We get shell shocked by the cancer at every turn, the chronic that wears us down to acute agony, the hospitals and doctors and appointments; the waiting rooms that have us wildly waiting on You,
mad with the waiting for You to show up and do something, heal someone, free everyone now.
Your present sufferings; hard times are not one drop compared to the Niagara of glory and good times I've got coming for you *forever*...
And the grace of God touches us with the heat of the healthiest love --a love that death can't touch, that will enflame us through life without end, forever and ever; into eternal living, Amen.
In the name of the only One who loved us to death and back to the real *forever* life,
It's day eight since my treatment began. My alarm went off at 6 am. I couldn't make my body move. At 6:20 am I rolled out of bed and brushed my teeth. My dad pulled up in the driveway. I made conversation and sipped my coffee. (I think the splenda packet was actually floating in my cup.)
Parents, grown children who are sick don't want to seem vulnerable in front of you. We worry about you getting up to drive us. We worry about messing up your already busy schedule. We worry about the other burdens you are bearing. We always thought we would be the child who started to taking care of you. There is an unspoken tension in the air about how much this sucks for us both. The daddy ache wanting his daughter to be okay. The daughter ache wanting to be okay for others even more than for herself. It's soul sapping to always be the one in need.
My head hurts so bad I want someone to drill a hole to relieve the pressure. I'm shaky and weak. My entire body aches with a bone pain. I don't know how I'm doing this. I often think every hard thing brings you to the moment by moment ability to keep moving when every possible law of gravity and science and human nature would stop you in your tracks. This is Grace that is sufficient. This is power made perfect in weakness. Without God I wouldn't have made it this morning. I would have rolled over and quit. Oh how I want to crawl back in bed and quit.
Having this treatment out patient has been good, but it has been hard. My husband and girls move around me, not sure if I'm okay but too afraid to ask. I do not have the benefit of rest like I did in the hospital. I unpack backpacks, practice verses, lay out clothes, make rice krispie treats. Twix steals an ear bud from Delaney's room and little legos from Danica's room. I try to get them from under the couch and my cath throbs and oozes. I'm face down in our carpet and feel like I can't make my body get back up. I realize how badly my carpet needs vacuumed. The beds have to be made. I have to wipe the sinks. Oh, and that trash can needs emptied. What if the form for the field trip doesn't get signed? This is good, right? I'm here to take care of all this. This proves I'm needed and I'm pulling some weight in this thing called family.