Dad comes and sits down next to me on the couch as I’m mentally talking to the Heavenly Father, requesting, this morning. Amazing that I have an earthly father to reflect His Ultimate Fatherly love back to me while I’m here on this ground, sitting on this couch.
Please strengthen me to do all the things You want me to do today.
His responses are usually mental images, mentally flipping of pages in my sweet lavendar leather Bible:
2 corinthians 4
7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned;struck down, but not destroyed. 10 We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. 11 For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. 12 So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
In you: I think of the friends at the hospital and other cancer-sibling-survivors and think, yes, that is who He means by “you” in my life today. This is an strong weight of truth sinking in my soul, grounding me this morning as I plead for strength after a sleepless, anxious night. My role in His plan is greater and stronger than any sleepiness I might have, any weakness I might be feeling this morning. Because oh, how sometimes chemo does indeed feel like death! And yet, something greater, my weaknesses He’s showing me are revealing less and less of me and more and more of Him that is inside of my heart, my soul.
Breathe in and let that meditation sink in and build you up more than any other drug or thought ever could.
I arrive, and my brother-survivor Skylor is there already for treatment today. He is the first person I see who greets me this morning as I roll in a wheelchair. The 16 year old boy who has so much hope in his voice, in his interactions with patients younger than him. I’m grateful for this friendship.
I’m amazed today to run into so many people who I also know. Not that it should have amazed me; I’ve known most of these people for years. But here they were, a mass in and out by the nurses station, and I am overwhelmed by their care for me the past 10 years. This is the family outside of family that Skylor and I both see, feel, experience. There are too many family members here to count, and they continue to multiply in their kindness for us both.
Josh later visits Skylor and I, and I’m certain he thinks that Skylor and I are a comedic-chemo team together. And yet Josh is patient as he listens to us both talk about life, about chemo, about post-chemo and nurses coming in to either bring me more medicine or come to find Skylor. (At this point, all the nurses know that if Sky and I are both here, if Sky isn’t found in his room, they should just check mine, ha.) And not only Josh is here now, but also Skylor’s mama. Myself, my mama, Josh, Skylor, Skylor’s mama…my room is indeed full of relationship, full of the medicine that superceeds the chemotherapy drugs that initially brought my friendship with Skylor together.
Back at home, I nap off and on (how I can’t get consistent sleep patterns, I know, during chemo week.) Physical grace-mana comes in form of Dr. Carol’s warm visit and food in hand. How I have missed seeing her joy consistently at work! Eat some, nap some more, and Megan comes to visit in the evening. Once again, God showing me in his grace that relationships overflow in His love for me through others. This is how He heals and restores us: through His love.
This is how He heals and restores us: through His love, dear friends.