Relay Friday

Well, it's here!  What started out as one new ACS employee hoping for at least one community volunteer turned into 4 teams who have raised almost $8,000!!!  We are anticipating between 50-100 people will stop by throughout the day to see what it's about and hopefully will boost interest in the growing event.  But, if no one extra stops by, our 4 teams will be small and mighty and we will have a blast with our washers, lawn games, music, and grill-out.  I am so excited, and SO thankful for your support.

I thought on this last relay Friday I would share with you the speech I am giving tomorrow night at the start of the luminaria ceremony. (yes, i know that word is spelled wrong - not sure why)  And if you'd like to buy one in honor or memory of a loved one, they are $10 online or free if you've already given a donation.  I'd be happy to decorate one for you!

So, my last Relay plug until next year...

Today has been a great day of celebration, and I have been honored to be a part of it.  But unfortunately, the cause for celebration has come at a high cost.  Cancer has taken so much from us, and this is a time for us to come together and grieve what we have lost.

Our losses are different.  Some of us have lost time; time that would have been spent otherwise if it weren't for necessary cancer treatments and operations.  Some of us have lost friends and coworkers; people we have loved dearly and who we have chosen to be a part of our every day lives.  Some of us have lost siblings; people that we grew up with and who should have grown old by our sides.  Some of us have lost parents; the people who are given to us at birth to guide us, shape us and lead us in our life's journey.  And some of us have lost children, a loss which I have no words to describe.  But no matter who it is that we are here to grieve, our loss is significant and our hearts are heavy.  And although our experiences are different, we all share one hope: we all hope that our children, and their children, can live in a world where cancer does not surround them and lurk around every corner.

Each luminaria here tonight represents a life.  A treasured life.  They represent our family members, friends and loved ones, who's lives were forever altered, some cut short, by this devastating disease.  As we are filled with sadness, we are here to remember them and to fight back in their honor.

As I share with you my personal motivation for being here tonight, I ask that you begin to illuminate the luminaria and join me in your own reflection of your loved ones.

When I was 9 years old I sat in a hospital room while my dad's doctor explained to our family that he had leukemia.  At 9 years old the only two associations I had with cancer were hair loss and death, so in my mind I assumed my dad was going to suffer both.  And soon.  My heart was shattered and I could not begin to wrap my mind around the journey upon which we were going to embark.  My childhood was cut short and my life was stamped forever.  My dad suffered for 4 years, but in that time I can count on one hand the number of times I could tell he was suffering.  His strength and resilience amazed me, even if it were all an attempt to protect the innocence of his three children.  I watched him lose his hair and grow it back.  I watched him celebrate remission and live through its relapse.  I watched him live in isolation for 6 weeks with no human contact.  I watched him lose his ability to walk.  I watched so many things be stripped from him and while I am sure he suffered from humiliation and defeat, he seemed to rise above it and fight back with everything he had.  He was the sick one, but I watched him comfort his friends and family through his illness.  And it was his courage and strength that helped us try to stay strong as well.

After 4 years of fighting, my dad lost his battle with cancer.  While my family has strong faith that he is living a life of comfort where cancer can not hurt hum, and even though it has been 14 years, not a day has gone by in my life when I haven't wished he were here.  Thankfully, I am able to reflect upon his strength and courage and it continues to be my driving force in life.

This ceremony is an opportunity for me to remember my dad, Bill Blair, and for us all to remember and honor our loved ones.  But it isn't just about grieving our loss.  It is an opportunity for us to celebrate their lives and the lasting impressions they have left with us.  It is our opportunity to join together and commit that we will not stop fighting until cancer has.

At this time, I'd like for you to join me in a silent lap around our track.  As we silently walk together, I'd like for you to reflect upon your experiences and losses.  Let your steps be for those who can't be with us, and let your presence be an honor to them.  And as you focus on your loved ones, let it be a time to celebrate their lives and our ability to fight back for them.