"My God shall supply all your needs according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus."
Philippians 4:19
There are some things I hope I never forget about my time in the hospital. Not because they were dramatic, but because they revealed the heart of God.
When I think back on those days, I don't first remember the IV pumps or the monitors. I remember people. The Lord seemed to send exactly the right person at exactly the right time.
My husband, Dan, faithfully remained by my side, carrying far more than I could see in the moment. Dan, Betty, Natalia, Alina, and baby Natalie walked the hospital halls with me, encouraging me to take one more step when every step felt difficult. Family and friends visited. Others prayed from near and far. Flowers filled my room and reminded me that I was loved and cared for.
Looking back now, I see so much more than thoughtful people showing kindness. I see a Father who knew exactly what His daughter would need before she ever knew to ask.
Every visit, every prayer, every encouraging text, every bouquet, every conversation became another reminder that I wasn't walking this road alone. That meant more to me than I can express.
One of the wonderful gifts God gave me was my medical team, especially the acute care team. Before this journey, I don't think I fully appreciated how much compassion can exist inside a hospital. Nurses do so much more than administer medication. They comfort. They encourage. They celebrate tiny victories that most people would never think about.
One day, everyone seemed to be cheering because my bowel had finally begun waking up. Before cancer, I never imagined a room full of people could become so excited and cheering me on over something like that. Now I understand that healing often announces itself in very ordinary ways.
There were difficult moments too.
The NG tube was certainly one of them. If you've ever had one, you know exactly why. If you haven't, count it as one of God's tender mercies.
At some point I decided it looked less like a medical device and more like a giant yak nose ring. I felt like I understood exactly how a yak might feel whenever the nurses moved that thing, and I instinctively followed along so it wouldn't pull. I often told the nurses that I needed help with my "yak ring" whenever it had to be disconnected so I could walk or use the bathroom.
Humor has always been one of the ways I cope. Sometimes I joke because, if I don't laugh, I might cry. Somehow laughter reminds me that suffering doesn't get to have the final word.
Eventually the day came when surgery could no longer be avoided. I wish I could tell you I wasn't nervous, but, once the topic came up, I needed time to process and prepare my mind and heart. I'm so thankful my surgeon gave me that space. From the moment I met him, I had a deep peace that he was the right surgeon for me. The Lord had provided exactly who I needed.
Little by little as time passed and visitors came that Sunday, the fear no longer seemed bigger than the peace. I wasn't walking into surgery alone. My Father was already with me.
The visits from family and friends before surgery, and again afterward, were another gift. For someone like me, they were the perfect distraction, the very thing I needed, while I waited and recovered.
The surgery itself went better than anyone expected. The next morning my surgeon walked in with a huge smile and said, "You were my most boring and uneventful surgery."
I couldn't help but smile back and tell him I was thrilled to be his most boring and uneventful surgery. I don't think anyone has ever been happier to be called boring.
The surgery revealed that my small intestine had become twisted. The blessing was what they didn't find. There were no unexpected surprises. No metastatic disease. No severe scar tissue. My liver and gallbladder looked healthy. Even more encouraging, no portion of my intestine or colon needed to be removed.
For the first time in days, it felt like I could finally turn my attention toward healing.
Healing, however, didn't arrive all at once.
The first few days after surgery—both in the hospital and after I returned home—were slow. Very slow. If I'm honest, there were days when it was difficult to see much progress at all. I had to intentionally remind myself that healing was happening, even when I couldn't yet feel it.
Looking back now, I realize that's exactly how healing worked. It didn't happen all at once. It compounded. Each day quietly built upon the day before. Tiny improvements that almost escaped my notice became obvious only when I looked back over the previous week.
One day I realized I was walking a little farther. Another day I noticed I had a little more energy. Then I realized I wasn't needing quite as much rest. Week by week, life slowly began returning.
Even now, eight plus weeks later, I still steady myself on the stairs. Some afternoons remind me that rest is still part of God's prescription for me. But I also find myself smiling more often. Laughing more easily. Feeling life returning to both my body and my soul.
The healing has been physical. But it has also been something much deeper.
As my body has grown stronger, I have found my heart becoming increasingly sensitive to the Lord. Worship moves me in ways I can't fully explain. Tears come easily when I think of Him. Not tears of despair. More often, they are tears of gratitude. Tears of recognizing His goodness. Tears of realizing that the Father I have longed to know has patiently been revealing His heart to me all along.
Four years ago, I prayed that I would know the peace and joy that Paul experienced in suffering.
Looking back now, I realize the Lord answered something even deeper than I knew to ask for.
Yes, He gave me His peace.
Yes, He gave me His joy.
But even more than that, He revealed His heart.
For years I prayed that I would know Him more deeply. Through ordinary days, through cancer, through a hospital room, through painfully slow walks down unfamiliar hallways, through laughter, through tears, through the people He faithfully placed around me, and through healing that came one small step at a time, He answered that prayer by showing me what it means to be loved by my Heavenly Father.
I still don't know exactly what tomorrow holds. There are still unknowns. There are still decisions ahead. And I know there will be new invitations to surrender, because surrender has layers.
Again and again, the Lord gently invites me to place the next unknown into His hands—not because He enjoys asking me to let go, but because every new surrender has introduced me to another facet of His faithfulness.
Today, I still have questions about the future. But I also have something I didn't have before. I feel like I have life in my body and soul again.
More than that, I know my Father in a way I didn't before. I no longer wonder whether He will meet me in whatever lies ahead. He already has. He always will.
If there is one thing I hope my story points to, it is this:
Our Father is more faithful than we know.
Sometimes He answers our prayers in ways we never expected. Sometimes He begins answering them long before we recognize His work. And sometimes the greatest miracle isn't that our circumstances change. Sometimes the greatest miracle is that, in the middle of those circumstances, we come to know Him more deeply.
I truly have seen His goodness… in the land of the living. To read through the full series click on the below titles:
The Goodness of God in the Land of the Living (Part 1)
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