Loving London and Loving Life

The past two days in beautiful London were utterly brilliant. The weather was perfect, the food was delicious, and the sights of the city were fantastic, as always. We've covered quite a bit of ground. We've visited many museums: the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum, the Tate, and -- this one is mildly embarrassing -- the Clink Prison Museum. We've walked along the Thames, passing the London Eye and The Globe Theater and everything in between. We visited St. Paul's Cathedral (where Will proposed to me) and Buckingham Palace, and enjoyed the gorgeous Green Park and St. James Park. We've dined on Italian food in Notting Hill and Indian food in Covent Garden. We saw a play called Ghost Stories last night (yeah, that was my choice), and we're seeing Billy Elliot tomorrow, but only after we're treated to fancy afternoon tea (a surprise present from my dear bestie from the UK, Ruth). 

I'd say London has been very, very good to us.

But there are two things in particular that I'd like to share with you, two special moments that stopped me in my tracks and really made me think. Both things happened today.

The first moment happened when I walked into St. Paul's Cathedral. A service was underway, but the guards allowed people to mill around the back and welcomed everyone to sit in the congregation and join in the fun. I walked around the back for a bit and came upon an area where candles could be lit for special intentions. Just looking at all those lit candles and thinking of all those special prayers made me remember the hundreds of people who had lit candles or said special prayers for me. I knew that my friends and family had been pulling for me over the last several months, but actually seeing those candles made the power of that idea -- the idea that hundreds of people were praying to God to take care of me -- really hit home in that moment. It was incredibly moving, and I lit a candle to thank my Creator -- and all of those who prayed for me -- for making sure that I got through my cancer-killing adventures safe and sound.

The second moment happened while I visited the "Living and Dying" exhibition at the British Museum. The exhibition highlights many ways our culture and others deal with sickness and death, and not all of it was unfamiliar to me. There were pictures of a man right after his surgery for colon cancer, and two years later right before his death from the same disease. There was a picture of a little boy with the telltale bandage over his chest that could only indicate a port-a-cath. And there was a portion of the poem "Sometimes" by Sheenagh Pugh written on the wall. It hit me like a ton of bricks...but in a good way: 

Sometimes things don't go, after all, from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail, sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well!

I couldn't help but feel personally touched by the optimism driving these words. Some people would have thrown up their hands and given up at the mention of my diagnosis, but I never did and never would because I always believed that success was possible. Sometimes, no matter the odds or the danger, all goes well. Sometimes cancer is beaten to bits, health is restored, and celebrations commence.

Sometimes, my story happens.