Any given Tuesday.

I find myself thinking about children with brain cancer probably 100 times a day. I think of the babies, the toddlers, the 9-year-olds, the teens and all of their families who woke up today fighting. I think of those families as I do my normal American stuff, like get in my car for another dreary commute or when I check my chock-full e-mail or when I go to the grocery store to buy broccoli and pomegranate juice. Then I think about all the people who aren't thinking about it. And I come full circle knowing that awareness is one of our biggest hurdles.

As we plan & hold Kyrie Foundation events, we have people like you who come, who help, who offer, who volunteer, who give and give generously. You have made The Kyrie Foundation happen! But I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you how hard it is to get others to care. In the Kansas City area, for example, it seems like the town is exploding with nonprofit events, which says a lot about the kind of citizens we are, but when a brand new and vitally important organization comes on the scene, it's extremely difficult to get noticed and in turn get support. Some media won't promote because we're too small. Some entities won't help us because if they help us, then they have to help everybody. (I say, what's wrong with that?) Some businesses say they already support The Bolivian Bowlers Association. Some organizations won't include our event because it's not their event.

It's hard to hear. It's hard to think that while there are plenty of worthy causes, we are a cause where children's lives depend on what the rest of us do. It's hard to hear because this is the number one form of kids cancer and no one really knows that. It's hard to hear because we know that we're the only organization in the Midwest doing what we're doing.

And then someone, somewhere says "yes," which has now become one of my favorite words. That someone saying "yes" is another kind of treatment, in my book, to save children. We thank all the yeses out there. The yeses are protecting you & me from being one of the nine families who get that unthinkable diagnosis today.

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.
--Mary Jean Iron