A Spring of Joy

In the quiet hours of the morning, as the sun has just peaked over the mountains visible from our yard, she comes creeping in shivering. She snuggles down into a little spot between us, often pushing Brian away because we sleep so close together. She burrows in and rubs my back and asks to draw pictures on my back while I guess her artwork. I guess one or two, and she giggles quietly when I think a lion is a flower.

I kiss her forehead and tell her I’m going downstairs for my quiet time. “Okay,” she snuggles into Bri, “I’ll join you in a minute.”

I heat up the Keurig and find my coffee in the cupboard. It’s decaf now. Ever since my osteoporosis diagnosis I avoid my morning caffeine. I don’t mind really. It was never about the caffeine for me. I love the taste and the warmth and the comfort of curling up with my coffee and Bible and journals.

I need this. Even during those times when I think I don’t want it. I need to begin my day with something true.

So often I have convinced myself that the very thing I need the most is the very thing I can do without. The first thing to back burner if I have something else come up.

Satan’s barrage has been fierce lately. As I feel stronger and healthier physically (praise God!), the spiritual and emotional attacks intensify. The storm of fiery darts aimed at my heart become furious.

I need to steep my morning in truth.

As I wait for my genetic testing appointment. As I struggle with lingering pain that will never go away. As I learn our new normal. As I fight to live life not obsessing over every new pain… it is hard. I was doing well last year. Gaining strength. Enjoying summer. Then it hit. Colon cancer. Really?

It is hard to not ask every day when it’s going to hit again.

I enjoy my days. We are having a fabulous summer. But every day is a battle to fully enjoy… to not live life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that, my friends, is no way to live.

Then he says it. My Bri. Sitting by our fire pit on a chilly night this week, we have been talking for two hours. Just us. Watching the blaze dance and jump, he breathes in deep and sighs a peaceful sigh and says quietly, “I love our life.”

He lists them. Blessing after blessing after blessing. He is a man of contentment.

He unfurls all the beauty around us. Beside us. In us.

And I am struck with how wonderful perspective is. My cancers. They changed us. Life is harder, yes, but life is much more beautiful.

He has ended my day in truth. Truth I need to hear and know and believe.

It is my turn to speak. Whispering as if we are sitting on hallowed ground. “Thank you.”

And I recall that very morning, as I held my steaming mug and soaked in the Gospel of John, she came into the room holding her little blue Bible, highlighter in hand. “Mommy? Will you help me find verses to highlight in the Bible.”

Yes.

I love our life, too.