First of all, before I begin this writing, thank you. Thank you for your prayers and for your love. I felt it. My results came back while I was in San Francisco, and they came back negative. No cancer. They want to do another biopsy to be sure. I chose to have a follow-up MRI in August, instead. Today, I am grateful.

A friend asked me today, "So, Jenny, why do you think this cancer scare happened?" She was asking, what lessons have I learned? My answer: I touched a deep vulnerability. A deep intimacy. And a deep peace. I want to speak to you about the vulnerability. There is a thin veil between us. Between us and ourselves, us and God and between each other. Some of us just put up a lot of armor because we are afraid. Afraid of intimacy. It is scary to be intimate with those awkward parts of ourselves, or with a God who loves everything about us. And it can be difficult to soften to someone as we struggle, when many of us have been used to doing it alone. It's hard to surrender. Sometimes I feel like I might just get lost, or something. When I am used to feeling steel armor, softening like a jelly fish seems a little frightening. It's kind of like the Prodigal Son. The one who has been out running around, throwing his father's money away, and finding himself desperate, comes back home. He kneels before his father and begs for forgiveness, and he is basically thrown a party, while his brother who has done everything "right" seethes. Why didn't he get the big pig and the wine? After all, he is the one who justifiably should get it, right? But this wouldn't be the story that it is with that ending. This story speaks of vulnerability, and to celebrate it, is justified.

We may not be running around throwing our father's most precious estate away, so how do we experience that kind of vulnerability? The kind that brings us to our knees; that makes the ice fashioned around our hearts melt. Try this. Next time you look into the eyes of another person, breathe. Take five extra seconds with that person. They may be talking to you, ringing up your groceries, or (and this is even harder) arguing with you. Breathe, take five seconds and look into their eyes. And when you do, silently (or out loud if you are brave) say, You are a child of God. Notice what you feel in your body when you do this. See if you feel that barrier breaking down and if you do, where in your body do you feel it. Our armor tells stories if we listen.

When I rode the BART this week in San Francisco, I practiced this. One morning, I looked into the eyes of a man in a suit, taking a break from his Blackberry and smiled. Another morning, I wished I was wearing sunglasses because I felt like if one person looked at me I might shrivel up and die. I don't know why. I just didn't want anyone to see me. The next morning, I caught the eye of a BART train driver, and he was smiling before he even looked at me. I wanted to jump out of my seat and hug him. Just because we were alive in that moment, together on this train. I invite you to try this; with strangers, with friends, with family, and especially with yourself in a mirror. Look yourself in the eye and say, "You are a beloved child of God." And, breathe. God will meet you there in that intimacy. No doubt about it.