I never expected to find peace while standing in uncertainty. Yet in this season, the Lord is highlighting stories, people, and moments that are softening my heart and helping me consider what’s next—with open hands and a willing spirit.
This has been a week of feeling all the feels. I think I’ve experienced every emotion under the sun and cried every possible kind of tear. This morning Dan asked where I was going, and unsuccessful at holding back the tears, I told him I was heading to IVNV.
I feel almost disloyal to the tender care I receive at IVNV by admitting how upset I am about returning to twice-a-week visits instead of once a week—or less. I adore these people, and I believe they understand why I don’t want to be here so often. Still, feelings are feelings. So I pull up my big-girl pants, put on a smile, and say I’m doing great.
Then there is my sweet friend Janene. I hadn’t seen her since she began chemotherapy. She has been on this journey for years and is walking a path that blends both conventional and holistic care. I think of her often, so seeing her there felt meaningful. As we looked at each other and she asked how I was doing, I felt deeply seen. It took everything in me not to cry. She understands—the long battle, the tension between hope and surrender, and the complicated choices that come with this road.
She shared that she’s been feeling better than she has in a long time, with more strength and clarity than she realized had been missing. While the road ahead still holds unknowns, she seems encouraged by where she is now and grateful for the choices she’s made. Seeing her—strong, peaceful, and radiant—left me unexpectedly encouraged.
And yet, twenty months later, here I am.
As I reflect on this journey, with all its emotional highs and lows, I’m reminded of a woman I was just beginning to know early on in this cancer journey. When she was suddenly not around, I later learned that her life had been lost not to cancer itself, but to complications from treatment. That experience—along with others—deeply shaped my convictions at the time and strengthened my resolve to avoid conventional cancer care.
I am trying to put words to what I am experiencing as I process this place I now find myself in—considering chemo. What feels different in this season is the people the Lord keeps placing before me who have experienced success with chemotherapy. It feels as though He is highlighting them in a way I haven’t sensed before. Visually, it’s as if a light hovers over each person and their story. That light creates a lightness within me—a peace, a readiness to ask questions on Monday with an open mind and a willingness to move forward.
My mind never stops. I imagine what chemo might look like. Will it require overnight stays, like Olivia? Will it be five-hour sessions, like my neighbor Ray? Will it be a pill? Will I need a port? What will that be like? How long will it last? How will we measure progress or success? Will I feel relief from the fatigue and discomfort I’ve been carrying these past months? Will I sail through this—or fail through it?
I’ve been sharing many of these thoughts with Dan. One truth keeps rising to the surface: there are no guarantees for me, no matter what I choose. The enemy could use that to break me, but instead I feel the Lord using it to draw me closer to Him. I’ve sensed a kind of “giving up”—not despair, but surrender. A letting go of needing to figure everything out. A releasing of my life into His hands.
Alongside that surrender has come a renewed desire to live fully—to live loved, to love deeply, to love well. I do not know the number of my days, and that reality is right in front of me. A couple of weeks ago, the words “Only the Father knows the hour” struck me like a brick—and with them came peace. A loosening. A release.
I don’t want to miss watching my children’s and grandchildren’s lives unfold. That is the hardest tension I carry. I long for many more years here, and at the same time, I want to trust the Lord so completely that I can be joyful at the thought of going home—to hug Jesus, and to see the ones I love and miss almost daily now.
This journey is complex. I fight to live. I surrender so that I might die—spiritually speaking. My priorities have been reshaped in ways I never could have imagined.
And now, I find myself full circle—sitting down once again to write out my questions for Dr. Kominsky on Monday, so I can make a thoughtful, informed decision about this next chapter, with the Lord beside me. I sit here with wet cheeks, a peace I haven’t known before, and a quiet confidence that I can do all things because the Lord is with me—and the outcome rests in His hands.
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