One year ago on September 24, 2015, our lives were changed by a cancer diagnosis. One year ago we learned that fear is a physical thing, a hot searing pain that can twist inside you and then burn like a flickering candle that never quite goes out. One year ago sorrow and grief sat down beside us and decided to stay awhile.

We began a journey we did not want to travel to a place we did not want to go.

Acknowledging and accepting the pain is part of the journey. But there is so much more to remember and so much more to say.

We have learned  to slow our walk and deepen our breathing. We have been awakened in a new way to the beauty of life, and we have tasted and seen that God is good. We have opened our hearts to eternity, both to our idea of it and the truth of it.

We have learned that this pain is temporary. This world is temporary. This mortal life is temporary. But there is so much that is not, so much that lasts forever. God and the truth of His words, the peace that we can have with Him through Christ, His covenant love and the thousands of joys it brings.

Marissa’s soul is eternal. And so is mine and yours.

This hard year has taught us much about truth and what matters. It has reminded us of our failures and comforted us with a risen Savior who intercedes for us, who binds our wounds and carries our sorrows. It has helped us know God, the creator and the master of the storm.

One of my favorite quotes is from Amy Carmichael. “But God is the God of the waves and the billows, and they are still His when they come over us; and again and again we have proved that the overwhelming thing does not overwhelm. Once more by His interposition deliverance came. We were cast down, but not destroyed.”

The overwhelming has not overwhelmed. How is it we have walked through this year with all of its difficulty? How have we held on to faith and hope? How have we laughed and loved through pain? Deliverance came. God came. We have proved it again and again.

We have been fighting for a full year, and the battle is far from over. Marissa is weary, and the storm feels so very dangerous. We can’t see what lies ahead. The waves are cold and dark and we feel them washing over us. Some days we are trembling. Some days we are barely holding on.

But He is holding us. These waves are still His.

The overwhelming will not overwhelm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The days get filled, don’t they? You get to the end of each one and it is somehow filled up, somehow finished. All the moments swirl together to make a day, a year, and eventually, a whole life.

The moments matter, but they are swiftly moving pieces of time. It’s hard to catch them, hard to hold them down. Even “cherishing the moments” can bring frustration and a kind of despair. We can’t stop time. We can’t hold on to the moments. We can’t slow down our life or lengthen the days. Even living intentionally doesn’t stop the trickling of sand.

Lullabies to school days to rocking chair. Soft baby skin to teenage acne to wrinkled brow. Like water held in the palms of our hands, the moments trickle through. They add up, but they are hard to count.

O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am! Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths, and my lifetime is as nothing before you. Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath! Psalm 39:4,5

This lifetime feels like the big game, but it is really just a scrimmage. It is just a preparation for eternity. It is a blurry photo, a smudged essay, a shallow breath.

It is not the end.

Eternity is in our hearts. Marissa has had to stretch her understanding of what that means. She has had to broaden her idea of what makes a good life and what it means to be loved by God. She is learning to trust that whatever God gives her is enough. Enough to fulfill her purpose, enough to prepare her for eternity, enough to enjoy God and bring Him glory.

It is enough.

The Bible tells us that God’s timing is different than ours. With the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like one day. 2 Peter 3:8  We are trying to think of time like He does. We long to know what it means to live each day like it is a thousand years and at the same time like it is just a breath of eternity.

This moment is fleeting, but it is as big as a thousand years. Surely, it is enough. It is our story, our life. It is what we have, what we have been given by God. It is sacred. It is precious. It is ours.

Even when it feels like just a breath, it is enough. It is enough to lead us home.

You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore. Psalm 16:11

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Indeed, these are the mere edges of His ways, and how small a whisper we hear of Him! Job 26:14

The edges of His ways. That phrase rolls around in my mind these days. I think about how much I have learned about God and yet how little I know.

I think about being still enough to hear the whisper of Him.

There have been early mornings with a touch of cool, reminding me that we are on the edge of fall. We are on the edge of new, the edge of color, the edge of cozy.

It’s funny how you long for the whole when you are on the edge. You long for the idea of it, the best of it, the bigness of it. Eventually you are faced with the truth of it. The truth is more than the idea and has some gnarly bits of real. The truth of autumn with its pumpkin spice and crackling fires and beautiful trees is also coldness and too much dark and the barrenness of fallen leaves.

The edges of His ways are the same, I think. We want to fall headlong into His love and the big picture of His grace. We like the ideas of abundance and riches and faith but have to navigate through darkness and trial and hard to fully understand, to fully know Him.

Marissa is on the edge of surgery. We haven’t spent much time thinking about it, but it looms closer and now it is more real. On the edge it feels overwhelmingly frightening. It’s a new corner, unfamiliar and dark. We know the reality will be somehow both harder and better than we expect. The whole experience will grow us in ways we couldn’t know. We will be both overwhelmed and rescued, both terrified and filled with peace, both blinded and infused with light.

We will know the hard edge of experience along with the soft edges of His ways. We will see the panoramic view of beautiful mountains almost impossible to climb, of sun-filled meadows only accessible through thorny trails.

We will know Him more, trust Him more, love Him more.

What new thing is speaking fear to you? What overwhelms and burdens your heart? What are you on the edge of that takes your breath away?

Trust in the edges of His ways and long to know the whole of Him. In the stillness of your fear, listen to His whisper.

Even the edges of His ways are filled with grace.

So that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth,  and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Ephesians 3:17-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We get up early so we can be out the door by 6 a.m.  Marissa eats a quick breakfast and we both have coffee. We pack snacks and books and laptops. She brings a pillow and a blanket so she can sleep on the way home.

We thought we would listen to lots of audio books and sermons, but on the way we usually just talk. The trip goes faster than I thought it would–she fills me in on what’s happening at work and in her life. We watch the sunrise and we talk about mostly mundane things. Sometimes we are quiet and just watch the miles go by.

We hit Charlotte during morning rush hour. Sometimes traffic has slowed down to a crawl, but it is always busy. Just after Charlotte, there is a construction zone for several miles. Once we are past that, the road opens up and the driving is easier.

We are on the road for about three and a half hours before we exit the highway. We try to grab a bite to eat before we get to the cancer center since we will be there all day. The Chick-Fil-A near the hospital conveniently has a free breakfast item every Wednesday, so it’s fun to see what will be free each week.

We pull into the parking garage and begin the search for a parking place. We take an elevator to the second floor, walk down the long hallway to another set of elevators, and then go to the basement for lab work. Marissa checks in, gets a pager, and waits for it to buzz. We usually wait 15 or 20 minutes before she is called back. She heads into the lab and they access her port for blood work. It doesn’t take long unless they can’t get blood return, and then they have to tip her chair back or have her flap her arms to get the blood flowing.

When she comes out we head to the fourth floor for chemotherapy. She checks in and gets another pager. We wait in a large waiting room where they have tables with puzzles and lots of seating. We are usually here for an hour or more. Marissa’s chemo is considered a long session so they need a room for five hours. We don’t usually see the same people each week, and we rarely see anyone near her age. Some older patients are in wheelchairs, and some are weak and worn, but most patients look pretty healthy.

When they call her back, they ask if she wants a chair or a bed, and the nurses are always surprised when she asks for a bed. Evidently, people do not like the beds at all. Maybe it makes them feel sick or maybe it reminds them of being in the hospital. Marissa loves the bed because it means she can take a nap if she gets sleepy, and the nurses are always grateful.

When she gets to the room, they take her blood pressure and temperature. Then they give her steroids and anti-nausea medication in pill form. They start her IV fluids and give about half before they start her first chemo. The medication gives her a headache and she starts to get puffy from the combination of steroids and fluids. The first chemo is Gemzar which runs for about 30 minutes. Then more fluids before they start the Cisplatin which runs for an hour. Then they finish the fluids and she is done.

If she has a bed, she usually naps. Sometimes I join her on the bed and rest, too. When she is awake, she is usually checking her phone or her laptop. Her head is fuzzy so she doesn’t usually read. We don’t talk too much–she is fighting the physical discomfort as well as the mental challenge of facing the next few days. It’s hard to watch the meds that you know will make you sick drip into your body. The mental battle is the hardest–staying focused, pushing back discouragement, enduring and hanging on to faith.

I read and I pray and I hang on with her.

There are volunteers at Duke in almost every area. We have met several, and they are mostly people who have been helped in the past and now want to serve. They come by once or twice to offer drinks and snacks. Some of them are really friendly and want to know Marissa and her story, and she’s always glad to talk with them.

The last IV usually beeps between 4:30 and 6:00. We head back down to the parking garage and get started on our way home. We drive about an hour before we stop for a bite to eat and drink. (They encourage her to drink lots to flush the chemo drugs out.)  Marissa is not hungry and usually has a hard time deciding what to eat, but she knows it will help to eat something. She never wants to stay because she is anxious to get home, so we grab something and get back on the road.

She tries to sleep and doesn’t talk much. Her head is hurting so we usually don’t listen to anything (although there was that Patch the Pirate sing-along!) We are both “sky” people, so we enjoy the changing skies. We have had at least a few minutes of rain on every trip, and we have watched the sunset each time. Even on a busy road, heading home from a challenging day, the skies and sunsets remind us of God’s faithful, powerful love.

We move through the traffic in Charlotte, past the peach water tower in Gaffney, on toward Spartanburg and home. When we see our exit, there is a feeling of relief. One more trip down, one more chemo finished, one step closer to done.

We pull in the driveway and breathe. We are safely home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The line between hope and faith can be blurred. Prayers are offered up and poured out and lifted high, and we can be disappointed in God’s silence. We begin to doubt His love, and fundamentally, we doubt that God is who He says He is.

We tend to hope and pray for the things we can see because that is what we know. We hope for physical healing and good news. We can grasp those things, and they seem good to us. We want to see and hold our blessings as a tangible evidence of God.

Marissa’s latest scans were mostly good, but we didn’t see the dramatic results we had hoped for. She has a difficult, risky surgery coming up with so much at stake and no guarantees. I fell and broke my ankle while we were at Duke, and our van quit on a busy highway.

Some days it is harder to find the light.

When prayers are answered in ways that are puzzling, in ways that delay hope and seem powerless to our finite minds, we can falter. Where is the power to heal? Where is the power to overcome evil? Where is the power to rescue?

When we struggle with the emptiness of unanswered prayer, we need to examine the substance of our faith. What are we trusting in? What are we hoping for? Our hope can falter if it rests on people or events or circumstances. Our faith is in God Who is both mysterious and revealed–the victorious Savior, the Almighty God, the all-knowing, all-powerful, always good, never-changing Father.

Faith in God is the real substance of our hope. Faith goes beyond what we can see and fathom and comprehend. It rests in Someone real and known, solid but unseen, whose ways are past finding out. Our faith is bigger than what we can hold in our hands. It is bigger than our hopes. It is more than goodness, more than answered prayer. It is as real as God, as big as God.

He restores our hope in subtle ways. He assures us daily by countless acts of grace. He helps, He carries, He enables. Sometimes we are aware of just a misty shadowing, like a sprinkling of rain that hardly seems to matter but slowly seeps deep in the soil preserving the root and strengthening the plant. We are longing for the cleansing rain, the kind of rain that floods and enlarges the river and carries us away, far away from the storm. We want the trial to end, the answers to come. We long for the heavy showers of blessing–for the miraculous, victorious, visual response to our trouble.

But we can learn to delight in the mercy drops. The drops that cool and freshen and sustain. The hope-restoring drops that make us yearn for God and the fulfillment of His promises. The drops which draw us close to the One who sends them.

Drops of mercy. We see them every day. They assure us of His love.

They remind us that the rain will come.

Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord; his going out is sure as the dawn; he will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth. (Hosea 6:3)

They waited for me as for the rain and opened their mouth as for the spring rain. Job 29:23

May he come down like rain upon the mown grass, like showers that water the earth. Psalm 72:6

For all of us who face the giants of unbelief and disbelief and fear.

As I was walking out my door into the dark, still morning, I saw a shooting star. A second of light, a spark of beauty, but enough to speak peace to my heart. My mind was immediately drawn to God–both to His mighty, creative hand and His masterful timing.

It is a gift to believe.

I don’t believe in random events. I don’t believe in coincidence or karma or luck. I believe in God. I believe in His absolute authority over all things.

And I believe in His love.

It’s hard to believe sometimes. We don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle. We have emotions, thoughts, and feelings that don’t seem to line up. Faith doesn’t always make sense. There are things hidden and mysterious, true but not seen.

But this is what I have come to know. If you seek Him, you will find Him. If you knock, the door will open. The Bible is full of assurances of who He is and what He does and how He loves. You will find Him there.

There is a thin line between not believing and not wanting to believe.

The Bible says that no one comes unless the Father calls him, but it also invites us to come. So come. Leave your doubts and worries and fears. Come. Listen to His words. Line up your belief with truth. Speak it to yourself. Counteract every doubt with it.

When your heart is breaking, speak the truth of His everlasting love. When you don’t understand, speak the truth of His goodness. When you are fearful, speak the truth of His sovereignty. When you are broken, speak the truth of His healing power.

Faith is a gift, but it is also a choice. Choose to satisfy the yearning of your soul with God. Cry out to the One who made you and sustains you. Cast your care upon the everlasting arms.

Come to God. Choose God. Love God.

Trust in His saving power and rescuing arms. Trust Him to make things new and to bring peace and to fill the empty place inside of you. Trust Him to love you.

What is your faith struggle? Ask God to help you believe. Search His words as if you were seeking treasure. Come and find rest and faith. Come and be blessed with the overflowing riches of peace. Come and believe.

Just as you are, come.

Cease striving and know that I am God. Psalm 46:10

Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28

I do believe. Help my unbelief! Mark 9:24

 

 

I know two mamas who said good-bye to their babies not so small this week. Said good-bye before they were ready and before they knew how.

It can shatter the heart.

And it would be so hopeless without Jesus. Without His promises which slowly seep back in to heal the shattered pieces. Without the knowledge of redemption and peace and eternity with God. Without His nail-scarred hands pulling us in and holding us close.

Jesus is our only hope in the sadness.

He makes real the truth we did not know before this sadness. He’s a friend and He’s a conqueror and He speaks peace. He binds our wounds and He heals our hearts and He carries us. He reminds us of a forever-after with no sorrow and no pain. With no sickness and no separation and no fear.

I always want to be open, always honest about the sadness. I want to be able to talk about hard things. I want to show my children that God is real and He meets us in our real. He meets us in our hard.

He has met with us this year.

On a Sunday just after Marissa’s biopsy, we went to church and I felt truth wash over me. Afterwards, we had a sweet talk with our pastor. He gently encouraged our fearful hearts. He reminded us of God’s providence and sovereignty. He told Marissa he expected her to be here for many years. But if not? If God was doing something unusual and painful and hard?

If not, then it’s paradise.

Marissa is not afraid of dying. She doesn’t want to, but she is not afraid. She knows God as her Savior and she is settled in His hands. We trudge on and we wade through and we expect God to answer our prayers for healing. We know He is able. We know what our hearts seek, what they desire.

But if not, then we unclench our fists and open our hands fully to God. If not, then we remind ourselves of the painful glory of the cross. If not, then we rejoice through tears.

Because if not, then it’s a safe passage for her through the swollen waters of the Jordan. If not, then it’s streets of gold and eternal harps and angel choirs. If not, then it’s the forever healing in the presence of God, her King.

If not, then it’s paradise.

 

 

 

 

 

Many people have commented on our transparency through this journey. And I wonder why it is surprising for a person to admit his struggle in the walk of faith. It seems like the alternative would be lacking in honesty. It doesn’t feel right to mask the pain or conceal the sorrow. Where is the truth in that?

It’s a beautiful weakness to admit we need Jesus. We need Him to redeem our lives, but we also need Him to redeem our days and each of our moments. It is those who are sick who need a physician, and it is the broken who cry out for healing. It is the weak ones who need strength.

And they are the ones who receive it.

I remember with perfect clarity a moment shortly after Marissa’s diagnosis. A burning question raged and it wasn’t “Why me?” but “Are you sure, Lord?” Because it didn’t seem like there was any way we could do this. It didn’t feel like we would have any ability to glorify God. Didn’t He understand how weak, how sinful, how incapable we were of walking down this path? Didn’t He see my heart and its tendency toward self-love and shallowness? Didn’t He know how I had failed Him before and would fail Him again? Didn’t He know me?

Are you sure, Lord?

Our tendency is to cover up our messy prose with bits of pretty poetry. I do that, too. We protect our testimony by putting our best foot forward. It seems so noble, but how can people bear a burden they cannot see? How can Christ shine through if the story is about us and our ability to hold it together?

Transparency is defined as a picture viewed by light shining through it. And I hope that’s what is happening. We are weak enough, sick enough, broken enough to be transparent. If there is poetry, if there is beauty, if there is praise, it is because of the Light.

Light breaks through the clouds to reveal a clear and gorgeous sky.

And when Jesus heard it, he said to them, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.” Mark 2:17

For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light. Ephesians 5:8

 

Even optimists are sometimes sad. Life can be hard and scary, and there are days when the silver lining is hidden from view. But there are always moments of joy, always pieces of mercy sprinkled around.

We look up. We take our mind off the tasks in front of us, the problems surrounding us, the failure inside us. We look up, because God has the answer to our problems and failures. The gospel, the fact that He died and rose and lives again, provides for us what trying harder cannot provide. It releases us from guilt and fear and anger. It reconciles us with God and gives us peace. It infuses our lives with joy and the mercies that are new every morning.

It starts with the sunrise (because who can be sad or dismayed while viewing the glory of a new day filling with color and hope and possibility?) And it continues with God’s words (which are alive and powerful and true and able to bring healing and life and hope.)

Then we can look around to the edges of the day. If the day is not filled with happiness, we might find it in the edges where we least expect it. The hard is made softer by the flecks of joy hidden in the corners.

On the cancer floor there is lots of hard and lots of beauty. Old women pushing the wheelchairs of once-strong men, quiet laughter masking sad hearts, kind eyes meeting frightened ones, frailness overshadowed by inner strength. Beauty. It’s there if you look for it.

The fight itself can be beautiful. A young heart struggling to understand, rising to face another day with courage, stepping forward in the dark with firm faith, holding on and being held.

The journey has plenty of joy. We embrace each day because no one knows the number of days. No one gets to choose how many. What we have is today. We have today to love our people and take walks in the sunset and eat chocolate cake. Today we can smile at inconveniences and appreciate life’s messiness. Today we can forgive someone who is full of faults and weakness. Today we can really listen to someone’s struggles. Today we can be gentle with a hurting heart.

What are you facing that is difficult and dark and cold? What makes you feel like giving up or giving in? Maybe you could look for joy. It might not be right where you’re standing. Some days it might be hard to find. Seek it in the edges. Wait for the light. Let the Son warm you.

He gives strength and warmth and grace in unexpected places.

The LORD is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to Him. Psalm 28:7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My daddy was a joy-filled man. He laughed often and he laughed well and whether you intended to or not, you laughed with him. He was full of corny jokes and knock-knock funnies. He could find the good in any circumstance and always did. If you knew him, you loved him.

Whatever he did, he did it enthusiastically and with might. He worked hard and he loved his work. He was strong and tender, hearty and full of heart.

He never knew a stranger. He could make a friend in 30 seconds, and so his life was filled with friends. He smiled at every person, joked with most of them, and would give the shirt off his back to any of them.

He loved music and music filled his life. He played guitar and harmonica and used his voice to sing of life and faith and God.

He loved his family. I was his 8th child, born when he was 46 years old, but I could have been his first. I never felt like he was too tired to be my daddy. He always had a squirrel or bunny story or a switched-up, never-the-same fairy tale. His was the voice that I heard at the end of each day, his delightful stories filling my heart with wonder.

He loved his Savior. His simple faith in God carried him through life’s storms. He was never so full of joy as when he was singing of God’s promises and his future in heaven. He found those promises to be true, and I know he’s still singing, still joyful, his faith made sight.

They say you marry someone like your father, and it must be true. One of the first things I loved about my husband was his sense of humor. He makes me laugh. We share a lot of stories, and all of them are better because of him and his ability to make me smile. We have laughed until we cried and cried until we laughed.

No one works harder than he does. He works long hours and still comes home to help. He is always chopping wood or working on the lawn or fixing some broken thing. He has no hobbies besides us. He enjoys the things he has to do anyway–his woodpile and his garden and loving his family.

He is a good father. He loves babies and noise and laughter. He is not frightened by chaos or life or teenagers. His joy is in leading and serving those he loves. He is always selfless, always giving. His favorite place is home, and we are his favorite people.

He cherishes me. He has seen me at my worst, but somehow he believes in my best. I would love to be the person he sees, the person he thinks I am. After all these years, he still makes my heart flutter. He is my best friend, my love, my heart.

His is a gentle strength, and he is as steady as they come. I am often surprised by his insight, always rebuked by his faith. He trusts God. He knows Him and he believes in Him and he has found Him to be true. He is always looking up, always taking my hand and helping me look up.

These two men have been God’s good gifts to me. I have been loved and stretched and blessed by knowing them. I am thankful to call them mine.

I want to be just like them when I grow up.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you and worked for those who take refuge in you. (Psalm 31:19)