A Spring of Joy

Recently I stood next to my Bear during communion at church. We had just sung together of the risen Christ, how unwavering our hope is. Seeing the tears pooling, he leaned over, put his arm around me and tucked my head under his chin (how is he tall enough to do that?). We began the next song, and as the tears fell, I could hear his lovely tenor…

“He has done great things
We will say together.
We will feast and weep no more.”

Oh, my friends. There are no words. We tasted the beauty of our future. I get to do this with my boy for all eternity, with my other boy and my girl, and my hubby and my family and my friends, and Jesus… oh, with Jesus singing over us.

No, there are no words to begin to describe what I felt at that moment.

And there are no words to begin to describe the horror that fell on Wednesday when we received PET scan results. There never is. Each time it occurs.

But I will use my words now to try to explain what’s once again happening in our lives.

The cancer is spreading.

Those cells, lurking in the shadows of my body, have grown.

It feels so short and blunt to just write it that way, but it’s the truth. There’s no sugar-coating it. There’s no going around it. We must accept it and do what must be done.

We found out Wednesday, and my brain has been mush ever since as we’ve grappled with what this means, all that lies ahead of us and trying to just. do. life. in the meantime with school starting Tuesday and changes that come with that.

There are areas in both my neck and my lower abdomen. They will do an ultrasound of my neck, an MRI of my pelvis and abdomen, and two biopsies to see what exactly this cancer is. Because I’ve had several, they can’t just assume this is more metastatic breast cancer. It could be thyroid. It could be colon. It could be a whole new one. Or it could be two.

So, those lurking cancer cells have left us in limbo. again.

I have appointments next week for ultrasound and MRI. We don’t know when the biopsies will be. And it will be the following week before I see the oncologist.

We are reeling.

We are sad.

We are scared.

We are blown away by the way our family and friends have already cared for us: my parents, by our sides tirelessly,… one of our pastors, showing up at the door (and graciously allowing our dog to excitedly accost him) to reach out in love and encourage us… a friend, with coffee and gorgeous flowers to cheer and listen… that text “do you need dinner tonight?” knowing our need and graciously bringing food and hugs and prayers… our dear friend showing up to hug and pray… the numerous texts and emails from friends…and then, y’all…

(this one needs a whole new paragraph)

…my sweet Bethy, who stood beside be as maid of honor twenty-two years ago yesterday… who, in God’s gracious timing, just happened to be on the way from Georgia to visit her parents half and hour from us, knocking on my door Thursday morning. To sit and weep and share for hours.

Y’all, as dark and as deep and as fear-filled as this pit is, if there is anything we have learned through year upon year of suffering, it’s this:

Cancer may lurk in the shadows waiting to steal and destroy, but God never lurks in the shadows. He shines His face upon us and shows Himself over and over and over to us in His Word, in His gifts to us, in the church, in those beautiful ordinary means to which we cling.

We are reeling.

We are scared.

We are sad.

We ask you to pray.

I am so weary of tests and scans and blood work and needles. And biopsies are. no. joke. I’ve been begging God that when they do those procedures in the coming weeks, they will find nothing. They will look and look and say, “How is this possible? We saw this on your PET!” And I will look gratefully at them and say, “Let me tell you about my God…”

But y’all. If the procedures show spread and we begin a whole new regimen of treatment, may I still look gratefully at them, and God grant me the grace to say to them, “Let me tell you about my God…”

After all,

“He has done great things
we will say together…”