter foods to share with each other. Tacos and the livestream service were included. I remember sitting curled in a corner of the couch, feeling as alone as I did seven years back in that hospital room.

This year Easter is once again not as I remember or wish. I have been extended several gracious invites to join for lunch, and am grateful for them. I have been preparing with a choir to sing several beautiful anthems as well as the Hallelujah Chorus tomorrow. Sadly, a bad case of allergies combined with my severely restricted lungs have prohibited me from joining, but I will still worship with them.

Even though I’m not in active cancer treatment anymore, every time I feel alone and tired, I immediately feel triggered to back in my hospital room. Just like then, the weekends still gape emptyingly before me, sitting alone in the silence. Just like then, I find myself with no desire to eat. Just like then, I wonder if I will ever be able to move forward from this space.

Last night I attended Good Friday mass with Mandy. Hearing the story leading up to the crucifixion was incredible, beginning all the way in Isaiah. Hearing how Jesus chose to give up his life. Wow. Would I make that choice? To give my life for ungrateful, stupid, unkind people like myself? It was our infirmities that he bore, our sufferings that he endured. By his stripes, we are healed. Jesus took the guilt of us all upon himself. I was struck by how many times in the reading, it came up “that the Scripture might be fulfilled.” God keeps his word. If he cared enough about seemingly tiny details like broken bones and a drink, he surely cares about the details of my life.

Today I had to drastically cut short my visit with dear Jackie, to attend to an unexpected appointment, and it resulted in another long lonely evening. I cooked some food to take tomorrow, and as is my custom in late-night-cooking, I turned on the playlist made for me by a close friend. And the song the Deep Love of Jesus came on. Underneath me, all around me, is the current of Christ’s love. I was reminded of the story of the author of O Love that will Not Let Me  Go. The loneliness he experienced. The pain. The desolation. Probably feeling somewhat like  me right now. And yet. He had the courage to remember that there is a love so much deeper and sustaining than what our hearts crave here on earth.

I began writing this during Maundy Thursday service while sitting next to Linzi, who’s welcomed me into her row at church weekly, as well as her home and heart on many occasions. God forsook Jesus. He was all alone. Weary. In pain. Sad. Overwhelmed. Feeling the feelings a billion times more than what I’ve struggled with this week.  

I remember the 2013 Easter. No one I knew on earth at that moment understood the pain I was in. And suddenly I realized that Jesus did. He became man to feel our physical and emotional pain. To feel the pressure and crushing responsibilities. To share in the sorrow of loosing people we love. To understand the fatigue of everyday life. And when it seems like not a soul on earth understands what I’m going through today, I’m reminded Jesus does.

Walking along the Charles River last night, Mandy and I reflected on how Easter coincides with spring. All things made new. Fresh life. Growth. But the cheer of springtime doesn’t erase the sadness. Mary wept for her child. The disciples and the women with them grieved the loss of a friend. Believing for the perfect ending and the hope of eternal life doesn’t erase the heaviness of death. The hope of eternal community doesn’t erase the weariness of being alone. The hope of new bodies doesn’t diminish the daily physical pain and accompanying burdens.

He has not forsaken me. He is still here. Because, as Ellie Holcomb said, I’m loved, not because of what I’ve done. Jesus chose me. He sees me. He knows me. Nothing’s gonna change His love. Don’t forget to remember you’re never alone.

“And now, my life will sing the praise, of pure atoning grace. That looked on me and gladly took my place.”