Both my wife and I live an open life. We’ve always done so. Secrets and even good measured privacy have never had much space in our life. As a matter of fact, people who feel a need to have many secrets and to keep everything “close to the vest” often baffle and annoy us (apologies to those of you who find yourself in these boxes. I’m sure the feeling is somewhat mutual!). I just don’t see much of a need to keep something hidden from you.*

This way of life has not only continued on as I’ve battled cancer, but it has come to define it. Some of our greatest challenges over the last year have been trying to find balance amidst the constant demands for our time, energy, and attention. Living an open life and inviting people into our story (again, something that has been true of us for virtually our entire lives) has in many ways brought more difficulty in this journey. On the other hand it is exactly through this openness that we’ve been able to see massive ripple effects from my story. It is through our openness in inviting people into our story that we’ve been able to see more and more people touched by what’s happened.

“It’s one thing to have your husband die young. It’s a whole other thing for him to die publicly.” There is a sense of ownership that the community at large feels they posses over my story. And, in fact, I’d suggest that I in many ways I gave that to you. Or at the very least I opened the door to my hospital room and hung the sign “visitors welcome”. There are some who see that sign and have taken up residence. There are others who have used that as an opportunity to drop off cards, meals, or color sheets from their children. Some have stopped by regularly for visits. Others simply peak their heads in, knowing that there’s something interesting inside.

Part of me wants to be cynical and relate this with the rubbernecking that we all witness, complain about, and yet participate in on the freeway during an accident. But 90% of the time in my context I do not think this is the case. As a matter of fact I do not think rubbernecking is appropriate at all to describe the draw to watch, participate, or attempt to own my families story. No, that’s not a good illustration because I believe so strongly that the story being told (that’s not a reference to me as the storyteller, but to the story that is unfolding with me, by chance and without choice, as one of its primary characters) is one that is developing great meaning and resonates deeply in our world of broken narratives. I truly do not think that people are drawn to this story because it’s a train wreck but because it’s a beautiful story.

We’re drawn to beauty aren’t we? We’re created to be attracted to beautiful things. We’re created to want to be beautiful. And even though the story that is being played out in my life, in my marriage, my family, and my neighborhood is painfully messy–there is something intrinsically beautiful about it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s getting harder and harder to live out. The weight of death–even if it does not become an immediate reality–is getting heavier and heavier within our home and within each one of us in the family. We can feel it. More than ever before. And it’s heavy.

I’m not going to attempt to create a framework or to even give advice on how you can be respectful or better care for our family as outsiders to the story.** That’s not the point of this blog nor is it something that I feel fully capable of writing (I’m not even certain that it is something that really could or should be written). The point of this post, I think, is to invite you even deeper into our story by my (potentially foolish?) attempt to expose myself even more in telling you that dying publicly adds baggage to the death process. Inviting you in brings blessing and it bring challenges.

So.

Please wipe your feet on the matt when you enter. Please don’t pound on the door when we actually choose to lock it. Please take cues from us when we don’t want visitors to stay long. Please don’t make fun of my fat cheeks, and please realize that this whole sentence is building off the earlier hospital room metaphor. We’re all drawn to a beautiful story–and my hope is that this story will continue to play out in a way that captures the beauty of the God who I believe is responsible for taking such a shitty situation and giving it any semblance of attractiveness–

Whose story is this? The correct answer is that it is my families! The pretty spiritual answer is that it’s God’s! The cool community answer is that it’s ours! The practical selfish answer is that it’s mine! The sympathetic and compassionate answer is that it’s my wife and kids! I’m going to go ahead and just give it to this guy instead.

* There are obviously needs in life for boundaries–and this is the great challenge for people like ourselves: to create healthy boundaries.

** There are many who read my blog that do, in fact, walk through life with us. In general, however, those that I’m writing to here are those of you who are watching from a distance–many of you from across the world, many of you complete strangers, many of you whom I will never meet. You are all a part of this story because you’ve been invited into the room! But in many real ways you will (and obviously should) find yourselves as outsiders to the unfolding narrative here in the ‘Couve.