"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."
Psalm 46:1
There are memories from my week in the hospital that have already begun to blur together. I don't always remember which doctor came in on which day. I don't remember the exact order of every test. Some conversations have faded with time. But there are other things I don't think I'll ever forget.
The music.
One of the first things I asked Dan to bring was my portable speaker. He brought it first thing Saturday morning, and from that moment on, my hospital room felt different. Gentle hymns filled the air.
During the day I played my healing playlist that I created over the past two years and that brings me comfort. During the night I listened to the soothing sound of The London Philharmonic playing the old hymns of the faith. The music was quiet and calming. It never demanded my attention, but somehow it gently drew my heart back to the Lord over and over again. It was also sweet when hospital staff would comment that they liked the music or that a song was their favorite.
The hospital was full of sounds. Monitors beeping. IV pumps alarming. Hallway conversations. Doors opening and closing throughout the night. Looking back, I realize the loudest voice in that room wasn’t coming from the machines. It was the quiet, steady reminder that the Lord was with me.
"It Is Well with My Soul."
"Great Is Thy Faithfulness."
"Be Thou My Vision."
"Abide With Me."
There were moments when I couldn't pray much more than one word or one phrase.
"Jesus." or “Jesus I love you!”
Sometimes that was all I had. Sometimes His name was my entire prayer. The hymns carried me when my own words ran out. They reminded me of truths that my weary mind didn't have the strength to rehearse on its own. They became an anchor. Especially after the surgery, when recovery felt the hardest, the music grounded me and brought me back to peace.
Looking back now, I don't think the music was simply playing in my room. I think the Lord was caring for His daughter. Quietly. Tenderly. Faithfully.
Many of those hymns were written by people who had walked through profound grief, suffering, disappointment, and loss. They had already discovered what I have been gradually experiencing in a deep personal way.
As the Lord has become more real to me over the years, those hymns have begun reaching places in my heart that are hard to describe. They deeply move my heart, reminding me of who He is and how faithful He has been. Songs like “It Is Well With My Soul” bring tears from the very first note. Sometimes I can barely sing the words because they remind me of His faithfulness and His love. They point me back to the place where the Lord has been leading me all along:
God is enough
The doctors were doing everything they could to determine why my bowel had stopped working. Was it radiation? Scar tissue? A blockage? No one knew. Each day we waited. Each day we hoped. Each day we prayed that my body would begin working on its own so surgery could be avoided. The waiting was harder than I expected. Not because I doubted the Lord. Because I simply didn't know what was coming next.
Would today be the day something changed? Would I need surgery? Would they find something worse than they expected? There were no easy answers. Only another day. Another walk. Another prayer. Another reminder that I wasn't in control.
Those slow walks around the hospital floor became some of the hardest - and most meaningful -moments of the week. Every lap required determination. My body felt weak. The NG tube was uncomfortable. My abdomen was still swollen. Some days, even standing up felt like an accomplishment.
I wasn't walking alone. Dan was there. My sweet friend, Natalia, was there. My sister, Betty, was there. My daughter, Alina and baby Natalie were there. They encouraged me when I silently wanted to quit. They celebrated every little victory.
Looking back now, I realize those walks became a picture of the Christian life. Sometimes faith doesn't look like running. Sometimes faith looks like taking one more slow step because the Lord has given you strength for one more slow step. It was during one of those walks that I remembered. A memory unexpectedly came rushing back. Not a hospital memory. A prayer. The prayer I had prayed four years earlier.
Suddenly, as clearly as if I had prayed it the day before, I remembered asking the Lord to give me the kind of peace and joy that Paul experienced in suffering.
I actually stopped walking for a moment. Not because my body needed the rest. Because my heart did. I looked around at where I was. A hospital hallway. A walker in front of me. Cancer. An NG tube. Uncertainty. Pain. None of it had changed. And yet…
Neither had the peace. I remember trying to find the right word for what I was experiencing. The first word that came to mind was happy. But almost immediately I knew that wasn't it. Happy didn't fit. Happy didn't make sense. There was nothing about my circumstances that should have made me happy. Then another word quietly settled into my heart.
Joy. Not happiness. The “the joy of the Lord!”
Not because I enjoyed being there. Not because suffering had suddenly become pleasant. But because the presence of the Lord was more real than my circumstances. And in that moment, everything connected.
The prayer.
The years.
The slow work God had been doing in my heart.
The peace I couldn't explain.
The joy I couldn't manufacture.
I wasn't hoping someday God would answer my prayer. I was living inside the answer. I don't know whether I said it out loud or simply whispered it in my heart. But I remember thinking, "Lord...You ARE in this."
The hospital wasn't where God answered my prayer. The hospital was where He allowed me to recognize the answer He had been writing for four years. I stood there in the middle of that hallway overwhelmed by one realization. My Father had not forgotten a single word I had prayed. Not one.
Long before I knew cancer was coming...
Long before I knew there would be radiation...
Long before I knew there would be surgery...
He had already begun preparing me.
Not by explaining the future.
By drawing me closer to Himself.
I had asked Him to help me know Him more deeply.
He had said yes.
Only now I could finally recognize His answer.
As I continued those painfully slow laps around the hospital floor, my circumstances remained exactly the same. But I was seeing them through the lens of the joy of the Lord. Every step became an act of remembrance. Every step whispered the same truth back to my heart.
My Father knew.
My Father saw.
My Father had gone before me.
And my Father was carrying me still.
If you missed Part 1 go here: The Goodness of God in the Land of the Living
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