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Chris Fabry
Married to Andrea since 1982. We have 9 children together and none apart. Our dog's name is Tebow.
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Where We Are Now

After finding and remediating mold twice in our Colorado home, we abandoned ship in October 2008. Because of the high levels of exposure, our entire family was affected. After months of seeing different specialists for all of the problems, we came to Arizona to begin comprehensive treatment to rid our bodies of the toxic buildup. In August 2009 we moved into a larger home, four bedrooms, south of Tucson, north of Mexico. I am doing my daily radio program/ writing from that location. Thanks for praying for us. We really feel it.

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Friday, October 30, 2009
For those who prayed for my trip last week, thank you. It went well. I traveled all day Thursday and got to WV at twilight, able to see the leaves in full bloom and glory. I got out of the car when I reached home and thought, "That smell! That's what I've missed." It was the earth dying a little.

My parents were watching TV when I arrived. We watched a lot of football over the weekend, which was fine with me. I helped out very little and we talked a lot. And ate.

I'll keep this brief for now, but my father is doing okay. He did get me mixed up with my older brother, asking my mother, "Where did Johnny go?" But all in all, he was right there with us and even made a call or two the refs missed. He's slowing down, missing some teeth, and moving a lot more slowly, but he gave me his trademark goodbye when I left--what he says each time before we hang up on the phone. "Love every bone in your body!"

The feeling is mutual.

Thanks again for praying.
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Thursday, October 22, 2009
Many of you have asked about the poem that our guest Dawn Rae read last week on Chris Fabry Live! It was written by 12-year-old Hallee Cartwright from Tennessee, who passed away earlier this month. Her family has graciously made that poem available to us, so I'll share it here. Please continue to pray for the family and friends of Hallee, whose life and vibrant faith in Christ continue to touch the hearts of those who hear her story.

I AM POEM

I am athletic and outgoing
I wonder about the golden streets and the pearly gates
I hear birds chirping through my window
I see the sunset setting over crystal blue water
I want to live life to the fullest
I am athletic and outgoing
I pretend to be a flower raising up to the sky
I feel wind blowing beneath me
I touch the strings of my guitar as I play a "D"
I worry about people who don't know Christ
I cry for orphans
I am athletic and outgoing
I understand why I am on the Earth
I say words that motivate and help friends and family
I dream of reaching my goals
I try my hardest in everything I do
I hope to be in the presence of the Lord someday
I am athletic and outgoing

Written by Hallee Cartwright, July 29, 2009, for her grammar class
Copyright Hallee Cartwright 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
It has been a while since my last blog and there’s a good reason. I began writing a new novel a few weeks ago and when I get on that treadmill I have to stay on and keep the story and characters spinning in my head. So any spare time I have from my other daily duties I’m in the "new novel" world.

It used to be very scary to admit I was working on a book. The fear is that you won’t be able to finish what you start. Or that it won’t be any good and when someone asks about it you’ll have to say, "It didn’t work out."

After 60+ books published, I still sit with that fear each time out. Part of the fear of this new book is that its scope is so much broader, more encompassing than my other adult novels. The new fear is that I won’t do the subject justice. I want readers to be moved by my story, to identify with the characters, and to come away from this one knowing that God is sovereign. He is at work in the big and small aspects of our lives. It’s more than I can do with the talent I’ve been given—which is a good place to be. Every time I sit down I am dependent on the Master Storyteller to infuse me with memory, insight, and truth.

So if I’m not as diligent with my correspondence in these next few months, now you understand why.

*********************************

I’m heading back to WV to visit my parents and family. It has been a long time since I’ve been there. My father has some health problems so it will be good to see him again.

It’s scary leaving the Cactus Compound, even for a few days. Though we are improving, any day can present problems. We’ve been on a stringent diet that has helped, but deviation from it brings complications. So I’m praying things will go smoothly while I’m gone. If you think of it, pray for Andrea and the kids while I’m away.

I was at Walmart a few days ago. Here’s what I bought:

5 bottles of White Vinegar
Lined paper for school
6 Jr. legal pads
3 kitchen towels
2 oven mitts
A 2-cup glass measuring cup
A hat

You can tell this was Andrea’s list. Other than the hat, of course. Total: $46.74.

I used one of the gift cards we’ve been given. It still has $61.65 on it. We’ve been so blessed with the generosity of God’s people. We can’t thank you enough for your kindness and prayers. They are a HUGE part of the story God is writing with our lives.

I’m confident that story will finish well. Thank you.
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Monday, October 12, 2009
The Nobel Prize awarded to our president made me think of my own brush with fame. I was in the 6th grade. I was a patrol. I wore the orange sash. It clashed with most of my outfits. But I wore it anyway, proudly. And I worked hard that year, standing by the drinking fountain next to Mrs. Arnold’s class. As soon as the bell rang, it was my job to step in front of the water fountain and not let anyone else get a drink. It feels heartless now, but I saw it as an important job.

Those of us on duty rotated stations each week. There was the water fountain duty. The next week we’d be on the playground. But the plum assignment, the one that everyone coveted, was out front at the line of buses, taking care of the younger children as they walked home or stood in line.

I’m not sure how many lives I saved, the number is really not important now. No, what is important is that I was one of many who wore the sash, and I was one who was in line for the possibility of being Patrol of the Year.

At the end of that long, arduous battle known as 6th grade, still at the top of the heap in elementary school, the teachers and administrators at Culloden elementary decided to bestow this honor on one person. There was no participation trophy. There was just a hard-fought battle over who would be chosen as THE patrol, the one who exemplified justice and honor and the American way and kindness and honesty and valor.

We sat, breathless, as our principal took the stage. Kelson Cooper was his name. And he used to come to us during lunch and pass out extra pigs in the blanket and hot rolls. I loved that man. Kelson Cooper stood before us and held up the award, which was a little hard to see from where I was sitting, but I knew it would be wonderful. Tension mounted as he asked all the patrols to stand and thanked us for our efforts. We did so to the applause of teachers and custodians. All the dehydrated kids who hadn’t been able to get a drink that whole year scowled, but there was polite applause from them as well.

And then we sat and waited for the announcement. And the award for Patrol of the Year, the POTY, goes to… and then he said it. My name. Chris Fabry. I rose, and because I wore husky pants and shirts, I waddled to the front of that gymnatorium, my face red-cheeked. And I looked at that little pin that was a replica of our own badge that we wore. A very tiny replica. I’ve lost it now. Can’t tell you where it is.

But to this day I remember what the room felt like as I made my triumphant waddle back to my seat. Other patrols around asked to see it. I was actually embarrassed, thinking my friends probably deserved it more. I had done no lobbying. I had just done the best job I could at what I was given to do. And the older I get, the more I realize THAT is the best award of all.
Monday, October 5, 2009
We went out to eat last night in celebration of one year on the road to recovery.

Oh, the difference a year can make. If you had told me last year in July or even in September that our family would leave our home, lose most of our worldly possessions, and live in five different houses in two states, I would have said you were crazy. No way. Can’t happen.

It did. And we’re still going through the fallout. I am still paying on the laboratory bills our health insurance didn’t cover. The legal battle over the house continues. The lawyer for the other side called our case “frivolous.” I guess that’s a lawyer’s word. It’s not one I would use about our situation.

Those first few days of vacating our home were shocking. Neighbors rallied around us. The manager of the hotel gave us a break on the two rooms and our church paid for a few of the nights there. When we found a house to rent, I took everything we owned and moved it in less than five minutes. All we had were in Kohl’s and Walmart bags and some food.

There were many tears and questions. We had no idea what was ahead. I remember telling the kids about our pets, Pippen and Frodo. That part I haven’t really dealt with. They still haunt me. I’d put my head down at night thinking about them, not knowing what the next day held, praying for the strength to get up and do the work I felt God had given.

I continued working in the office in our garage, opening the garage door with the opener I kept in the milk container outside the front door. I’d change into the full chemical splash suit each day and walk inside, hoping the room wasn’t contaminated. I wrote the rest of June Bug in that room, wading through the story with the plastic crinkling around me. I did the daily radio show there as well. In December, upon the request of friends who cared, we tested the room and found high levels of toxins. I left it and all the equipment. (The radio stuff was later cleaned and salvaged.)

In January a friend loaned me his pull along trailer that we parked in the driveway. I did the radio show from there that month, then moved all of our mattresses and a few belongings to Arizona to meet with Andrea and the kids who were getting treatment. The house had recently been sprayed inside with pesticides and we lost those mattresses. We lived in hotels for three weeks and finally found a small house we called our own for a few months.

This has been a long journey and none of it has been easy. The treatments in the early days, drinking the clay and taking the prescribed medication did strange things to our bodies. The mold inside has done even stranger things. Psychologically we have been traumatized and just the thought of mold brings reactions.

However, on this anniversary, I’m thinking of some good things that have happened. All of us are together. How would that have ever been arranged? All of us are progressing. The children are able to actually read again and do school (though the teacher comes to our house and puts on scrubs before she begins). We’re not in the “fog” that we called our lives in Colorado. We don’t have resolution on the home in Colorado and all the stuff inside, but we do have a place to stay that is big enough for us and we even own a couch and loveseat. Though we feel alone, we know we have friends who pray for us. We have had so many people send gift cards it’s ridiculous. I still have many we haven’t even touched.

My son, Reagan, is playing baseball. The ringing in his ears has lessened somewhat. He’s still dizzy, but there have been times in the past few weeks of driving him to practice or games when I almost feel like a normal dad.

There are actually moments in the day when I don’t worry about the bills and what lasting effects the mold will have on us. I treasure those moments because it’s so easy to slip back into unbelief.

We haven’t arrived. Many days are horrific. Symptoms return. Andrea is caring for all of the specialized meals and the herbs/supplements and she sometimes gets so exhausted she can’t function. The kids have intense nosebleeds. They miss their friends. They miss Pippen and Frodo. They miss a “normal” life.

Throughout this past year I have felt God walking through the fire with us. People from his family have given and given. I have learned God’s grace is sufficient and I have to cling to that every day. These events have caused me to be more aware of the pain of those around us.

This is not the life I signed up for, but it is the life I have been given. And by God’s grace I will live it to the full today and pray that He gets the glory for anything good that comes from this journey.

After all, Jesus said that he came to give life. He came to give it abundantly, overflowing, springing up from someplace deep inside. That kind of life can’t be explained by merely pulling yourselves up by your bootstraps. It’s not something you can do on your own. It’s given. My job is to receive it. That’s my new full-time job.