Today was exhausting. Each day is, really. I wake and wonder how on earth I will do all that I want or need to do, and by the end of the day I’ve only done a bit of it, and I wonder how I’ll get up the next day and keep pushing forward.
It’s an awkward place I’m in.. this waiting place before surgery, because part of me wants it here tomorrow and part of me wants it to never come. We are packing our week full of summer fun, trying to catch all the time together we can before our lives change yet again in the whirlwind that cancer is.
We went to dinner tonight. Ate outside. It was on our summer list. While there we saw my surgeon. (I love living in a small town!) He’s awesome. He really is. We are so thankful for that. He came right over, met the kids, then commended me for following his instructions and eating all my favorite foods this week. He re-introduced us to his wife and we chatted for a bit, then he put his arm around me and said, “Enjoy your week,” and I saw the sadness, the understanding in his eyes. He is such an answer to prayer for us… a gentle man who cares for us beyond our physical needs, he cares for our souls. We are grateful.
Many of you ask how I am. How we are.
How do I even answer that?
We are ok. But we’re not. We are grieving. But we are hopeful.
We are hurting and heavy and stricken and anguished and tired and exhausted and numb and screaming and aching and crashing and burning but fighting and pushing and growing and clinging and loving and wishing and hoping and laughing and crying.
The kids are struggling. They are afraid. They are sad.
It seems like such a little word. But it really is huge.
And that’s what we are.
We are sad.
I look at our summer list, and I ache and grieve. There is so much undone.
I look at our garden and all the vegetables beginning to pop out, and I sigh, knowing I won’t be able to do much with any of them, and I won’t be able to eat them either.
I look at our vacation plans and weep, because we cannot go.
I look at our house and our list of projects that are unfinished or in the beginning stages, and I just shake my head. They will remain unfinished for a while, new ones won’t begin, and savings will pay bills not buy furniture.
And I just feel so sad.
I know all the right answers. I know that, Lord willing, we’ll have a summer list next year, projects can begin later, others can chop veggies and freeze them for us and I’ll get to eat them eventually. I know that people are much more important that projects and plans. I know the Lord has bigger plans for us.
I know all that.
But I also know this hurts.
We are grieving our losses, and we are grabbing each other, holding tight in the darkness and desperately treading water, sucking frantically for air and swallowing a lot of muck and mire and briny fluid.
Clinging oh so tightly to truth and begging God for strength to believe it to be true even though we know it is. We are just afraid we might forget the truth in all this.
We are okay.
We are His.
And that means we will be okay.
But life just doesn’t feel okay right now.
And I’m okay with that, with being here, with being human and with being real before our Lord and each other.
He has not forsaken us yet.
We know that.
We cling to that.
We have to.
There is nothing else to cling to.
(Many of you have asked how you can help. Our friend, Maretta, is going to coordinate help for all our needs. Many of you know her and know how to get in touch with her. If you don’t, just contact me and I’ll forward messages on to her. She is a gift to us. As are all of you. Thank you for your prayers and love.)
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