And speaking of Square One ...

After months of vague information, I finally have a date written on my calendar. I know when our oldest child, our only daughter, will board the flight with the rest of her unit, and go to spend a year (God willing) serving her country in the wild and tribal country of Afghanistan. There was a report from the region on Morning Edition today. It's hopeful, I think - in the part of my brain that thinks.In the part of my body that feels, the sudden "fire into the air" of the guns in the report pierced my sternum and woke me up and all at once I know. I see it. I am going to have to go back to the slaughter, and make an offering of my will. This is an echo of last summer's battle. The keening sound of the cancer cells has faded into the distance, but this time I face my brazen and repeated assertions that "everyone dies. It only matters how you live," and (groan) "I raised my kids to live for something bigger than themselves." (I didn't mean this! I didn't mean this!)Some time before the middle of the month, I am going back in there. I will go into the church alone, and face this. I will pace and pray and kneel and pray and rail and cry and pray and pace. I will turn toward this sacrifice, and I will choose it. The part of my brain that thinks is proud and sensible and aware of the growth and honor of this adult choice of our adult daughter. The part of my body that feels has the audacity to be surprised and in pain, and so I have to go back. It's time to spill more tears onto the floor and pews in the church, light another candle, and come to rest. It's time to choose. Again.