Dear Annie,

In about an hour you’ll be back in a now familiar place – the Infusion Suite at the Duke Cancer Center (aka the “Chemo Lounge,” as I’ve dubbed it) – where you’ll spend most of the day receiving your fifth round of ninja medicine. Five down, one to go!

I hated that I had to work late last night, hacking away on my MacBook in our front living room while you and your Mom handled dinner time, homework, and the bedtime routine. You know it’s my perpetual internal battle – balancing work in a frenetic, self-employed world with being present as a husband and father.

As I worked, I couldn’t help but overhear conversations that floated through our old, loud house. There was Jack, struggling to push through his test preparation at the dining room table, where you patiently sat with him, encouraging him to hang tough while the tears flowed.

Then there were Sarah’s tearful squeals of delight/confusion/fear because her last front tooth literally fell out of her mouth. When I went up to see what the commotion was about, there you sat with her in your lap, consoling her with happy words of celebration.

And of course, there was Luke, who had just finished a long soccer practice. In the mud. And as you and I know, when Luke is tired from exercise, achy-leg-syndrome becomes the dominant theme of his final waking hour. And so your leg-rubbing commenced.

You were there for all of it…even while knowing the next morning you’d wake up for a cancer-killing, body-shellacking chemical cocktail. Even while feeling exhausted from the toll that chemotherapy has taken over the past three months. Even while having no guarantee that any of the aggressive treatment you are undergoing will eradicate the thief for good.

You’ve compared this journey to a marathon. To a belly flop from the high dive. To a bear hunt. To going through hell.  The hardest thing you’ve ever done.

And yet.

I’ve seen no evidence of bitterness in you. Or self-pity. Or paralyzing fear.

I have seen a woman who daily pushes herself upon the mercy and grace of Jesus. Weak, yet strong. Tearful and weary, yet joyful and enduring in suffering. Honest and vulnerable, yet facing the thief tethered to the soul-affirming, life-giving promise of which Paul so eloquently writes in a celebratory tone to the Romans: (I love Eugene Peterson’s translation):

So, what do you think? With God on our side like this, how can we lose? If God didn’t hesitate to put everything on the line for us, embracing our condition and exposing himself to the worst by sending his own Son, is there anything else he wouldn’t gladly and freely do for us? And who would dare tangle with God by messing with one of God’s chosen? Who would dare even to point a finger? The One who died for us—who was raised to life for us!—is in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us. Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture:

They kill us in cold blood because they hate you.

We’re sitting ducks; they pick us off one by one.

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. (Romans 8:35-39)

Your life over the past three months has been a living testimony to me and so many others that you know Jesus. And are confident in His unending, unbreakable, unstoppable love for you. I see it. We see it.

Keeping fighting, love. The chemo is working. Jesus loves you. I love you. We all love you.

In it with you,

Hubs