From an article originally posted March 12, 2014…
If you asked what the hardest part of our journey has been, it would be waiting. Waiting is painful. Waiting causes your mind to jump into a thousand different scenarios. It’s painful, peace-stealing business. This time has been different. The waiting has been difficult, but peace has been present—unbelievable peace. We are humbled by it, we talk about it in wonder. It simply does not make sense, but then, it makes complete sense.
We know the words might come, quality of life. The flag might wave that gives us our Love Boat moment where we are told how much time remains. We know it’s a real possibility. We know the decisions will come and new desperation might enter in one little doctor’s office without windows. The suffocating moment we hear the whole picture. It’s coming, and we have peace. You may not know Jesus, you may not believe my faith, but you cannot deny this to be God. It is real, felt peace that simply passes ALL UNDERSTANDING. I should be crying in the fetal position in my bed, but I’m not. I’m sitting in a coffee shop watching the slow passing of people into their days, and working—working on words that name this peace, this undeserved peace.
We sat to dinner last night and laughed. I snuggled in bed with my daughter and talk about her endless joy playing chess. We keep treating ourselves to episodes of Alaska: The Last Frontier on iTunes. We snuggle up and watch those struggling for their living, scraping at the earth for food and shooting what enters their pans at night. We love it, can’t get enough of it.
Sometimes I think all this peace means it’s not going to be bad. I keep thinking maybe the news will be good. I think that might be the one lie in all this. My peace is Jesus, Jesus alone. His presence is my peace, not a story without suffering. So I look at my next few hard moments, days, and know the presence of Jesus in those moments is my peace, not hearing from my oncologist that what is warring within me isn’t going to kill me.
Thank you Jesus, thank you. I take hold of this peace with utter gratitude. It feels like such a gift. I’m not panicked, but only have moments, small moments of anxiety. You have met me this week, you have met my moments and waking hours. You have given me work to do today. You have given me thoughts to think and wonder to observe. You have been my companion, my constant companion. You hear my begging: Help, oh help, please help. You have helped. This is the greatest gift of all. Peace. Meet me in that small room with peace. Help me to show that unexplainable peace to my doctor. Help me to extend him your peace when he meets the end of his options to save this young mama. Help him not to despair, or to think I’m despairing. Help him not to carry the tears that will come. Help us to love him. Thank you Jesus for all those that are in constant prayer. Thank you for sleep. Thank you.
