Little Fighter

This is me and my dog-niece Alice, wearing a sympathy scarf. It has nothing to do with my post. Actually it has nothing to do with sympathy either, as the scarf was forced upon her and she was held in my lap under duress for the photo shoot.

Sorry, dear readers, for my infrequent posts. This last session had been particularly tiring, although I don't have the brain fog that I did in sessions past, which is nice. In fact, I read a whole book yesterday- 400 pages in one sitting. So I feel a little more like myself- nerdy.

Today I went to a chiropractor for the first time ever. A really nice couple that I had known for awhile from church told me recently that they are both chiropractors and offered me free sessions to help cope with the effects of chemotherapy. I did not know much about it, but know other people who have had very good experiences with it. And the whole chemotherapy song- and- dance can really make you feel like you are out of control of your whole healing process, that you are dependent on these nasty chemicals that they put into you for your survival. So to try something different felt very...well, empowering. (For some reason, I don't like using that word... it sounds so Gem and the Holograms, you know? "Showtime, synergy... " yech!).

Anyway, although they have an office in the city, she was at home with her kids today and I met her there. When I got there, she was putting her baby to sleep and I was talking to her very precocious 3 year old, D, in a pink leotard with a tie- on ballet skirt. We read some books and she showed me some of the gifts that Santa brought her. She would lose her train of thought and break off in the middle of her own sentence with something unrelated, like "see how tall I am now" standing up and showing me. I confirmed that she was, indeed, humongous and she nodded solemnly and we went back to the story.

When it was time for mommy to work, grandpa came to take D for an outing. But she didn't want to go; told them she was going to stay and help mommy with her work. Grandpa tried his best to tempt her, even insinuating that there was a trip to Jamba Juice in the deal. She hesitated at this one, then told grandpa decidedly to" bring me back a strawberry shake, I'm going to work on Faith". She was so determined! Mom even suggested that she wait and work on mommy later, but this suggestion was not cutting the mustard as she responded "but you don't need any help! I want to work on the ones who don't feel good!"

So when I was lying on the table, her mom told her to help by praying for me as mommy worked. This was a fulfilling enough assignment for a time, but she soon said in her little kid stage whisper 'Mommy, I want to help more". She pulled her little chair up at the head of the table so I could just see her feet from my position lying down. Then she started circling around me, lifting up my feet as her mom told her to do. When this assignment grew boring, she started doing some of her own renegade work, growing increasingly more confident in her skills . I would feel a friendly little poke in my spine, then an earnest jab in my ribs and then an authoritative yank on my foot. Since I couldn't see her, I never knew where she'd be next. When mommy was done, she got her own time helping with "hands on healing"- putting her hands on my head (I think she wanted to take my headscarf off but a quick word from mom and she moved on) and my back, my legs and feet and praying for me silently.

It reminded me of a story I heard about World War I. Pope Benedict XV was one of the few players working towards a peaceful resolution, he was largely ignored by the political players, even considered destructive as his efforts for peace were considered to weaken the spirit of the fighters. He tried to organize the famous Christmas truce, but that failed as well. Whn it seemed like all hope for peace was gone and there was nothing left but to pray for mercy, he called together 10,000 children making their first communion to Saint Peters Square. He begged them to pray for the intercession of Our Lady to end the fighting before even more lives were lost. He died shortly thereafter, never being able to see the fruits of his labor on earth to end the conflict, most likely thinking he died a failure. But in May of 1917, Our Lady made her first appearance at Fatima. To children.

So it would be a grave mistake indeed to discount the prayers of children. I count myself lucky to have had my own little warrior in a pink tutu fighting for me.
Love, Faith