I was just in the shower, pondering seasons. I enjoy the seasons, though some days more than others. The year begins in harsh darkness and cold. It takes a certain grit to endure blizzards and ice storms, and I relish the opportunity to greet harsh conditions and prove myself an equal match for them. Then the world is reborn in the spring and the very earth breaks forth in praise for the release from the extreme cold. The colors dance in the rains that bring to fruition even more color. Summer warms us and the sun gives nourishment to the ground, to our crops and to our souls. And with autumn comes the harvest of all that the goodness of summer provides, and along with it the crisp color on the trees the beauty of which signals impending death. This order of things is inherently good and right. We recognize it and take comfort in it because when the seasons follow each other in order we know that all is as it should be. Conversely, when winter sneaks into spring’s territory we call it out. When spring encroaches too far into summer we protest. When summer heat interferes with our harvest we squawk in complaint. We raise our voices when the natural order of things doesn’t flow as it should. We shake our fists to the heavens and curse mother nature for her cruelty. Even the animals, the plants and the very soil revolt when the seasons misbehave.
There is a natural order of things. We can endure dark times of hardships because we remember the order of things, and that life will cycle again to abundance and beauty. We can face the harsh times, because we know that sorrow only lasts so long.
We are not made to abide in suffering for long months and years, it defies the very nature of the world. Life is expected, and rightfully so, to be seasonal.
When the natural cycle of life deviates from the expected order we wither. Whether we get stuck in a winter of despair or the heat of the summer. Whether the spring rains go on past summer of the fall refuses to give way to winter, the physical world languishes.
Our very existence demands good and bad, ease and trial, it is the essence of the world we live in. When the opposites fail to balance disorder prevails.
Somehow I have fallen under the impression that protesting an exceedingly long winter of afliction is weakness, or lacking of moral character. My shower epiphany was that the protest of disorder is normal, natural and expected. I wonder if I have held myself to impossible moral standards of optimism and acceptance of chaos. I have sanctioned complaints even when the plight of my child is so clearly opposed to the natural, normal, order of things.
Today I will hold my tongue no longer. Cancer is a bastard. Even as an old man’s disease it plunders it’s victims. Cancer in a child defies everything that is good in this world. It is against the natural cycle of life and there are few things more horrifying. The treatment that saves lives does so at great cost, wreaking havoc on the body.
I weep for my child. I weep for my family. I scream at God, at the universe for allowing this to be a part of this world, a part of my life, to harm my child. I rail against the hideous afliction of this disease. For my child, for all the children.