What have you left her, God, and why have you taken so much away? This two-part question was the final distillation from two years of seeing my daughter undergo painful treatment for stage IVb colorectal cancer. We were in the hospital for, what we hoped, would be her last chemo infusion. Several more weeks and the results of CT scan would reveal a hard-fought remission. Or so we hoped. This morning I was uncertain of just what a cancer-free life would look like for eighteen-year-old Maggie. My disturbed thoughts stopped me beneath the trees lining the front lawn of the medical school campus.

I could list what she had endured and all she had lost. I could diagram all her scars with the precision of a medical examiner. But I struggled to identify what remained. In seven seasons, she endured every therapy in an oncologist’s arsenal. A one-in-a-million diagnosis on April 7, 2014 robbed a teenager of normalcy, fertility, health, goals, and youthful dreams. How fitting remission releases us for an interlude of unknown length, in winter – the season of death, burial, waiting, and unanswered questions.

Abscission. The term is used for the process by which a tree cuts off or sheds leaves. Loss of foliage is a complex process triggered by shorter days and cooler temperatures. In the branch at the site of leaf attachment, two layers of cells form the abscission zone. The weaker cells will swell and begin to nudge the leaf to jump. The stronger cells will form a scabby barrier to protect the tree from intrusion of elements. Once the tree releases its grip on the leaf, wind or rain will complete the process.

Loss is not unique to cancer. I also watch dementia wither a parent’s ability to live a recognized role. Some people grieve their disposability after the loss of a job. Others forge ahead through life now single with only a memory of a mate. We may agonize a child’s poor choices and resulting harsh consequences. We wring the checkbook for a small mound of money to pay a mountain of debt. We grasp at one last chance to fulfill a dream on life support. We long to accomplish one great thing for God. But circumstances intervene and drag us kicking and screaming to the cutting table.

Have scissors snipped at the corner of your heart or ripped open the fabric of your soul? Do you just now sense the first warning frost bidding you prepare for the onset of winter? Or are the branches of a once-vibrant life already bare from a never-ending winter, over-zealous pruning, and a conspiratorial wind howling in delight? Whether you offer a silent assent, a lip-bitten cry, or a wall-rattling, glass-shattering wail, you are welcome beneath our tree. We each have much to learn.

New priorities of survival, rest, and renewal alter the tree. Once vital and integral to its life, the leaf is now expendable. Death to the leaf is survival for the tree. I wonder if the tree mourns those leaves? Foliage is so much a part of what the tree is we use it for identification. What childhood has not produced a leaf collection? And abscission sounds painful and produces scars. Who wants that? We want unmarred limbs and a lush canopy for the world to admire. We want to be clothed with tenuous connections to the life’s nonessentials instead of living barren and naked, in tune only to the next wind set to blow.

There is much to be gained in the loss of leaves. Survival is a pretty big one. Through conserving energy and precious resources, the scab-sealed tree will weather the harshest winter. The rest offered in winter fuels the renewal of spring. Without the hindering presence of leaves, pollination is widespread and efficient. And the leaves will enrich the soil beneath for the growth of the next generation.

Nothing is wasted in God’s grace-driven economy. He takes all we release and eventually makes a mulchy mixture of dirt and death. A grave. The ground must swallow for hope to emerge. And it does. From the darkest soil, new life arises. Not only do our losses feed this growth, but we, the essential, scarred, damaged, tattered selves that we have become, are transformed in the shedding. And like the tree, we survive winter to be reborn in spring.

Leaf by leaf we are changed. Leaf by leaf we add to this story of hope.

What have you left her, God, and why have you taken so much away? This two-part question was the final distillation from two years of seeing my daughter undergo painful treatment for stage IVb colorectal cancer. We were in the hospital for, what we hoped, would be her last chemo infusion. Several more weeks and the results of CT scan would reveal a hard-fought remission. Or so we hoped. This morning I was uncertain of just what a cancer-free life would look like for eighteen-year-old Maggie. My disturbed thoughts stopped me beneath the trees lining the front lawn of the medical school campus.

I could list what she had endured and all she had lost. I could diagram all her scars with the precision of a medical examiner. But I struggled to identify what remained. In seven seasons, she endured every therapy in an oncologist’s arsenal. A one-in-a-million diagnosis on April 7, 2014 robbed a teenager of normalcy, fertility, health, goals, and youthful dreams. How fitting remission releases us for an interlude of unknown length, in winter – the season of death, burial, waiting, and unanswered questions.

Abscission. The term is used for the process by which a tree cuts off or sheds leaves. Loss of foliage is a complex process triggered by shorter days and cooler temperatures. In the branch at the site of leaf attachment, two layers of cells form the abscission zone. The weaker cells will swell and begin to nudge the leaf to jump. The stronger cells will form a scabby barrier to protect the tree from intrusion of elements. Once the tree releases its grip on the leaf, wind or rain will complete the process.

Loss is not unique to cancer. I also watch dementia wither a parent’s ability to live a recognized role. Some people grieve their disposability after the loss of a job. Others forge ahead through life now single with only a memory of a mate. We may agonize a child’s poor choices and resulting harsh consequences. We wring the checkbook for a small mound of money to pay a mountain of debt. We grasp at one last chance to fulfill a dream on life support. We long to accomplish one great thing for God. But circumstances intervene and drag us kicking and screaming to the cutting table.

Have scissors snipped at the corner of your heart or ripped open the fabric of your soul? Do you just now sense the first warning frost bidding you prepare for the onset of winter? Or are the branches of a once-vibrant life already bare from a never-ending winter, over-zealous pruning, and a conspiratorial wind howling in delight? Whether you offer a silent assent, a lip-bitten cry, or a wall-rattling, glass-shattering wail, you are welcome beneath our tree. We each have much to learn.

New priorities of survival, rest, and renewal alter the tree. Once vital and integral to its life, the leaf is now expendable. Death to the leaf is survival for the tree. I wonder if the tree mourns those leaves? Foliage is so much a part of what the tree is we use it for identification. What childhood has not produced a leaf collection? And abscission sounds painful and produces scars. Who wants that? We want unmarred limbs and a lush canopy for the world to admire. We want to be clothed with tenuous connections to the life’s nonessentials instead of living barren and naked, in tune only to the next wind set to blow.

There is much to be gained in the loss of leaves. Survival is a pretty big one. Through conserving energy and precious resources, the scab-sealed tree will weather the harshest winter. The rest offered in winter fuels the renewal of spring. Without the hindering presence of leaves, pollination is widespread and efficient. And the leaves will enrich the soil beneath for the growth of the next generation.

Nothing is wasted in God’s grace-driven economy. He takes all we release and eventually makes a mulchy mixture of dirt and death. A grave. The ground must swallow for hope to emerge. And it does. From the darkest soil, new life arises. Not only do our losses feed this growth, but we, the essential, scarred, damaged, tattered selves that we have become, are transformed in the shedding. And like the tree, we survive winter to be reborn in spring.

Leaf by leaf we are changed. Leaf by leaf we add to this story of hope.