Leading with Love

Time is

Too Slow for those who Wait,

Too Swift for those who Fear,

Too Long for those who Grieve,

Too Short for those who Rejoice;

But for those who Love,

Time is not.

- Henry Van Dyke

I remember the first time I met each of my children in vivid, fantastic detail. Time stood still as I stared at their perfect faces, stroked their soft skin, and thanked God for my blessings. The birth of a child is one of the only miracles I have ever witnessed and it is an unfathomable, earth-shaking experience that is as close to standing in God’s presence as I can describe. It is powerful, mesmerizing, and humbling.

The first time I held Paul, swaddled tight in the hospital-issued baby blanket, he stared at me quietly, no crying, no movement, just a tiny, pink, wrinkly admirer with his perfect little nose and delicate, miniature features that stole my heart. When I met my son, all sounds of the outside world quieted, the bright lights and bustling delivery room faded away, and I stared down through a tunnel at this stunning little person. In that first moment, I knew I had found my purpose. I had clarity and a focused ambition like never before. I was not scared or worried, but calmed and collected. I wanted everything for him; success, love, happiness, the perfect childhood, and experiences that mirrored my own. I knew I would spend the rest of my life trying to make his life better, and somehow, that gave me a tremendous sense of peace.

Watching one of my children deal with cancer has been a crushing experience for me, but I can’t even imagine what it has been like for her grandparents. Not only must they watch Hazel suffer, but they have to witness my family’s agonizing journey first hand. They must stand idly by as the family they have spent their entire lives building reels from the attacks of a disease that cannot be seen or controlled. Our family has felt the sting of cancer before as it has stolen loved ones from us on both the Chamberlain and the Miller side; Grandmas and mothers gone too soon, memories lost, relationships prematurely snuffed out. The pain of these battles lingers, their ugly scars flayed open upon each passing year of time lost. Hazel’s battle has created scars of its own and born on our family a weight that threatens to suffocate the joy meant for this period of our lives.

I was surrounded by great men as a kid; generations of men that led by example and helped shape the ethos that I live by today. Men that worked hard, believed in God, and lived by a strong set of unwavering principles handed down from their fathers before them. I was raised by one of these men, a powerful teacher and a faithful mentor who through his actions taught me how to be a father. I have more than three decades of loving guidance from a man who has been through much more of life than I, and yet even he has not dealt with what I currently face.

Childhood cancer has forced me into a role I was never aware existed; one in which I not only worry about my own family, but feel responsible for my parents, in-laws, sisters, niece and nephews as well. I struggle to keep cancer out of their lives, to protect them from the destruction that I see up close and personal every day. I provide as much information as I can, while ensuring them of Hazel’s safety, even at times when the demons of doubt and worry claw at me internally. In a situation that can offer no solace, I try to act as a human shield; buffering the blows of news I know will be difficult to bear.  

Much of our everyday life is focused on managing Hazel’s side effects, attending doctor’s visits, and administering medications. We are constantly researching and monitoring her condition, watching for the telltale signs of relapse or of additional, dangerous effects of the medications that are relentlessly pumped into her body. Elizabeth and I often feel consumed in the process, with barely enough time to breathe, let alone try to raise our family based on the principles we were taught growing up. We forever worry that important life lessons are being missed, our duties as mother and father forgotten as our life is chewed up by the responsibility of keeping one of our children healthy. We fear our plight will affect relationships with cousins or prevent our parents from doing the things they had planned for this stage of their lives. We grow concerned with each passing day that others’ concerns for us will draw attention away from the glorious blessings of new jobs, new babies, holiday celebrations, or other important accomplishments.

How can we build a family that lives up to our parents’ example when all we can do is survive the onslaught of each day’s problems? How do we choose which of our kids deserve more of our time when one of them has a life-threatening disease? How do we make all our children feel safe and grounded when our life is messy and filled with constant uncertainty? I don’t know, but I am trying to figure it out.

We have four beautiful, intelligent children with cousins that long to be with them, family that showers them with attention, and friends that beg to be part of their lives at every turn. They are so blessed, but growing up so fast that I’m afraid Elizabeth and I are missing it. I want my children to be resilient, focused, courteous, and to love life. I want their hearts to soar and to be filled with compassion. I want them to be mindful, calculating, and courageous. I want them to be who they are, unapologetically and joyously. Most of all, I want them to know my love for them and to feel God’s hand in their lives.

My dad taught me many valuable lessons over the years: live with character in the face of adversity, make sacrifices for your family, and build a foundation of faith to withstand even the strongest storms. But there is one lesson he taught me that stands out above all others: A family that is built on love can withstand anything.

“Let all that you do be done in love.” – 1 Cor. 16:14