At 9:00 a.m. every weekday for the past five weeks, my faithful sidekick and chauffeur – my mom – and I hop in her car for a 15 minute commute to Duke Cancer Center. By 9:20, I’m sporting a fashionable hospital gown and sitting beside Mom in a small waiting room, where we bide time trying to guess the answer to the daily trivia question scribbled on a white board by a thoughtful staff person who knows that little things like fun trivia make a difficult start to a day a bit brighter.  Did you know that in the entire state of Wyoming there are only two escalators?

At 9:30, I’m stretched out on a platform surrounded by an imposing radiation machine and worker-bee radiation therapists who tape cameras to my tummy and focus lasers on tattooed dots on my chest, indelible markers needed to demarcate the boundaries for radiation. Yep, I boast not one, not two, but four of the world’s tiniest tattoos.

By 10:00,  I have checked off yet another of my 30 radiation treatments. After slathering a handful of goopy cream on my burned skin, I go about my day. As you can guess, my skin is starting to yell, “UNCLE!”  Thankfully, the finish line is in sight.  25 down, 5 to go.

This past Tuesday I had the privilege of being the first person to embrace a sister-warrior as she walked out of her last radiation treatment and crossed her hardcore-treatment finish line.  I handed her a bouquet of celebratory pink and yellow flowers.  We hugged on our non-burned sides as tears flowed. Gratitude. Relief. She had finally arrived at a day she had long awaited. That day that feels so far away at the moment of diagnosis.

I’ve had my head down, placing one foot in front of another, living out the daily portion of sufficient grace for nearly a year now.  Sharing tears of joy with my cancer fighting friend lifted my eyes to see ahead and taste of the relief that awaits me this coming Friday.  I wonder what I will do.  I’m sure tears will flow once again.  And other new friends in the waiting room will celebrate with me.

Five more days.  I won’t miss that cold radiation room.  I will look back on those daily 20 bizarre and vulnerable minutes of radiation with wonder, however.  The love of Christ and the presence of his Spirit have gone with me into the strangest, most chaotic, far away, lonely, foreign places of life…the far side of the sea.  Like my tiny tattoos, God’s relentless love has been forever etched on my heart a little deeper each and every morning in that big, cold room with the warning sign “VERY HIGH LEVEL OF RADIATION” hanging on the door.

Where can I flee from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?…If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.  Psalm 139:7, 9-10

“Even there,” the Psalm promises.  Yes, even THERE.

My tattoos will be a lifelong reminder of this incredible grace.  At least until the day when Christ comes and makes all things new, my marred, scarred and tattooed body included.  So, I’ll lift my eyes to look for that blessed day.  The finish line of all finish line days.  This Friday will simply be a taste. A really, really good taste.