A Glimpse of the Familiar

Not every scar carries a story I want to tell.

I’ll admit to avoiding some of mine. Their origins leave me feeling isolated - like no one understands.

Their presence is tied to deep-seated pain and things yet to be healed.

I wish I could erase them, and with them, all that led to their permanent mark.

After Jesus rose from the dead, one of his disciples named Thomas refused to believe it was really Him unless he saw the scars for himself (John 20: 24-27).

And Jesus, being who He is, provided the proof.

He invited Thomas to run his finger along the nail marks; to place his hand in the damage the spear undoubtedly left in his side.

Scars are such a hallmark of our broken human condition. I’m amazed that Jesus didn’t erase His.

What use did He have for such things?

He had just challenged the world’s oldest adversary and was named the undefeated champion.

The keys to death and hell were now stashed safely in his back pocket.

He was heaven-bound and no pain or past can live there.

Why not blot out any evidence of the horrors?

Because He knew we would still be here.

And that at times, hope would feel foreign, like a language we don’t speak or understand.

When I can’t relate to his power or purposes, I remember He was once human like me.

He experienced exhaustion, anger, disgust, and sorrow.

He understood what it meant to be abandoned by his friends and mocked by his enemies.

And more than I ever will, he knew agony.

He was whipped, beaten, and paraded through dusty streets.

Nails were pounded through both wrists and while dangling, a spear thrust into His side.

With the weight of all sin on His shoulders, His father turned away and the world went dark.

Throughout the hardest times of my life, even when I was physically alone, I have never been without God. But Jesus was that day. Led into the abyss that is utter rejection.

The invisible scars are often the hardest to bear.

If given the kind of power He had, by Sunday I would be obliterating the wounds of Friday.

But the Savior seeks to draw us close. And more often than not, it’s easier to get close to someone who understands what hurts, not just what’s whole and hopeful.

When I struggle to grasp His divinity - when it seems like no one understands the pain behind my scars - I remember His humanity.

He knows me well enough to know sometimes I require a glimpse of the familiar.

He loves me well enough to offer it if only to say, “I know.”

He had scars, too.

The First Day of Spring

On March 20, 2020, I walked out of my final cancer treatment, certificate of completion in hand. As if that was supposed to make me feel a certain way about what I had just been through. I did what was necessary to survive.

Two days later, the whole world shut down from the pandemic. ⁣⁣

And that was the beginning of one of the hardest journeys I’ve ever been on. Learning who I was all over again. In many ways, meeting myself for the first time. ⁣⁣

Taking one searing step after another, wanting to leave the past behind, but still feeling shackled to it. Afraid of what might be waiting for me just around the corner. ⁣⁣

But God can use *anything* as a reminder that we are not defined by what tries to break us. He can and He will make All. Things. New. ⁣⁣

Every year since, He has reminded me.

Every year since, March 20 has been the first day of Spring. ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
Isaiah 43:18-19⁣⁣
Do not remember the past events, pay no attention to things of old. Look, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed, I will make a way in the wilderness, rivers in the desert. ⁣

Women Who Build

I’ve always been in awe of women who can seemingly bend the universe to their wills.

Married by this age, a house by this age, kids by this age. They draft a timeline, submit it for review, and the universe happily obliges.

Harnessing that kind of power to make anything fall in line with my plans on my time table has always eluded me. I submitted my plans. I had such high hopes.

Then cancer hit at 38 immediately followed by a global pandemic. I set hope aside and just tried to hold on to my health. 

But somewhere deep inside, the desire to dream is still there.

So for whatever reason you find yourself childless today - traumatic life events or just life - however you may have felt your plans got overlooked or denied -  I want you to know you still matter.

I see you. And God sees you.

Building businesses and building communities. 

Building up other women like you because you know how they feel.

Building legacy.

You may not be passing it on to little ones; you’re passing it on to everyone.

You just don’t get a day telling you how awesome you are. Keep going. Keep dreaming. Keeping making plans. 

Keep building.

Today and every day, I honor you.

Psalm 126:1

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dreamed.

Cancer Screenings and Good Friday

“If you or anyone in your family has had any of these types of cancers, write down the age at diagnosis.”

I check the box labeled “YOU” and write 38.

And I’m in tears in the waiting room ahead of a non-cancer related appointment, all because of one now standard cancer screening form.

This is grief folks.

It sneaks up and backs me into a corner with memories I’d rather forget. Fear and frustration are its foot soldiers.

But today also happens to be Good Friday.

And it’s got me thinking a lot about tension.

The tension between the now and the not yet. Between what we have and what we long for. Between what was and what might have been.

The dictionary defines tension as the act of stretching or straining. As a verb, it means to subject to tension, especially for a specific purpose.

There’s a tension between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. That first Saturday was shrouded in sadness and confusion - mourning what was lost and wondering what was next.

But wait. We call that Friday good.

Not the day Jesus rose and rolled the stone away and buried death forever, but the day that he was tortured and torn to shreds.

The day that appeared to collapse the future is the one called good.

But I bet it wasn’t called good the day after, and it definitely didn’t feel good to the people Jesus left behind.

It was eventually called good.

Because of what came from it. Because of what was accomplished through it. Because God breathes life into what the world has reduced to dust. Because He doesn’t waste anything and this was no random sacrifice.

I’m two-and-a-half years out from a cancer diagnosis that collapsed my life. I will never call it good.

But I live in the tension.

Between what I know of God, and what I can’t begin to comprehend. Between what I can feel and sense and what’s just behind the veil. Between what His word says and what I see in my life.

I’m willing to accept the fact that I don’t know where this new road I find myself on will lead me.

But maybe - if I submit myself to the stretching, if I subject myself to the tension, knowing His purpose will ultimately prevail - just maybe, I will see the good He intended to come from it all along.

Seasons

March 20 - the first day of spring. This date will forever hold a space in my heart.

Two years ago I walked away from my final cancer treatment, certificate of completion in hand.

What exactly had I accomplished?

Surviving.

It’s surreal to be acknowledged for this.

Little did I know that two days later the whole world would shut down. Or that the end of treatment is when the real work begins.

When the dust finally settled, I was faced with sorting through what was left.

Who am I and where do I go from here?

How do I get beyond “no evidence of disease?”

Some seasons are harsher than others. Some linger longer than they should. And some, like cancer, I wish could have just passed me by.

Most days, I don’t look any different than I did two years ago, but I’m learning a lot can shift during those seemingly dead seasons.

Just like you would never guess from these photos that it was spring. You have to take someone at their word that it is. And yet, there is so much hovering beneath the surface, preparing for its time.

I’ve come farther than most people recognize on the surface, farther than I usually give myself credit for.

I’ve caught glimmers of a purpose that is greater than the sum of these dark seasons.

I just don’t have a visual on it yet.

This is where faith steps in and bridges the gaps. It’s our handle on what we cannot see (Hebrews 11:1, MSG).

That when God says he’s still writing my story, I take him at his word. His fingerprints will be all over it - they already have been.

And I’ve never read a story of his that ends in ashes.

Nightbirde

Jane Marczweski - known as Nightbirde to the millions she captivated on America’s Got Talent - died on February 19, 2022. 

She was 31 years young.

Most people know her as a singer, but I connected to her writing.

She was everything I aspire to be as a writer - honest about what hurts, hopeful in the dark. She knew that sometimes in order to find God, we have to get low, as low as the bathroom floor. She wasn’t afraid to ask the questions even if silence echoed in response.

Most people know how it ended, but it started with breast cancer.

She was on the same road I was - a fellow soldier in this army. When one falls, we all feel it. Her story reminds me I have one of my own. A layer that’s as much a part of me now as my own name. 

Most people felt a moment of sadness at the news that she passed. I lost half a day to it. 

Her smiling face staring at me from my laptop screen pulled me back to those first days when it was hard to breathe and I didn’t know where to put myself. As is the case whenever there is news of someone passing from cancer, I feel guilty to be alive.

She carried the tension that cancer brings with such grace, reminding us that you can grieve and be grateful. You can be sad and still have hope.

I’ve always been as fascinated by what God doesn’t say as I am by what he does say.

In the Bible story of the king who tosses three men in the furnace because they won’t worship him, I read the details from a certain point of view - maybe from a bystander, someone on the outside. One who could smell the smoke, but never got near enough to put their hand in the fire.

But I never hear from the three men themselves. I never know the thoughts of the ones who were soaked in the flames with God walking amongst them.

I know why their voices remain silent. It’s the same reason mine does.

Bystanders and outsiders can’t understand the scorch of a fire they’ve never been consumed by.

You have to live it to know.

And because it’s there in the epicenter that God Himself whispers my name - the name He’s given me - and then comes to walk beside me. 

And no matter how much you wish you could let someone into that, you can’t. Skin seared by fire; a life branded by a touch from God. It’s an experience He means just for you. 

No writer has the words yet. 

Jane and I never knew each other, but we both had cancer. In our own ways, we’ve both met God on the bathroom floor.

All of us live in that sacred space between the now and the not yet. Jane gave us a song to sing there.

Fly high Nightbirde.

What I Would Say to Cancer

Breast Cancer Awareness Month has ended. My fundraiser for New York Oncology Hematology’s (NYOH) Community Cancer Foundation has ended as well.

As I look back on the last two years, I can’t help but think about the day this all started. I don’t remember much, but I know exactly where I was on the road when I called my mom and repeated over and over,

“I don’t understand.”

The journey that followed took me through breast cancer and a global pandemic, but also brought opportunities for me to be a voice for others.

It’s not lost on me that I was diagnosed in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month - so the opportunity is two-fold. It’s in the giving, but it’s also in changing the narrative around how we give and, more importantly, who we give to.

And I’m reminded of one of my favorite Bible stories about a man named Joseph. He was given an opportunity as well, but that’s not how the story started.

It started when his brothers, jealous of him, decided to kill him, but changed their minds at the last minute and sold him instead.

And you think you’ve got family problems.

He was sold into slavery and then accused of a crime he did not commit and thrown in prison. It was one thing after the other for Joseph.

But after every catastrophe, the story says that God was with Joseph and caused him to have favor.

And then there was Joseph’s gift - he could interpret dreams.

One day, a couple of the king’s top guys got tossed into prison with Joseph and after he accurately interprets both their dreams, one of them tells him, “Don’t worry, I’m going to remember you. When I get out of here, I’ll put in a word.”

He forgot about the Joseph the minute he was released. Joseph sat in that prison for years after that.

I wonder if Joseph ever looked around and whispered to no one in particular,

“I don’t understand.”

Then one day the king has a couple dreams, and no one knows what they mean, until his right-hand man thinks of Joseph, “Hey boss, remember when you got mad that one time and threw me in the dungeon? There was a guy down there and he told me exactly what my dream meant, and he was spot on.”

“Get him up here!”

In an instant Joseph goes from the dungeon to the courts of the king and accurately interprets what’s to come. The land was about to embrace seven of the most abundant years they had ever seen, but immediately following would be seven years of famine and the loss of life would be catastrophic if someone didn’t come up with a plan.

“Ok, you’re in charge! Go figure that out!”

And just like that, Joseph goes from the pit to being the most powerful man in the nation, second only to the king.

And the king’s dreams came true.

During the bountiful years Joseph stockpiled food like it was going out of style so when the famine hit, they were prepared. Now everyone in the nation had to come to Joseph for food.

And then one day, in walk his brothers.

Suddenly, what happened to him at their hands feels like a lifetime ago.

And they don’t recognize him. He’s changed.

His experiences up to this point have molded him – he’s walking with a new sense of purpose.

He has come out the other side on a mission.

Joseph doesn’t reveal his identity right away, but when he does, his brothers immediately start groveling, worried about what they did, fearing the worst, offering to be his slaves in exchange for their lives.

And I love what Joseph says to his brothers.

Because he recognized they were just one chapter of his story, the same way cancer is one chapter of mine.

And while they may have done what they did, in the end God placed him there - on purpose, for a purpose.

It’s the same thing I would say to cancer.

“You meant what you did to destroy me. But God used it for good, to get us to this point and what’s being accomplished today, the saving of many lives.”

I’m not sure Joseph ever fully understood the hardships he suffered before stepping into his new role, the same way I’ll never understand cancer, but after recognizing that God carved out a destiny uniquely designed for him, after grabbing ahold of his new purpose with both hands…

Did he still need to understand?

With your help, I raised more than $3,000 during Breast Cancer Awareness Month for NYOH and local cancer patients. It may not physically save anyone’s life, but it’s going to bring much-needed assistance to many people. And I think this is just the beginning of the opportunities I will have to lessen the burdens of cancer survivors.

Thank you for partnering with me on this. You’re part of the new chapters God is writing in this story.

Courage Doesn’t Always Roar

Scan Day. Waiting room 2.

My second set of scans since D-Day (diagnosis day).

I did all the “right” things leading up to it.

I cleared my calendar to give myself some breathing room.

I talked to a friend.

I talked to God.

I listened to worship music on the drive to my appointment, reminding myself of all the things everyone always reminds me of:

I am never alone.

God’s got this.

It will be fine.

And after all that, when I got to the doctor’s office, I broke down. Full blown panic attack.

I’ve heard it said that scanxiety - or the anxiety that comes with cancer-detecting scans - is not about what might happen; it’s about what did happen. For a survivor, it’s not so much about worrying; it’s about remembering.

Memories that hadn’t surfaced in a long time triggered the flood gates and in an instant I was drowning.

I cried before. I cried during. I cried after.

And guess what? I don’t feel bad about it.

The old me would have told myself I should have somehow tried harder to act like it was no big deal.

I guess that’s one thing cancer gives you: a release valve on the pressure to perform.

I’m done with the toxic positivity that says I’m only successful if I make it through with no reaction. Or act like I’m “over it” when I’m not. This is not something you get over. It’s something you live with, as it changes over time.

Grief doesn’t come with directions. There is no map to get to the other side. No itinerary of how you will feel and when. And while scanxiety is very much about remembering, fear of what might be lurking in those scans is very real, too.

Sometimes having courage means showing up with whatever we have, even if it’s falling apart.

And how does courage (or the lack of it) fit with faith? Does God become deaf to my prayers or blind to my plight because I’m too upset to speak?

Quite the opposite actually.

My weakness is the stage where his power shines all the more brilliantly (2 Corinthians 12:9).

In other words, when I fall down in my grief, His kindness steps up to take my hand.

He’s holding me, my scans, and every thread of my faith unraveled.

The nurse I worked with when I was first diagnosed happened to walk by, recognized me beneath my mask, and sat with me for a moment.

A familiar face in the crowd.

Another nurse watching this unfold quietly ordered the results be given same day.

Very present help.

Which means I only had to wait about 10 minutes to hear those two words I never dreamed would come to mean so much:

All clear.

Changing the Narrative of Breast Cancer Awareness Month – A Different Call to Action

In October 2012, I attended a brunch in Saratoga Springs, NY to raise money and awareness for breast cancer. The tables were draped in pink. I wore a pink outfit, pink nail polish, and even flashed a giant pink “diamond” ring.

Pink decor oozed from every crevice of the room. The caption under my Instagram photo said, “Pink champagne toast for all the brave ladies fighting and surviving breast cancer.”

I shopped and ate and drank without the slightest awareness of what it was really for.

Fast forward to the same month seven years later. I had no idea I would be one of those ladies fighting and surviving breast cancer. And I didn’t feel even the slightest bit brave.

I was diagnosed in 2019 in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and that’s when my perception and understanding of awareness months forever changed. At the lowest point in my life, while I was facing the unknown and grappling to cope it seemed everyone around me was selling and/or buying something pink and going to brunch.

For me, this was hell. For them, this was…. fun.

Culture has glamorized this month while propping survivors up as warriors and at the same time, forgetting all about the war.

Cancer is destructive and exhausting and there are winners and losers. Not every soldier stands up stronger in the end. And many survivors just want to keep their heads down and get through it.

Fighting isn’t always pretty in pink.

But I noticed that much of this is overlooked as I saw ads for “10% of every pink lipstick sold this month goes to breast cancer research”.

Ok.

I’m not saying we don’t need research. Research has brought us a long way in fighting cancer, but often that “research” money from your donation is spent on administrative costs or to pay for someone’s salary.

I remember sitting in the waiting room during my own treatment and speaking to or hearing about folks who didn’t have much to begin with. Cancer expenses would be taking the rest. A 2018 study from the American Journal of Medicine found that 42% of cancer patients drain their life savings within two years because of treatment costs.

Research doesn’t go too far to help someone who isn’t sure how they can afford food when they leave their appointment.

That’s why I was thrilled to learn that New York Oncology Hematology (NYOH) where I was being treated, has something called the Community Cancer Foundation. It started over 20 years ago when some doctors, nurses, and staff got together and decided to meet immediate needs of low-income patients.  

What I love even more is that 100% of donations go directly to help cancer patients in the local community in the form of groceries, gas, medicine, rides to treatment, etc. Real cancer patients, maybe even someone you know, getting real help in their time of need.

This Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I challenge you to give with community in mind. As I think on the word “community”, it invokes a higher call to action than the word “charity”.

Charity is when I go to the brunch and buy the pink things and can’t trace the path of where my money goes. There’s no connection.

Community is when I come alongside and offer to help in a way that makes a difference for someone today. I’m connecting to an immediate need, even if I don’t know the person.

People over programs.

Before you buy another pink lipstick you don’t need or pink tie that you will wear once and throw to the back of your closet, consider if there’s a more meaningful way you can assist.

And if you’re struggling to put a face to cancer, struggle no more, because you have my face. I speak for those who can’t.

Throughout the month of October I will feature a link where you can give directly to the NYOH Community Cancer Foundation and know every single dollar provides for a local cancer patient in need.

Help me change the narrative around Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And let’s get help where it’s needed most.

My Two-Year Cancerversary

Labor Day weekend.

The unofficial end of summer and the start of a new season.

For most people, it means back to school and pumpkin spice.

For me, it signals my pending anniversary – this October will be two years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I’m asked if I will have a hard time when it arrives. I’ve been having a hard time since August.

The date hovers in the air. The anxiety leans into my chest. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.

The pain of that day bobs on the surface of the everyday as if to say, “Did you forget something?” When you were getting dressed or reading emails or feeding the cat, did you forget that you aren’t like other people anymore?

Ignorance was bliss. I don’t feel free.

I try to push the fears to the back of my mind – to the space in my head I’ve reserved for them. But it gets crowded there and they quickly spill out onto everything else.

That ache or pain is probably from my workout, but what if it’s not?

Could I carry this with me into a date? Would he still want to be there if he knew?

I draw fresh boundary lines around myself in the weeks leading up to my mammogram and people don’t understand why. This time is sacred. I’m selective in how it’s spent.

The tests will most likely be clear, but I’ll tremble in the waiting room until they read me the results.

There’s a new weight to decisions now, almost like I’m supposed to live every moment on purpose - as if that somehow honors those who lost their battles with cancer.

Some days I just want to hide.

I still have a shopping bag overflowing with papers, resources, books the doctors gave me on symptoms to watch for, how to cope. Pamphlets for support groups and classes on reducing stress. They will sit there until I make sense of them all - or maybe just make peace with them.

I read the story of a woman whose cancer has returned with a vengeance. But several years ago, she was just like me - same stage, diagnosed at the same age. 

I tell myself that’s not me and try to shut the story down in my mind, but that’s the thing about cancer - once the floodgates have opened, you can’t put the water back. 

The old me who could power through and suck it up and figure it out is gone.

I’m told that’s what trauma does, and that most cancer patients experience some form of PTSD. 

The new me doesn’t feel quite so steady, takes a little longer to decide, moves at a slower pace, none of which are bad - just not how I ever remember being. 

Mourning the loss of yourself may be one of the most difficult things to grieve. 

I thank God for what he’s done; what he continues to do in this season even as I lament. 

I stopped wrestling with the idea that there’s no way to experience gratitude and all these other emotions at the same time. 

They can and they do co-exist. 

I take each day as it comes and allow myself the space to feel what I’m feeling – no apologies. Some days are easier than others. Maybe one day they will all be easier.

But for now, this is two years.

Finding My Voice - A Journey Through Cancer

I remember truly little about the hours and days that followed my cancer diagnosis. The mind has a beautiful way of shielding us from what is too much to bear.

That Breast Cancer Awareness Month in 2019 was different from all the others. I was alone the October afternoon I learned I had breast cancer.

It was one month before my 39th birthday.

I remember one doctor reviewing my medical history and telling me I was one of the healthiest people he knew. Evidently not, though.

Isolation rushed in.

If I got engaged, married, or became pregnant at 38, there were a dozen friends I could call to ask for advice. Those who had been there before.

I had no one to call about cancer.

No one my age who knew what this was like. This was a road I had to walk alone, fighting to carve out a crooked path through the wilderness where no one had gone before me.

Some days.

On other days, it felt like I had been drop-kicked over a cliff.

I caught cancer early when I noticed some changes in my skin. It was also not aggressive, both of which can be rare for someone under 40. Short of not having it all, I was told I had the best possible scenario.

I ached for something better. A different story.

Not only was I alone amongst my friends, but I felt alone even in this new community of survivors. I was not about to join a support group and spew my raging emotions over my diagnosis amongst a group of twenty- or thirty-somethings with more advanced stages than me.

I finished treatment two days before the whole world locked down. Fighting cancer was hard. Processing the fight against the backdrop of a global pandemic was just as hard.

Trauma on top of trauma.

During the many months I battled this, every day had its agenda: a doctor to see, a treatment to follow, a plan to attack. I was under the watchful eye of an expert. I felt looked out for, not so alone.

But when it ended, I was released back into the world - a world I didn’t recognize - with no experts constantly checking in, no action to take. Everyone around you moves on, assuming you are done, but you’re never really done. This is when the real works begins.

What comes next? I found myself alone on that road again.

Now, more than a year-and-a-half later, these are some things I would tell the me who just got diagnosed, the woman who is just starting her journey, and the friend or family member who would like to better understand:

There is no “easy” cancer. Each instance is as unique as a fingerprint. And each diagnosis brings with it struggles and changes that can alter a life forever. Countless as the stars in the sky are the nuances to a cancer survivor’s experience. Survivor’s guilt is real, but don’t let it stop you from processing the way you need to. If someone you know has been diagnosed, throw out the “everything happens for a reason” and “it could be worse” cliches. You’ve entered unchartered territory and it’s best to leave reasons and comparisons at the door.

Be kind to yourself. A cancer diagnosis brings a whole new meaning to the “self-care” trend. Now, more than ever, give your body what it needs: rest and love, healthy food and, where possible, less stress. Maybe there’s some deep emotional healing that needs to occur or boundary lines that need to be redrawn. I leaned on my faith in a way I never had before. It proved sturdy when everything else felt uncertain. The reset button has been hit for you. Take advantage and take a look at any unhealthy habits; the things that are within your power to control - mind, body, and soul.

Grief is not linear. One day you’re fine, the next you’re not. It may feel like you’ve rounded a corner towards emotional wholeness, and then you’ll spend a week thinking things will never get better. There is no straight superhighway through grief. And it’s not a race to see who can reach healing the fastest. If you need to cry, do it. Feeling angry? Feel it. And if you’re supporting someone going through cancer, just know it takes time.

Be your own advocate. Speak up where you need to. Ask questions when it doesn’t make sense. Explore other options when the ones presented don’t fit who you are. This is how I learned a better way to take care of myself. Some of these conversations will be really hard, but not as hard as having cancer and you’re already doing that. No one knows your body like you do and you will be faced with choices that will affect the rest of your life. Honor what you value when it comes to your health.

The only way out is through. I wish I could snap my fingers and magically transport you to the other side of this where you are better and happier. Free from constantly looking over your shoulder with every ache and pain. Less bruised and scarred. But I can’t. You will be brought to the edge of yourself and back again. You will lose a lot. You will gain some things, too. You will find what matters and discover new passions. You will raise your voice - for yourself and for others - and learn to live intentionally because that’s what matters in the end. But it won’t happen overnight.

Be gentle. It’s a journey.

The only way out is through.

Courage Dear Heart

As the whole world rapidly came unhinged over coronavirus, I acknowledged a bittersweet victory in solitude: my final cancer treatment.

I isolated at home, went to appointments alone, and watched the world descend into chaos like I’ve never witnessed before. But I couldn’t get caught up in the chaos.

Cancer will do that to you.

In October 2019 - smack dab in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month - I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I guess you could say I have been made fully aware.

Aware of:

• lonely waiting rooms,

• a never-ending string of appointments,

• statistics and data I’d prefer to unlearn,

• feeling like I failed somehow,

• being unable to focus,

• a hyper aversion to cancer awareness observances,

• wanting to relate to everyday conversations, but nodding and smiling instead because I can’t, and,

• saying I’m fine when I’m anything but.

In the days and weeks that followed, the sentiment that echoed loudly through my new normal sounded like this:

“God will never give you any more than you can handle.”

I’m not sure where this idea came from, but it isn’t true. I will never be able to handle this.

The truth is that God will never carry me through any more than HE can handle. Sounds great. Until you remember that he handled hell.

And believe me there are moments when it feels like I’m being dragged through hell by my ankles, clawing for solid ground. How did I get here? Would all roads have led to cancer anyway? Where did I go wrong?

Other women my age are building their lives, celebrating milestones. I have the oncology center on speed dial.

It’s not supposed to be this way.

Quarantine brought with it a whole new set of stresses. I was still processing the old ones.

Any survivor will tell you the end of treatment is one of the hardest times. Everyone around you moves on, assuming you are done, but you’re never really done. And it’s at the end of a marathon that runners collapse, not at the starting line.

I had come to the other side of the hardest thing I ever faced, and now I faced isolation and I didn’t know for how long. The one thing I needed most - human interaction - was not an option and while I craved freedom and a return to normalcy, I wanted to do it carefully.

Having friends in the medical world, I heard all the first-hand accounts. People barely surviving coronavirus. People who “recovered”, but whose symptoms never really went away. People dying alone.

They were all healthier than me.

Cancer brings with it tremendous feelings of isolation and leaves behind a few parting gifts of its own. I wasn’t looking for more.

About a month into quarantine, someone I knew passed away from breast cancer, her death relegated to footnote status because of a global pandemic. I remember talking and laughing with her. She was just here a minute ago.

It could have been me.

And then there were those whose passing from cancer did not come quietly. One right after the other, only a month apart, they steamrolled over me.

Kelly Preston.

Chadwick Boseman.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

I wept over each one.

I felt bound to their stories, if only because I glimpsed in part what they walked through in full. I had the conversations about it, was surrounded by it on all sides.

Why were they no longer here when they did so much good, and had good still left to do? Survivor’s guilt is a heavy load to bear. “You need to move on,” people say. “There are worse things,” they say.

Dr. David Ryan, Chief of Hematology and Oncology at Massachusetts General Hospital and author of Living With Cancer, summed it up quite well when he said,

“People who’ve had cancer are acutely aware that life could always be taken away from them. You’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop in a way that people who haven’t had cancer can ignore.”

In one swift blow, and then what felt like a million subsequent ones, I found myself in those days utterly scooped out and hollow.

But…

If you and I were having coffee, I would tell you about all the times that God showed up in the middle of my hell. Not tiptoeing timidly through the back, but storming boldly through the front door, keys in hand, like he owned the place.

He cut me loose, gathered me up in his arms, and said, “C’mon, I’ve got this. I’ve got you, too.”

He chased down cancer with the wrath of a warrior, but he knelt beside me with the gentleness of a dad caring for his sick kid.

And I believe he saved me.

He didn’t just sympathize with my story; he lowered himself into my story. I was never alone.

Times when my faith would swell and I would swear to God that I would walk whatever path he laid out in front of me - as if he somehow needed me to get myself together. And times when my anger and confusion rendered me silent and distant - as if that could make him leave.

He is solid ground for me, cancer, coronavirus, and all my contradictions.

There is no quick fix or easy way out. No counting the times I’ve cried myself to sleep. But there is courage for the road I will travel in the midst of the tears.

I don’t remember the last time my faith was dressed in its Sunday best. I’ve needed to dig deep and get my hands dirty.

Real faith is messy. It’s heavy and it’s hard to carry - but so was the cross. It sometimes doesn’t fit or feel good. It’s gone miles without a road sign or a rest stop. But it keeps going.

Real faith fights.

It also recognizes a time for letting go of how you assumed things would be, and instead wringing the good from what is.

Because in the darkest times, when I can’t see in front of me and the bottom keeps falling out beneath me, I call to mind that the object of my faith - what I’m anchored to - is concrete.

He sees the end from the beginning.

He cares for me without interruption.

He clamped shut the jaws of death.

And even when I can’t hang on, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

To my fellow survivors: I know. I get it now. I stand with you. There is much work to be done. Where God has mended me, I will use that strength to serve you any way I can. And now I’m after those who don’t know, to be a voice of warning and prevention to any who will listen.

To ladies everywhere: I know what it’s like to feel your heart shatter to dust. To watch the world move on while you’re left sitting with what’s happened, not knowing how you’ll get through it or what is waiting for you on the other side. To watch fear move in and make itself right at home. If any of this sounds familiar, please reach out to me. Our experiences may be very different, but chances are I can relate to what you’re feeling. Let’s get coffee or get on the phone. I want to hear your story.

To my family and friends: Whether it was a meal, a cup of tea, a prayer, holding space, or just holding me, you showed up in so many wonderful ways, loaning me your pets, your homes, your offices, your cooking skills, your hearts, yourselves. Thank you for being the hands and feet of Jesus. Some of you didn’t even know it.

To my God: Who am I that you would move on my behalf? You were waiting in this place long before I ever arrived, preparing me to walk through it in ways only you could have. Divine crossroads most people will never know about. As shocked as I was, none of this caught you off guard. You are always fully aware because, thankfully, I have your undivided attention. I sensed your hand on this every step of the way.

And just as I was searching for the most radical reset, you shut the whole world down.

Don’t think I didn’t notice.

Thank you for carrying me. Thank you for hearing what my tears say when I don’t have the words. Thank you for handling hell when I could not.

All honor and gratitude for the constant of you when nothing else makes sense.

Job 19:23-25

Oh that my words were recorded, that they were written on a scroll, that they were inscribed with an iron tool on lead or engraved in rock forever! I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on the earth.