So it is cancer again. Just three weeks after surgery, the cancer came back, visible and angry and spreading fast.

I think we both knew. At the post-surgery appointment when they announced she was cancer-free, it didn’t feel like truth. Somehow the aggressiveness of this enemy–the way it grew even while on chemo and the close margins on the pathology report–somehow we knew we were not safe, that the battle was not over.

And this is hard. Stomach-punch, can’t-catch-your-breath hard. I’m sure that I have never felt so afraid or so vulnerable. It feels even harder than the first diagnosis, probably because she is already tired and worn. She was just beginning to gain strength and grow hair and look ahead, just cresting the last hill before the finish line, just holding on to the end.

Now she’s being asked to run another race, an even longer race, on tired legs with no rest and no fuel.

How I want to run it for her.

In the first days following her surgery, I encouraged Marissa not to be afraid of the pain. I guess all of my childbirth experience taught me that. Lean in. Accept it. Move through. Breathe. And I thought of that again this week. Don’t be afraid of the pain. Let the tears fall. Let the grief do its work. Lean into truth. Accept what God is doing. Do the next thing. Trust.

It all comes back to trust. “We don’t trust in what God is doing because we don’t know what He is doing. We trust in Who God is.” This quote is written in the front of my Bible, and I’m not sure who said it, but I am sure of it.

We trust in God. We trust in Who He is. Yes, we are afraid of this road and where it is taking us, but we are not afraid of God. We know Him.

This shadow is very dark and our hearts are sometimes faltering. But we are sheltered and we are safe.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the LORD, “My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 91:1,2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My children were not especially stubborn as toddlers. For the most part, they were compliant with my plan of action. Get dressed? OK. Eat lunch? Sounds good. Go outside to play? Why not? But there was always a point where they realized they wanted something different than I did. The feet stopped. The posture changed. A realization hit them. I am my own person and I don’t want to do what I’m being asked to do. I don’t want to!

Part of growing up is doing things we don’t want to do. We get up early, we go to school, we sit quietly in the dentist’s chair, we eat our vegetables. As we grow we get more choices, and we think a day will come when all the choices will be ours. We learn about consequences and rewards and we’re pretty compliant because we generally get what we want–graduation, a career, a marriage, children. It usually works out.

But what if it doesn’t? What if God is calling us to do something hard? Something unusual? What if we don’t get what we want?

I don’t want my daughter to have cancer. I don’t want to get any more bad news. I don’t want to be afraid.

As we have faced the possibility of more bad news, we have struggled. We are wrestling with our fears. It’s not that we don’t trust God. It’s not that we doubt His providence or His love. It’s not that we’re unwilling to follow and submit and do the hard thing ahead.

We just don’t want to.

Our pastor reminds us that submission is obedience when we don’t agree. Submission is saying yes when we don’t want to. It doesn’t mean we don’t grieve. It doesn’t mean we’re not afraid. It just means we say yes.

Even Christ sorrowed in the garden. With a full view and perfect knowledge of all His sufferings to come, He submitted to the Father’s will.

And He went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.” Matthew 26:39

We are sorrowing. We are afraid. And if we’re honest, we don’t want to.

But we long to be like Him. We want to be willing. By His grace, we want to say yes.

 

 

 

 

 

Cancer is a frightening diagnosis. I think we all have a fear somewhere inside us, fear of our body turning against us and the pain it could bring–the possibility of life cut short.

Cancer treatment still seems so barbaric. Poison and cut and slash. Invasive tests and medicines with risks of their own. It’s a battle, and the losses are startling. Even the victories are not without cost.

But in any battle, it’s important to remember the limitations of your enemy. It’s important to consider your strengths and your resources and the war itself. Life is more than this one battle.

Cancer has the power to do some things. It can take your hair and make you sick. It can discourage you and bring you low. It can cause your strength to fail and your smile to fade. It can cause pain and fear, sometimes despair.

But it cannot steal your joy. It can’t change who you are or what you believe. It can’t take you places you were not meant to go.

Cancer can make you appreciate each day, each moment. It can magnify the beauty around you. It forces a right perspective–eternal instead of temporal. It erases shallow thoughts and ambitions. It can draw you close to God.

It doesn’t hide the beautiful. It cannot separate you from God’s love.  It cannot remove you from His mercy–not even for one moment. It is never capable of taking you out of His sight or His reach. It does not diminish His sovereignty or His power or His goodness.

Cancer is not random and does not blindly strike. God has determined your days and written your story before the pages of time began. Cancer does not change your story. Cancer cannot cut your life short, not by one day or one hour.

Cancer cannot erase your name from the palm of God’s hand. It cannot rob you of the peace that only He can give. It means nothing in eternity except an opportunity to praise Him and testify of His grace.

Cancer is an enemy, but it does not win the war. Fight the battle with all your might, but trust in the Commander. Have faith in the keeper of your soul.

He will not allow your foot to slip; He who keeps you will not slumber. The LORD will protect you from all evil; He will keep your soul. Psalm 121:3,7

Do not fear those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Matthew 10:28

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In memory of my husband’s mother who died of ovarian cancer when she was 40.  I see her every day in him, so I know she was beautiful. The mother-in-law I never had, the grandmother my children never knew.

I never knew you well. I was 16 and you were dying of cancer, but I don’t remember knowing that. And I didn’t understand that you were in the process of letting go.

I liked your son. He was cute and he made me laugh. He was walking in truth and I felt a strong pull to walk along with him. God was working in my heart and I was letting go of some things myself. I think now how hard it must have been for him to leave you that year to go to college. He did it for you. He’s told me many times how he wanted to enlist in the Army but you wanted him to go to college. So off he went.

While he was away, you invited me to your house to show me his childhood pictures. We laughed over cute photos and you shared memories. I’m sorry that I was distracted and shallow, as teenagers are. I’m sorry that I didn’t understand what you were trying to do. I wish now that I had looked you in the eyes and promised you I would take care of him. I wish I had asked more questions and written things down. I wish I had hugged you and told you it would be alright. I wish I had encouraged you with God’s words. But I was 16 and I didn’t know he was my forever love.

I didn’t know you’d be gone before spring.

Maybe you knew something on that cold winter day. Maybe you were handing me a gift. Maybe you were saying good-bye.

I wonder when you knew, when you understood that you would be leaving your husband and your children. I wonder how you prepared for that, how you used your grief to make the days count. I wonder how your belief in God and His promises helped you in those final days and how your desperate longing for this life turned into joyful anticipation for heaven.

He still misses you. On the anniversaries of your birth and death, he is far away, remembering. There is a heart string, taut, that only memories of you can pull.

As we approach this Mother’s Day, I want to rise up and call you blessed. I want to say thank you for the hard work of mothering done in the midst of fear and pain. I want to say thank you for staying faithful and full of belief to the end.

I want to say thank you for the beautiful heritage of faith.

It follows you still.

Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. Her children rise up and call her blessed. Proverbs 31:25,28

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cause of Marissa’s cancer is a genetic mutation. Every person gets two BRCA genes–one from each parent. In Marissa’s case, she received one good gene and one mutated gene. This gene suppresses tumors and repairs DNA, so when one is damaged, a female has up to an 87% chance of breast cancer and a 60% chance of ovarian cancer in her lifetime. Our oncologist says it is not if you will get cancer, but when. (Males have higher risks of certain cancers as well, but they are not nearly as high.)

My husband’s mother died of ovarian cancer at age 40. Two of her sisters also died of ovarian cancer at young ages. One of their daughters is right now battling Stage IV ovarian cancer. Marissa is the first to have breast cancer that we know about, but that side of the family is scattered–too many mamas gone to hold it together.

My husband has this genetic mutation. And each of our 9 children has a 50% chance of having this mutation. Not all of our children have been tested, but 3 have the mutation that we know about.

It can feel overwhelming. It is hard to wrap our minds around the future, hard to line this up with faith. It is hard not to feel cursed, not to wonder why. My husband bears a heavy sorrow, a remembering and a dread.

But we also remember that we are blessed. We remember all the beautiful gifts we have been given. Every day we see the evidences of the kindness of God.

We are not the “think good thoughts and good things will happen” people. We are the people who trust in God. We are the people who were lost and now are found. We are the people who were blind but now can see. We are the people who were cursed and dying and chained but now are blessed and alive and free.

We are safe in the arms of Jesus. We are eternally His. We are blessed.

There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus. Romans 8:1

The LORD redeems the life of His servants; none of those who take refuge in Him will be condemned. Psalm 34:22

 

She was smiling when they wheeled her away for surgery. I was smiling through tears.

It’s been a crazy week filled with information and doctor visits, travel and tests, and to be honest, some fear and regret. Humans tend to look back and wish things had been done differently, or they had turned out differently. We’re all looking for a happy ending, and we like it best if the beginning and middle are happy, too. We think about our future and we imagine it pretty and perfect and pleasant.

I’m human, too. And I’ve had a life filled with pretty and perfect and pleasant. Really, I will tell you than even in these last eight months of the hardest trial I have faced, my life has been filled with many beautiful, perfect moments. So much grace.

But we live in this fallen world and there are those other moments. No less filled with grace, but tainted with pain or regret. Filled with fear and uncertainty.  Covered with a thick cloud of darkness. Peace is a struggle and truth is in our minds but seems far away from our hearts.

But it is there. The truth is there. The truth of God’s reality, of His power, of His absolute sovereignty, of His love.

He is there.

Marissa’s tumor has grown alarmingly fast since her chemo. It would be easy to regret decisions made. It’s natural to wonder what could have been done differently. We want so much to have pleasant news, a perfect resolution, a pretty outcome.

But it is what it is.

And we have peace with that. Because of Christ and the peace we have with God through Him.

Truth settles in the heart once more.

Send out your light and your truth. Let them lead me. Let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling. Psalm 43:3

 

 

 

 

Marissa is easy to love.

It’s hard to remember before cancer, before diagnosis, before fear. But it’s not hard to remember her. It’s not hard to remember blonde curls and dress-up days and tea parties. It’s not hard to remember soccer games and family trips and bedtime chats.

I remember. I remember that I have always loved her. That from the moment I knew she was growing inside me, she was forever cherished, forever loved.

But there is no question that cancer increased love’s intensity. It increased love’s actions. It increased love’s sacrifices.

When you know your child is facing a grave illness, there is something tight that winds up inside you. Something that stays tight until love unwinds it, loosens it, and lets it go. The action of loving brings some focus and purpose to bleak days. It’s always easier when we can do something to help, when we can fill up our day with doing.

And I find myself serving Marissa. Dropping whatever I’m doing to make her breakfast or a snack. Leaving the dishes to take a walk around the block. Changing my schedule to go to doctor’s appointments. I find myself delighting in her and trying to make her laugh. I listen to her and look for opportunities to let her talk. I spend my free time researching her cancer type and emailing researchers and doctors. I copy articles and read books and take notes.

I am purposeful and joyful in loving her. I count it a privilege to be her mom and to have her here and to minister to her.

Cancer love never minds being interrupted. It never overlooks an opportunity to help. It never gets annoyed at delays or changed plans. Cancer love gives up its own agenda, is always concerned for another’s well being. It extends itself, joyfully serves, faithfully gives. It is content to make someone else happy, to meet someone else’s need.

Cancer love is a lot like 1 Corinthians 13 love. Turns out it’s a lot like plain old love.

I think my husband and my other children would benefit from some plain old love. I think I’ll remember that there is no guarantee of tomorrow. That I have been given this day to love my people. That each one of them is precious and priceless and mine.

I’ll remember that babies turn into toddlers who turn into children who turn into teenagers who turn into grownups. And while some of those stages are more tiring, more stressful, more challenging and require more sacrifice, they all require love. Love that unwinds and loosens and lets go. Unwinds its tight grip of self; loosens and lets go of its rights.

Cancer love. Plain old love. God’s love.

Love is patient and kind. Love does not envy or boast. It is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way. It is not irritable or resentful. It does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. l Corinthians 13:4-8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thus says the Lord, “Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is, and walk in it, and find rest for your souls. But they said, ‘We will not walk in it.” Jeremiah 6:16

We are in a waiting phase of treatment now. Waiting for Marissa to get strong enough for surgery, waiting to see if the chemo worked, waiting to see how much cancer remains. And with waiting there is always the opportunity for worry.

I think back to those early days when this all began. I remember resisting the story, begging God to change the story. I remember not wanting to turn the page. I remember doubt–not doubt in God, really, but doubt in His plan, doubt that I was capable of doing this hard thing ahead.

And I remember what helped, what soothed my soul, what settled my spirit. It was the simplest of songs, the simplest of thoughts.

Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong.

Going back to what I knew to be true is what I needed to go forward.

Sometimes we find ourselves in a faith crisis. Maybe we’re wrestling with God, wondering if what we’ve been taught about Him is true. Or we’re struggling with disappointment in others and despair in ourselves. Perhaps we’re on the wrong path, one filled with briars and brush and we can hardly push through. Maybe we’ve run so hard down that road, run so far away from God, that we’re lost–afraid to go forward but certain we can’t go back.

Or we could be facing a sorrow we cannot bear.

Go back. Ask for the ancient path, the old road. Turn again to the old, old story. Recall what you know to be true about God.

Go back to the simplest of truths. Walk in that path. You will find God there. And it’s finding God and knowing God that gives you rest.

Jesus loves me, this I know.

Tell me the old, old story of Jesus and His love.

Ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is, and walk in it, and find rest for your souls. Jeremiah 6:16

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. John 1:16

Marissa has finished chemotherapy. One mountain has been conquered. One path walked. One battle over.

She is tired and there are battle scars, but she is done. Praise to the Lord.

I am not a detailed person. It’s hard for me to separate moments, to put them in neat compartments. In my heart I carry them all, but I summarize instead of organize. The picture I remember of chemo has its blacks and grays, but they are blended in with peaceful pastels and bright spots of color. The picture is pensive, but it is beautiful. It is filled with muted color. It is painted by a Master Painter. There is grace upon grace.

How can I recount His tender mercies, His mighty deeds, His acts of love? I can only see the beginning of His graces. They stack one on top of the other so that I hardly notice the details of each one. But when I look back I can barely see the blacks and grays because of the beauty surrounding them.

Grace upon grace.

Protection–God protected. Do you know how many times Marissa was exposed to illness and did not get sick? She works with a classroom of three year old children who were constantly passing viruses around. Co-workers had strep throat and the flu. Our family experienced several sicknesses. And even with a severely compromised immune system, she did not get sick. Since her diagnosis in September, she has missed only 5 full days of work and not one of those was from sickness. Although she was hospitalized 3 times with fever, there was never an infection–just low blood counts. She was also protected from many of the side effects of chemo. It wasn’t easy, and her body is worn, but after the first (awful) 8 weeks, she tolerated these last 12 weeks fairly well.

Grace upon grace.

People–God used people. He used you. Did you pray, speak a word of encouragement, send a card, meet a financial need, provide a meal? God used you to help us through. I remember in those early weeks how Marissa would walk in the door at night and sit down with her cards from the mail. It was amazing, really, how people we know and many people we don’t reached out to her. Someone sent a box of little gifts so she could open one when she had a bad day. A group from Pennsylvania sent cards almost every day for months. Friends sent texts and plants, notes and gifts. People gave money for medical expenses to lighten our load. You reminded us that you were praying for us. You were so kind in so many ways. Thank you for being our people. Thank you for walking alongside us in this journey. Thank you for praying with us and crying with us and rejoicing with us.

God also surrounded us with good people on our care team at the Cancer Center. Marissa has gotten to know so many friendly staff members there. The girls in the lab, the folks behind the desks, the nurses on the chemo floor–they have all enriched our journey. We love Marissa’s doctor, and we especially love her nurse and nurse practitioner. They have mostly laughed with her, but they have also cried with her. They have cared for her body, but they have also nurtured her, sympathized with her, and listened to her. They are strong women and they helped her stay strong. We count them as friends.

Grace upon grace.

Peace–God gave peace. God talks about extending peace like a river to Israel (Isaiah 66:12) and we sing songs about that. He directs peace like a river toward us. I love that, and I’ve thought a lot about rivers and peace. The truth is, rivers are not always peaceful. Sometimes they churn and the rocks and hills make them roar. But He directs peace like a river toward us. If we’re in an especially hilly or rocky place, we might get swept away. We might feel like we’re drowning. We might not be able to get our footing, to find our way.

Sometimes we just need to let the river carry us to a quiet place. There is always a quiet place ahead. Jesus gives us the peace that is His. (John 14:27) It’s not the same peace the world has–it just keeps flowing and it keeps taking us to a quiet place. It keeps bringing us back to truth and a quiet heart and a solid rock. It keeps bringing us back to God.

To His fullness, to His love, to His multiple graces.

For of His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. John 1:16

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are nearing the end of chemotherapy. It is unbelievable, it is exciting, it is happy. And yet both Marissa and I have found ourselves more emotional, more unsure, more scared. There have been more tears.

The reality of surgery and radiation and all the details–it can be overwhelming. There is a lot of road left to travel. The familiar hard is about to change into a new hard. The battle is shifting. New battlefield, new commanders, new weapons. New fears.

It’s a lot of letting go for a 25-year-old. Letting go of things you didn’t even know you were holding onto. Things you haven’t even held yet. Ideas and dreams and expectations of life. Sometimes the heart just hurts. There is so much letting go.

I awoke with my heart pounding in the middle of the night. A new symptom and a new fear and my mama’s heart could not be at peace. Would not be at peace.

Googled it before coffee and before reading God’s Words. Left it up on the screen while I walked outside for my run. Hardly looked at the stars while I pounded the pavement. Held on tight to my fear. Didn’t grab onto peace.

When I walked in the house, Marissa had her Bible open, tears in her eyes. She shared how she had awakened in the night and God had given her these verses. How He had given her a song in the night  How she had wept with the truth of it, the comfort of it.

Though the fig tree should not blossom
And there be no fruit on the vines,
though the yield of the olive should fail
And the fields produce no food,
Though the flock should be cut off from the fold
And there be no cattle in the stalls,

Yet I will exult in the Lord,
I will rejoice in the God of my salvation.
The Lord God is my strength,
And He has made my feet like hinds’ feet,
And makes me walk on my high places. Habakkuk:3:17-19

Through it all, no matter what, there is God. His salvation, His strength, His enabling us to walk on high places.

And I remembered. She helped me remember the song in the night.

She helped me remember God.