Another Year

Image source: Original photo, “Homefire,” 2023.

I’ve been having flashbacks. Last February was so dark for me. Sudden, unrelenting stomach pain led to a CT scan stat, which revealed a necrotic fibroid as large as a 4-month-old fetus. Given my history of breast cancer and Tamoxifen, plus my mom’s recent uterine cancer, we feared the worst.

When I googled whether a fibroid could be cancerous, I didn’t like what I found. Alone one night in my living room before a roaring fire, I bowed myself and begged God for mercy.

Total hysterectomy came on February 27, 2023, just one day shy of the 10-year anniversary of my first breast cancer surgery. Lord, couldn’t You even let me get to ten years?

To our great relief, the doctor saw nothing alarming, and the pathology came back two weeks later all clear. We walked with light steps and joyful hearts.

I still have precious memories of those days, even before our fears were relieved. Praise songs that burst from my soul through my lips. Scriptures that spoke straight to my fears. Friends who encouraged me and brought food and gifts. Our children who called or came from afar to visit. A cozy bed Greg created in our living room where I could enjoy the fire and watch the snow outside. Cats who curled up on the end of that bed, and a dog who slept on the floor by my side.

The other day, Greg and I were discussing cancer survival. “How long has it been?” he asked me. “Ten years?”

“Yes,” I said. Then my eyes grew wide. “No, wait…eleven! It’ll be eleven at the end of this month!” We gazed at each other for a moment, amazed that it had been that long…and that we had almost forgotten.

Of course, I know that cancer could rear its ugly head again at any time. But I’m so thankful for this journey, the ones who walk beside me, and pockets of hope and joy along the way.

        Image source: Original photo, 2023.

 

        Image source: Original photo, 2023

Image source: Original photo, 2023

Almost Home

I did it. I finally finished reading Rose From Brier.

Why did it take so long? Almost a year! Starting last March, this book carried me through cancer fears and hysterectomy recovery. It made me feel closer to the grandpa I never knew.

But I couldn’t bring myself to finish reading it. I thought I needed the perfect mindset or setting. Finally, I told myself, “Just read.” So, early one morning, curled up on the couch, with the blinds closed to the world and a lamp lighting the pre-dawn darkness, I turned to the last chapter, “A Door Opened in Heaven.” The chapter begins with a beautiful poem called “Winter,” about the joy that comes after “our falling leaves . . . fall into His hand.”¹ Then Amy Carmichael speaks to those who have no hope of recovery. Hard, beautiful words.

“I was thinking of the long road to the Land at a great distance, and of how very delightful the work of a doctor must be when he can tell one who had expected to have far to walk that the road may be quite short; and of how more than delighted such a traveler must be. . . .”² 

I thought of Grandpa Lloyd as a 28-year-old father who knew he was dying. Did he read this chapter in his own copy of the book? Did he weep as I did? Because I did weep, face crumpled, shoulders shaking, eyes dry as the tears stayed deep in my soul. I wept for those I love who are nearing Home.

Then I went to a funeral. We had two in our church family in the span of 17 days. I don’t enjoy funerals. But Solomon said (and he was the wisest man on earth): “It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.”³ 

The heart is made better! These funerals celebrated life.

The first was for a man who came back to Jesus just weeks before he passed away. His funeral was a comforting testimony of being found by the Shepherd. 

The second was for a 54-year-old man who had inclusion body myositis. Mick lived with this incurable, wasting disease for 13 years. As his uncle described it, “He knew there was no help available, and nothing coming.” But he lived with great faith and a fight for life.

His brother- and sister-in-law sang "Celebrate me Home" by the Perrys, a song that poignantly describes the journey from one place that we love to another.

Then that evening we went to a concert that brought everything to culmination with this song⁴. "Weary traveler, just hold on . . . you won’t be weary long. Someday soon we’re gonna make it Home!” Oh, the power in those words!

Sometimes the road to Heaven seems to stretch on forever, and we long to just be There. Then suddenly we find that Heaven may be just around the bend, and we realize we’re not quite ready. Even then, Jesus never leaves our side.

My friend Carol has just started her own cancer journey. It’s more serious than we all expected. She says, “I have felt an incredible peace throughout all of this; it just has to be the prayers of God’s people! Yes, there were tears this morning after the sobering prognosis from the oncologist, but God is still on the throne and in the miracle-working business. Even though we might not want to go on this journey, He is taking us on this journey and there is no better place to be than with our Savior.”

He is with His children through the breathing half, and all the way Home.

Image source: Nicola O’Boyle, “Rose From Brier,” 2024.

¹ Rose From Brier, p. 202.

² Ibid., p. 203.

³ The Bible, Ecclesiastes 7:2-3 (KJV)

⁴ "Weary Traveler," by Jordan St. Cyr.