It is 4:45 am. I have been awake since 3. I prayed for awhile in bed, then layed there awhile trying to go back to sleep, then finally gave up and got up. I was laying there writing in my head, as I often do when I can’t sleep, but then that gets my brain to working so much that I often can’t turn it off enough to go back to sleep. So here I am. And I am showing you the battle.
Instead of posting the “writing” I was doing in my head, which is a post in progress and much better done on more than 4 hours of sleep, I decided to check on a couple of my fellow cancer battlers who’ve reached out to me in the midst of their own wars. I had been pointed to one in particular who was doing some experimental, alternative treatment for her cancer. She too was very young (in her twenties), had colon cancer, and it had metastasized to her liver. I had contacted her with questions about this treatment she was doing. She sent me a very kind and caring e-mail back, and expressed such great faith in God in that e-mail. I have been faithfully praying for her since receiving it.
I think she has died. My only way to check on her was through a facebook group that had been set up, and it seems to no longer exist. I found one message that indicates she’s “gone home with the Lord.” (I’m not mentioning her name as I have no definite knowledge.) I am devastated, and I didn’t even know her.
Then I decided to look at Saturday’s mail. I was excited to see a card from some dear friends in Virginia. My friend wrote out a wonderful prayer she had prayed for me – asking God to grant my boys what He’d granted His own Son: a mother to raise him; a mother to love, teach, guide, and comfort him through all of his trials. But she also included a touching card about her own father’s journey with cancer, a journey that lasted 2 and a half years. She is faithful and thankful for that time, and I greatly appreciated her card to me.
I want more than that. More than 2.5 years.
Here, in the night, I’ve been reminded that I might…
Oh, I can say it. I can think it. But I’m not going to finish the sentence for the sake of my family who will read.
Here, in the darkness, my faith wavers, my hope wavers, the fear threatens.
I will choose to look at Jesus. (Just typing the name, I feel its power.) When Peter walked on the water, during the storm, to Jesus, he started to sink only once he began to look about him at the waves crashing around him. I will reach for Jesus, and cling to Him. At times, it is with white knuckles. At times, I have to repeat His name over and over in my head and wait to feel in my heart that He is present. But I choose in this moment, in the darkness, to stop looking at the storm about me, and to look at my Savior.
“…Let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith…” (Hebrews 12)
My Father –
You are the author of my faith, and of the story of my life- write it well. I know how I want this chapter to end. I know thatI want my story to be a LONG one, with many, many chapters after this one. But God, I will not skip ahead in my mind. I cannot write this story myself. I will trust that YOU are the perfect writer, your ways are higher and you will work everything out for the GOOD. I will read one word, one sentence, one page at a time by living one step, one hour, one day at a time. And I will try to keep my eyes on your Son. Helpme keep my eyes there. Be the perfecter of my faith. Make it more perfect.
I love you. In the name of Jesus, Amen