Today Coop and I stood at the window like we do every morning and waved goodbye to our kiddos. I love how he hops up next to me to look out the window as they drive out. I love seeing their faces light up and their hands signing, “I love you.” I love blowing them kisses and watching until the car is out of sight and asking God to protect and cover them this day.
Today I did it with tears streaming down my face and fought mentally against every pressing thought… “Who will wave to them all if this cancer doesn’t regress?”
It is an oppressive battle.
I fight that thought about almost. every. thing. almost. every. day. The holidays were sometimes agonizing with these thoughts.
To live with the neverendingness of treatment. The neverendingness of scans. The neverendingness of “if.”
I am face to face with my mortality every. single. day. Sometimes moment by moment. I feel it in my body. I can feel the spots where the cancer is, and it is painful in every way.
And the darkness.
The darkness is so real, so painful, so hard.
The fight is constant and overwhelming. I’ve been awake off and on since 2:30 this morning, crying out, praying, begging, reading, meditating, bringing the Word to mind, crying out and begging some more.
“I can give you a thousand things we don’t know–medical reports, accidents, jobs, tests, dates, babies, criticisms, hard conversations, even death. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. But here is one thing you and I can count on: there will be new mercies from the Lord when we get there.” (~Kevin DeYoung)
I’m preaching truth to myself. He has my days numbered. I cannot change that. What I can do is live the days He’s given me in gospel light. Grace-filled days. Hope-filled days. Mercy-filled days.
It never fails.
He never fails.
I am weary today, and I am “lifting my eyes up to the hills from whence comes my help.”
And the lifting my eyes.
It is a struggle today.
He is the lifter of my head.
Ever thankful for all of you who lift me to Him.
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