A Spring of Joy

I hear the word and immediately feel numb. My brain fogs and my vision clouds with unshed tears. I shake my head to try and clear my mind so I can comprehend what my doctor is saying.

He shows me my scan. See, this spot here and then another one here and here. He has a plan in place and talks us through what it will look like and what he believes will be the best option. Then we meet with my oncologist a day later. She is hopeful. I know this by her words and her kind smile. Brian’s grip on my hand tightens.

We walk out of the cancer center together, my arm nestled into his. It’s how we’ve always walked. I talk through all she said in the car, making sure I’ve understood it all. I do.

At home we curl into each other, and I feel the muscles of his arms encircle me, his breath on my cheek. A quiet settles over us. And then whispered, “How are you?” to each other. We are okay. We are sad.

 Sad. It seems like too small of a word to describe all the feelings, but our sad is just so big

Progression.

There are six new spots in my brain. All are small. None of them have any edema (swelling), they are hopeful we’ve caught it early enough to keep it from spreading more. I will start my new regimen next Monday and will go for infusions every three weeks. She says this chemo is well tolerated. She has patients who have been on this chemotherapy for years. We are hopeful.

 I recently studied our God who never changes. Oh, how I needed this… that He who loved me before time loves me still and His love is unchanging. His mercies and steadfastness and faithfulness and promises never change. He is the rock on which we stand when the storms rage all around us.

And as I taste once again the bitterness of my mortality, it deepens the longing for the beautiful hope of my immortality. We are clinging. We are asking God for many more years here. We have not lost our hope.

Thank y’all for your faithful prayers for us these long years. We know we are loved. By Him. By you.