Goal.

Thanks to everyone who has donated so far... today we surpassed our goal to raise $500!

Because of you, hope lives on. We're encouraged by your generosity, but those who benefit from this money will most assuredly be blessed and encouraged even more.

We are still feverishly making bracelets (and staying just ahead of the demand), so send us an email or snail mail or a quick Facebook message, and we'll send you a reminder of hope.

we wear lime green.

Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma is represented by the color lime green.  Don't ask me why, I haven't the slightest idea.  It's a loud color, almost obnoxious.  Kind of like cancer.  In your face, annoying.

This month I am choosing to embrace the eccentric color.  Not because I'm extremely fond of it, but because it is, to me, the color of hope.  Lime green.  Hope.

Get your Lime Green on by purchasing a bracelet.  All proceeds are going directly to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.  (check out http://www.leukemia-lymphoma.org/ for more information on the LLS). Checks can be made out to "Leukemia & Lymphoma Society".

Every green dollar is going to help.  Every lime green bracelet is going to scream hope. 

Send your $1 donation & a self-addressed enveloped to:

remember hope

7 Kingsbridge Rd

Somerset, NJ

08873

get your lime green on.

now.

The present is a beautiful concept.


Since memories both positive and negative define my past, I find myself stuck in a quasi-purgatory when I reminisce – paralyzed by my inability to alter the regrets, yet brought to visible joy by relished experiences. It’s difficult to remember these different milestones objectively without adding my own bias to revise the facts of these events, so it can be a confusing process as well.


On the flipside, the future provides slightly different challenges when considered. Looking forward to the approaching months from any given point, I usually visualize myself in the present location surrounded by my four or five most trusted, but the landscape is distinctly tinged by certain colors. This last feature is predictable – when I’m unsure, things are grey; when I’m fairly clear, things are bright; when I’m excited about the coming weeks, the scene is a bit greener (green is a special color to me). These skewed perceptions of future possibilities serve naught but to impede my decision-making process.


But here I am, at the juncture between processing yesterday’s decisions and anticipating tomorrow’s. The more my regrets bog me down, the less I can see the future in white. But when I isolate myself in the glory of past victories, the ignored future fades to black. It’s a balanced process, living in the present. But without the remembrance of what’s gone before, I can’t approach the imminent with hope.


Thus the name of our movement.


We’re seeking to remember Bernadette Page, a woman who encouraged me greatly to live a holy and committed life for the Lord and those we love, in order to bring hope to people whose futures are dim. Her hope - based on the only true hope we can have in Jesus - remained steadfast throughout the course of turbulent 2009. Her example inspires me, and motivates us to pass it on.


This life is not about me.

Let’s remember hope, and live for others.

Hope Reigns.

It started out like any other Friday – too early.
 
I was rudely awoken by the blaring of my alarm promptly at 6 am.  I
rolled out of bed, got myself together and began my day.  I drove my
siblings to school and made a detour to Sam I Am on the way home.  I
called home to see if there were any special requests. Pumpernickel,
toasted, with cream cheese.  I brought it home, delivered my mother her
bagel, and sat on the couch to enjoy a nice breakfast with my parents.
We chatted about the unusually beautiful December weather, the deli-
cious coffee, and our future plans.  Christmas break was coming soon.
It was unfortunately time to leave for my classes, so I hugged my mom
and dad goodbye and left for school.  My mom encouraged me to have a
great day.  Under my breath I sarcastically muttered “probably not” and
continued on my way.

What I wouldn’t do to go back to that bright, sunny morning, skip
school, and hold my mom one more time.  What I wouldn’t give to hear
her say I love you one more time.

The last thing I thought when I listened to my sister’s tearful voicemail
before Spanish class was that my mom was rushed to the hospital when
she had just come home.  She was home for good.

I naively drove to the hospital while listening to my then favorite song,
Remember When It Rained by Josh Groban.  I parked on the second
floor of the parking garage, just like the countless other times I visited
my mom on the Oncology floor.  But my route was redirected when my
sister told me to come to the ER instead.

As I walked away from the front entrance towards the ER the thought
crawled into my mind.  It bit my heart when I saw my dad standing
outside, and poisoned my soul when I saw the security guard attempt to
smile through his tears.

“Hey, Lex...” my dad said with swollen eyes, and broken smile.   He was
trying so hard to sound OK, but he was not. “She’s gone, Babe.”

I fell to the pavement.  Overtaken by violent sobs.

No Daddy. No Daddy. No Daddy. She’s not gone.  Tell me she’s not gone.
Daddy, please tell me she’s not gone.  No Daddy.

On December 4th, 2009, my life changed forever.