Finding My Way: Cookies against cancer

It’s good to be occasionally reminded that happiness and sadness can exist at the same time, sometimes in the same moment.

This is a happy story about a very sad situation. A member of our extended family has cancer. There is never an appropriate age for receiving a cancer diagnosis, but statistically she is about 25 years early for this type of talk with the doctor.

So these are sad days for the Huston clan. There’s the chemo and the bills. At the moment, there seems to be no end to either.

But families being what they are, there’s also an urge to help. Many of you have been there. You can’t fight the cancer, but you can fight the finances — or at least try.

One of our daughters had an idea, which is what this column is all about. “Let’s get a bunch of stuff together. Cakes, cupcakes, cookies, jams, jellies, specialty soaps, all of it homemade. Then we set up a table outside a grocery store. Cookies against cancer. No price tags on anything. Take what you like. Leave a donation.”

A date was set. A store was found. The kids were coming into town anyway to celebrate my wife’s birthday. “Mom’s all about service,” they told me. “What better way to celebrate her birthday than to help someone else?”

It’s difficult to overstate how pleased I was to hear this. It was one of those moments when you feel the things you tried to instill in your children actually got through. My wife, to whom the real credit for this lifetime teaching goes, was all in.

So the baking began, the sign designed, and the soap wrapped. The house was a happy place. It’s been my experience that happiness, tinged with sadness, can be the most deeply-felt kind of happiness there is.

The goodies, signs, and card tables were loaded up. A son-in-law and I stayed behind to watch the toddlers. A small exodus of mini-vans pulled out of the driveway.

I’ll write the rest as if I was there. Between the stories from the kids, grandkids and my wife, I feel like I was.

We (the family) arrived at the Ridley’s Family Market in Jerome at 10 a.m. The tables, signs and goodies went up in a flash. The grandchildren went right to work as the adorable attention-getters.

People stopped and examined the goods on the table. Many asked questions about why we were there. There were tender discussions. Many knew first-hand about the destruction cancer leaves in its wake — physically, emotionally and financially.

Goods began to disappear from the table. Money began to fill the donation jar. Afterward, my wife repeated to me several times, as if she wanted to make sure I clearly understood this part, that many of the people leaving larger bills in the jar appeared at first glance to be the ones least likely to be able to make the sacrifice.

The most common comment made by those who opened their wallets: “We’ve been there. We know what you’re going through.”

Some people made donations without taking anything from the table.

After a couple of hours, the tables were emptying. The few remaining items went back into the minivans. No one counted the money until they pulled away. I suspect they didn’t want to somehow jinx it.

But by the time they were home they flew into the house. In only a few hours they had raised $450.

I wish you could have heard the phone call to pass along the news. Dry eyes were in short supply on both sides of the line.

Well, you and I both know that in the war on cancer, $450 isn’t much. But it’s something, and besides, the amount raised almost isn’t the point.

Here’s what my children and grandchildren learned from this: that despite all our talk of anger and isolation, there are good and giving people everywhere, and they often turn up ready to make a difference where you’d least expect them.

Chris Huston is an author and award-winning columnist living in southern Idaho. Connect with Chris on both Facebook and Instagram at Chris Huston-Finding My Way and at chrishustonauthor.com.