• Everything’s a Love Song

    (Photo cred: Good Friends Blog)

    Count the pieces underneath us
    Been here long enough
    Are we strong enough
    Bruised and swollen, lost in motion
    When it falls apart
    Never far apart

    Isn’t everything a love song
    Isn’t everything a love song
    Even when it’s all wrong

    (~Drew Holcomb, Isn’t Everything A Love Song)

    It was one of those long nights of discussion, the emptying of struggle and sadness and frustration. We started far apart, listening as we each unloaded our hearts. He kept inching closer to me as I poured out pain and fear and oceans of feelings. My knees were pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, As he moved toward me, he finally laid his arms on my knees and put his chin on his arms, looking up at me. Finally, I tearfully whispered, “I’m going to die from this cursed disease.” His eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes that I can just sink into, those eyes surrounded by so many lovely laugh lines, filled with tears. “I know,” he sighed. “I don’t even know how to think about a life without you.”

    This is our reality. And while I’ve heard all the things people can throw at you… you don’t know; you could die of something else; you could still beat this disease; they could find a cure for cancer; God could still heal you. I know all of this. I believe all of this. But I also know this is the reality of living with a terminal disease. We don’t dwell on it, but we have to be honest about death and dying and our family and face the reality and talk about it sometimes. And we need people in our lives to listen to the hard parts, too, without jumping to the pat answers.

    We’ve chosen for years to live and tried to live well even with a harrowing diagnosis hanging over us. And we will continue to choose to do so. But the disease is spreading, the chemo is harder, the hospital visits drain us and feed my medical PTSD, the mental and spiritual battle is often one of anguish and struggling with chronic illness (no matter the kind) is so stinking lonely.

    I often get asked (even my nurses during my recent hospitalization asked), “How many treatments do you have left?” It’s hard to know how to answer that. I’m on this chemo until it stops working or we decide to stop treatment. If it stops working, we can try another type of treatment, but I’m running out of options and my future options are harsher than this current one. I see so much confusion in people’s eyes as I try to explain it. Stage 4 cancer is a difficult disease to explain, and different types of cancers are dealt with in different ways. How do I say, “This never ends.” or at least, “This doesn’t end the way we all want it to.”

    On a recent Wednesday night I sat with a roomful of high school girls and my co-leaders and we talked about the omniscience of God. He is learning nothing; He already knows and His knowledge is certain. I looked around that beautiful group of girls who are struggling with many of their own unknowns and legitimate fears and told them to consider Job. Had he known what was coming in his future, He could have never borne up under the weight of it all, it would have crushed him. What he did know was what mattered….God was with him and God is always enough.

    This we believe, my Bri and me. God is with us and God is enough, even on the days when it doesn’t feel like it. And so we choose to live life as we are able—Bri likes to say “our no is no and our yes is maybe.” We live with the uncertainty of death literally living in my body. But we live with laughter and joy and sadness and fear all mingled together into faith, hope and love. These three.

    Cancer stinks. Chemo stinks. Living in the constant uncertainty stinks.

    God is enough. The greatest of these is love.

    “It’s still a mystery to me, encountering the presence of God in our lowest most soul-breaking places, in the grave places, in the ashes places, in the pit of despair, but every time l’ve been there, I hear the whispers of light and love….’this isn’t the end of the story.’”

    (~Ellie Holcomb)

  • The God of Hills and Valleys

    Last night, my Bear and three of his friends came over and hung out in our den for hours. Y’all, the vibrancy college students bring is a joy. We laughed, we caught up, we joked around, we got to know his friends better. Then, in front of them all, Micah looked at me and said, “How are you doing, Mom? How’s the new chemo?” He is not quiet about my cancer and doesn’t shy away from it.

    I wanted to hide a bit. I was self-conscious because of my scarf. My hair is gone. If I’m truly honest, this has been a bitter pill to swallow, this losing my hair again, and this not knowing for how long. I don’t want to look like a cancer patient. I told the kids that. I told them how I felt physically and emotionally. I told them my hopes for this treatment, and my fears. I was real and raw and honest. And when Micah’s roommate hugged me goodbye, he whispered, “You’re doing great, Mama.” Those dear kids.

    Y’all. It sure feels like it’s all spinning out of control these days… careening and tilting, and I feel like I’m sliding off trying to grasp onto something and my fingertips just squeal and slide. This new chemo is kicking my butt. Deep breaths. Cancer is hard. Crushing. So very painful. I can feel the areas in my body where there is cancer—they hurt, a wearying ache.

    Toby Mac, the Christian music artist, wrote the following when his son died.“We don’t follow God because we have some sort of under the table deal with Him like we’ll follow you if you bless us. We follow Him because we love Him. It is our honor. He is the God of the hills and the valleys. And He is beautiful above all things.” It wrecked me when I read it again this week.

    Because, y’all, I’ve been living my life recently like it is an under the table deal. I’ve struggled with anxiety, a LOT of anxiety of late, and I’ve struggled with distance from God. And I’ve been envisioning a God who is standing with his arms raised up waiting to drop the other shoe because I’ve not been a good enough daughter to him. And that’s not our Father God at all. Rather, He is the God Who “isn’t standing with His arms raised in judgment. He’s running with His arms outstretched to hold me close to Him.” (My own father has prayed these words over me many times.)

    My Ash checked on me this morning before he left for church. “Hey, Mama. What do you need? How can I help?” Oh y’all, how can I envision a God of judgment when He’s surrounded me with daily gifts, these wonders of boys, the snuggles and laughter of my girl, the deep and faithful strength of my Brian? The truth is that while it may feel like it’s all spinning and careening, the world is never spinning out of control. It’s only spinning out of MY control.

    They are working on my medications to combat side effects, and I am hopeful that things will soon improve. Right now chemo looks like one really bad week of pain, then one good week of energy and life, and I feel like I’m missing out on a lot—physically and emotionally. Every week, sometimes twice, I go to get my leg wrapped with compression wraps, because it’s still swollen from previous chemo. It’s painful, it’s inconvenient, but it’s beginning to work.

    I recently sat with two friends in my den and we shared our lives and struggles together. I told them at one point how “Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus” came on my playlist and I found myself getting kinda mad, because these days it sure doesn’t feel sweet. It feels beyond hard and I just want a break from it all. They related and then one said something to the effect of, “But it is, isn’t it? Once we relinquish our control and trust, there is a sweetness we can rest in.”

    So that is where I am today… with this long and winding and disjointed post. I’m sitting in the sweetness of trust. This spinning world is not out of control. It’s a daily battle, but I’m resting in Him, our God of hills and valleys. He truly is “beautiful above all things.”

  • Hither By Thy Help I’ve Come

    Hither By Thy Help I’ve Come

    The last few days have been hard. The writer in me wants to come up with a more dramatic word, but my brain hasn’t been working so well these last few days since we received news of my progression.

    To say I’m not scared of the unknown facing me would be a lie. But even in my mental fog, faith still works. I’m holding onto Jesus, and He holds me fast.

    When Bella-girl was four I wrote the post below… I’m thankful God had me write it. Because I can go back and remember His faithfulness.

    “Hither by Thy help I’ve come.”

    Moooommmmyyyy!” she cries, untwisting herself from her spot on the floor and running to curl next to me on the couch. “I don’t like this pawt,” she whispers as she pulls the blanket to cover us both, “Hold me?”

    I put down my coffee cup and look down to see big brown eyes pooling with tears. I wrap my arm around her and then pull her even tighter. I pick her up and cuddle her into my lap, all the while whispering, “It’s going to be okay. You’ve seen this before, remember?”

    She nods, not tearing her eyes from the movie scene and whispers back, “I know she’ll be okay. I KNOW it. I just need you to hold me fow the scawy paht.”

    Soon the scene passes, the intense music fades and my little Bella returns to her contortions on the floor. She is happy and calm.

    She just needed to be held through the “scawy paht”.

    I sigh, picking up my coffee mug again, falling into silent reverie.

    She is me.

    Only I’m not crying over a cat falling into a river.

    I’m crying over life.

    It can all feel so overwhelming.

    Like my Bella, some days I just need to be held. And I find there are a lot of “scawy pahts.” Each second is unknown. I’ve felt what it’s like to have the world drop out from underneath me, and I know how tenuous all this is.

    It’s easy to work myself into a frenzy of fear. Easy if my hope is here… easy if my world is here… easy if my eyes are here.

    But they’re not.

    Like my Bella, the calm I can find is that I KNOW.

    I know how it ends.

    God wins.

    All of this mess that life can be… it won’t follow… it CAN’T follow me into eternity.

    But still in the trial, there are days when I just need to be held. And the beauty of His promise is that He is holding me all the time not just for the “scawy pahts.”

    I’m held, no, I’m engraved on the palm of His hand. I can’t fall out. And His hand will carry me into eternity whenever that is.

    And all of this? This fear? This pain? The “scawy pahts”?

    None of that is engraved with me. Just me. Me and my Father.

    And I’m held.

  • A Small Word that Is Really Big

    A Small Word that Is Really Big


    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.

    She shows me my scan. See, this spot here and then another one here and here. She has a plan in place and talks us through what it will look like and what she believes will be the best option. 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

    There are three new spots in the pleural lining of my right lung. One is near the spine and one is near a rib. Mercifully, my bones have been spared and she is hopeful we’ve caught it early enough to keep it from spreading to the bones there. I will start my new regimen next Thursday and will go for infusions every two weeks. She says this chemo is well tolerated. It will cause fatigue and hair thinning/loss (sigh.. y’all, I just don’t want to lose my hair again). She has patients who have been on this chemotherapy for years. We are hopeful.

    Last night, twelve high school girls and my dear co-leader curled up together in my den for Bible study. It is a delight having those girls in my home with their laughter and chattering and stories of life. But it is also a delight to hear their hearts and to dig deep into the Word together. Last night we 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.

  • Tired



    I am tired.

    I am tired of picking up my phone and crying.

    I am tired of checking my emails or texts and reading of heartbreak. I’m tired of the weariness of this world.

    I am tired of the processing and grieving and the pain of loss and heartache.

    I know many of you are tired, too.

    But at the same time I long for it.

    I long for the processing and the tears.

    I long for the hours spent on the phone with friends who share in the ache.

    I long for the encouraging words to read or to share.

    I know many of you long for it, too.

    My body and soul are weary, and with each new piece of news, I find myself covering my face with my hands and crying, “No, no, no!” over and over and over.

    Some days I just want to ask what God is thinking. And some days I do.

    I know many of you ask questions, too.

    But it’s not for me to figure it all out–any of this: deaths and miscarriages and surgeries and cancers and panic attacks and disease and depression.

    In this life we will struggle.

    And so I wade through the grief. The muck and the mire of life. And I thank Him for grace.

    Grace that cleanses and gives us strength to walk, some days crawl, some days only lie prostrate on this journey toward Home.

    I know many of you cling to grace, too.


    I am tired.

    I am tired of living with chronic illness, of death in my body every single day.

    I am tired of the battle.

    I am tired of the grieving.

    I know many of you are grieving, too.

    But I wouldn’t give up the phone calls and the prayer times and the emails and the notes in the mail and the texts and the processing.

    I wouldn’t give up the tears and the cries and the longing.

    I wouldn’t give up this need for one another for anything.

    We need each other so very, very much.

  • National Daughter’s Day

    I wounded my daughter the other day. She was sharing some exciting news, and I answered thoughtlessly. She sat quietly in the car and as I apologized, she said, “It’s okay, Mom.” She was working hard to hold back tears and my heart ached, because my carelessness meant pain for her. Pain that I couldn’t fix. “It’s not okay. It’s never okay for me to hurt you.”

    Once we were home, I turned to her in the kitchen. She is only one inch shorter than me now, and I could look her straight on. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and I could see the two different shades of brown glistening. I told her how much it hurt me that I hurt her, that I was careless with her heart, and she grabbed me in a hug and we cried together in the kitchen.

    Fast forward a few days, and I picked her up from school and stopped for gas and we belted out pop tunes at the top of our lungs. I love that she chooses the same harmonies as I do, and I ache that my paralyzed vocal cord makes me raspy so my belting is something just above a whisper. When we arrived at home we danced in the kitchen and laughed until there were tears in our eyes. A different kind of tears this day. And Brian walked in, confused, which only made us laugh some more and he shrugged and muttered something about not understanding women.

    And just a couple days ago, we sat on the couch together and I listened as she unloaded struggle after struggle to me. Struggles I can identify with deeply. And I told her of my own teenage years and all my questions and the dark places I would go. And I shared of the light of Jesus, and we promised to be real with each other and encourage each other on our very hard days. And, teary-eyed, she placed her head on my shoulder and smiled, then said with her best Valley Girl voice, “I’m so glad you’re my bestie.”

    I gaze at her sometimes when she doesn’t know it, mesmerized by the light that shines from her, and I cannot fathom that she would believe she is anything less than beautiful. I marvel at her, and I tremble at the gift God has given me in her and what an amazing responsibility He has given me to love her well. We read devotionals together and write quotes to each other and spend our days singing song lyrics back and forth and watch our favorite shows and drink hot tea and bake together and gather flowers to fill our home and curl up with good books and tell each other about our days. And I miss her when she heads off to school. There is a literal ache in my chest as I watch her wave and ride off with her big brother each morning.

    See, here’s the thing. It’s easy for me to get self-focused in my parenting. To worry that I am not enough because of all things I cannot do that I think moms should do—all the things cancer has stolen from us. I make it all about me being the perfect parent so my kids won’t leave home and talk about how dysfunctional we are. The reality is, I mess up. A lot. There are things I would love to have as a do-over. There are careless words and assumptions I’ve made that hurt my children. And I am nowhere near perfect. None of us are.

    But I know the One Who is, and I point my girl to her perfect Father. He will never fail her and will only work for her good. And all these things… the hard conversations, the apologies, the forgiveness, the laughter, the sharing, the singing, the lessons learned from suffering are all just part of the letting her go and be who God created her to be, for after all, if she tried to be anyone else, who would be my Audrey?

    Happy National Daughter’s Day, my dearest. I can’t believe you’re mine. I’m thankful you’re His. I love you… more… most.

  • Jumpstarting My Heart

    “I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.”
    ― Sylvia Plath

    Many of you have asked how I am doing with another new chemo and the lingering effects of the chemo reaction I’ve had, and the above quote describes my struggle well. I’ve been holding many things close these past months knowing that even my words cannot explain them or do them justice. There is much that has happened emotionally that has wrecked me in the past months. And there is much that is wrecking me physically, too. It wears on the spirit and the mind, and I am weary.

    I am still learning the ins and outs of my newest treatment and which side effects to call in about or which ones to jot down and discuss with my oncologist or palliative care specialist. There are side effects that mirror side effects of heart failure, so it’s an always wondering if it’s chemo or my heart. And it is exhausting to live every day wondering if it’s progressing more because of the physical pain.

    I am relearning the withdrawals and deposits of life. Resting in the mornings so I can carpool my girl to practice or go to tennis matches or celebrate Star Wars day with my fam. Last week Bri and I triple dated and went out to a restaurant for the first time in fifteen months. (I’m so thankful for vaccinated friends!) Each of those things depletes me and I spend hours, if not days, in bed afterwards. I am so thankful to be living life again.

    But at the same time I am exhausted.

    In every way.

    And I realized along the way with this last scare, I flatlined like I’ve done before.

    And in the flatlining I found myself asking the same questions I’ve asked before, “How do I do this?”
    How do I live and love? And how do I laugh?”

    And then the asking turned to God, “Where are You in this? What are You doing?”

    The last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time in bed because of my pain. I’ve treated the pain with medicine and movies, but I’ve also read good books and listened to great sermons online, because I know that even if I feel like I’ve flatlined, I can’t stop looking for life.

    I look at Thomas, the doubting disciple. He gets a bad rap being remembered as The Doubter, if you ask me. Because, yes, while he doubted, his doubts led him to ask questions, questions that led him back to God. Questions that led him to see Jesus for Who He is, and He cried, “My Lord and My God!” Thomas the Doubter is Thomas the Believer.

    And it was this week that God pulled out the paddles and jump started my heart, because I was struck with how I’m not really seeing or hearing. I’m not taking steps. I’m looking and asking, but I am blind to His works and my ears are deaf to His whispers. I’m asking, but I’m not reaching out and putting my hands into the scars and touching and seeing and hearing His voice.

    And I realized:

    If I’m so busy asking what God is doing, I tend to forget all God has done.

    So I stopped asking what He was doing and only asked for Him.

    He is working, friends.

    The tears still slosh. My heart still skips beats. But He is working.

    And in the working, there is life.

    There is hope.

    Your hope is not that you understand your past, present, and future, but that the Lord of all three holds you in the hollow of his hand. (~Paul David Tripp)

  • Of Pulled Rugs and Tapestries

    It has happened again. The rug, Pulled out from under our feet and we are struggling to regain our footing.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    I battled fevers, rash (covered every part of me except my soles and palms), and pain last weekend and until the middle of last week. I was on all kinds of medications to combat it and lived in the mental fog of either pain or drug induced fatigue. I slept little and wept much.

    I have been off the new chemo for over a week. The chemo we prayed and fought for. The chemo my oncologist felt like was the next good way to fight.

    I saw her yesterday–the amazing woman who has fought for my life with me for almost thirteen years. We learned last week that she is leaving and relocating across the country. I grieve this loss deeply. I’m weary of loss. In the lives of my friends there has been highest of highs and lowest of lows this past week. On Saturday, we reeled with the death of an older neighbor across from us, one whom Brian had been faithful to care for when needs arose. We are shaken.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    One of my chemo nurses, and a friend from church, sat next to me in the lobby to see how I was doing yesterday. His presence in that moment as I waited in the unknown was such a gift. The new plan is to restart my oral chemo at half dose tomorrow and then I will see my oncologist next week to see how I’m doing. I have all the necessary medications should my body respond this way again. She is treating me cautiously. As we talked about next steps, I crumbled. “Is this the last one? At what point do we reach the end of treatment possibilities?” Her hand rested on my shoulder and she looked me deep in the eyes. “There are still plenty in the arsenal to fight. And I’m here for two more months. We will figure this out together.”

    Oh, friends. How I will miss her in my life.

    As she shared her plans for the future, we both teared up and she told me how she would miss me.

    “I have learned,” I told her as we cried, “God is never not providing. He has used you to provide for me these past thirteen years. And He won’t stop because you’re leaving.”

    I believe this. I do. But I am so very sad.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    I am tired of the rug being pulled out from under us, but at the same time, I accept that this is our life. Incurable cancer does this to you without warning.

    But here’s the thing. He puts it back. The rug, woven through with the tapestry of our lives. Our God puts it back. He doesn’t leave us floundering and trying to get our footing. And each time it is pulled from under us, we get to see the Rock we’re standing on. And each time He puts it back, the Rock feels firmer under our feet.

    I wonder.

    May I use some hopefully sanctified imagination here? After all, as Frances Schaeffer wrote, “The Christian is the really free man–he is free to have imagination. This, too, is our heritage. The Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars.”

    I wonder if that rug will sit on the floor of our mansion in heaven? I like to think that I’ll see it, that I’ll run my hands over it and remember His goodness…

    “See that?” I’ll say, “That green? That’s the grass in which we smothered our bare feet, trying to taste the goodness of God’s earth. And that? That gold? That’s the gold of sunsets we watched out the window and marveled at His beauty. The black? That’s the inky darkness of long nights, of midnight cancer… but every black strand turns brilliant yellow as the light emerged. And this red? It’s the cut of every knife, every incision into my body, every needle hunt and prick, every scar. And the blue? It’s the water He gave me to drink through His Word. Look, there’s the pink of ribbons friends wore to honor me. This purple? That’s the laughter of my children. There’s a lot of purple in there. And white… the purity of my Brian’s love for me, an example of Jesus, and a reminder of life. And look, more red… Jesus’ blood shed for me. And this one, look how much of this clear strand there is. These are the unseen prayers of those who loved us, their tears. My tears are over there on that shelf in a bottle. Theirs are in bottles, too, but this rug is woven with them, too. And look at all the different shades of skin. These are the arms of those who carried us through. And all of it, a remembrance of His faithfulness to bring us through. Shot through with His mercy, goodness and grace. Isn’t it the most beautiful tapestry you’ve ever seen?”

    I have sat on the phone with friends and with my parents this week to weep, enveloped in words of truth and care. I have poured out my heart and rocked in Brian’s arms. I have wiped the tears of my children. And I have prayed and prayed for the hurting ones in our life.

    Reeling. Sad. Clinging.

    We are held.

    And through it all, the beautiful tapestry in my life grows ever more lovely.

  • No Matter the Season

    “No matter the season, the song is the same.”

    My dad and I were discussing how hard the winter months will be this year. Taking down the Christmas decorations and sending kids back to college and increased cases with the pandemic. The cold, dark days feel a bit more dreary.

    Then the call came in yesterday. A PET scan early next week, so they’re moving chemo and my appointment with my oncologist to later in the week so we can discuss results. The very next day, my Ash will return to college.

    It feels like every year begins with us drinking from a fire hydrant of unknowns and tests and changes. I was a bit undone, to say the least.

    All of the what ifs? swirled through my brain. What if my increased pain means…? What if my tumor markers rising means…? What if they can’t use my port and I have to suffer hours again of infernal hunting and pecking for veins? What if the news is bad, very bad, and then I have to send Ash away to process it on his own? The rabbit trails, y’all! I’m good at chasing them.

    “Oh, I’m prone to wander…”

    A sweet friend of mine, who is battling cancer and finishing her last round of chemo today, texted me. My dear friend, Bethy, called. Other friends responded to my fears with “I’d be a mess, too.”

    And they asked. They asked how I’m doing. They shared their hearts for me. And they spoke comfort over me.

    If there’s anything I’m learning in this crazy virus-laden and politically upheaved world, it’s that we must all listen to each other. And listen with understanding. My friends showed this to me yesterday. They didn’t try fix it, they didn’t preach how they thought I should respond… they listened, they understood, they loved, and then they spoke or prayed truth over me.

    Truth that I am loved unrelentingly by my Father. Truth that He delights in me. That His mercy and goodness follow me (literally running after) all the days of my life.

    “But You’re prone to chase.”

    I’ve said it a lot this year. 2020 was extremely difficult for me physically, mentally, emotionally. Increased pain. Increased nausea. Drug-interactions that left me debilitated for months on end. Drug allergies (that scared my poor Bear half to death when he had to call Brian to come home quickly because Mom’s not okay). Increased depression. Increased anxiety and intense panic attacks that come on suddenly and with no apparent cause. I’ve fought to live well with my loves. And still through it all, I’ve battled myself over my inability to serve my family and friends the way I long to… how absent I have been from their lives. And how excruciatingly lonely it is to suffer.

    And yet. My friends still came to me with care, with truth, with no judgment, with love.

    And Jesus.

    “Nothing in my hands I bring.”

    Nothing to offer, and yet, He comes close and I call Him Friend.


    Y’all, have you ever thought about how intimate that is? That Jesus is our Friend?

    I’ve had this song on repeat the past couple days, because I need to hear truth over and over and over again. The songs His people have sung through the ages. He doesn’t change even when my circumstances do.

    “No matter the season.”

    So if the winter months are dark and dreary. If the pandemic continues to rage. If my scans come back with progression. If there is no relief to my pain.

    All the what ifs?

    There is no what if? about Jesus.

    His faithfulness remains the same. How great He is.

    I’m clinging to that today. My soul may not be singing very loudly today, but He knows the words.

  • This morning my Bella read our daily Advent reading to me. If you look closely, you can see the script on the inside of the book, a gift from my dear friend, Bethy. We had to stop several times while Bella read because I was so sick. I’ve been up since four a.m. with nausea and pain, and she always finds me to rub my back and bring me water and waits tenderly beside me in the throes of my struggle.

    I cried today. A lot. The years of battle are wearing me down. And I told her how thankful I was that the incarnation meant Jesus came near to us. How I just wish I could touch Him, to know He’s near because today He feels so far away. She snuggled in close and stroked my Bible. “Touch Him here, Mama.”

    Oh y’all. What gift she is. How kind our Father is to give me my children as helpers and truth tellers. How in the stinging ache of cancer’s loneliness, He gives me the touch of her comfort… which is a tangible touch from Him.