In 1982, Norfolk Medical created the first human port, a little device implanted under the skin which connects to a catheter inserted into a vein. A breakthrough for patients who need to receive regular infusions of drugs and nutrients. I got one of these little suckers implanted in my chest in May of last year. Today, I’m holding it in my hand.

I’m so grateful for this buddy. Medically speaking, there weren’t many things that made life easier while battling cancer. But this was one of them.

Last night, I told the kids I was finally having my port removed. Ever the cheerleader, Sarah said, “That’s great! Your what?” (Oh the mercies of a young one’s faded memory!) Jack, with a quizzical expression, chimed in, “That’s a good thing, right?” Yes, it’s a good thing.  

After thirty-plus infusions, I’m glad to see you go, little friend. Your removal feels like an official page-turning in my cancer story. A “milestone” said my surgeon as we talked about Christmas plans and how different Christmas 2016 will be compared to last year’s. Tears of gratitude surprised me as I climbed into my car to head home. A little piece of normal was given back to me today.  

These days, the treatment landscape and my new normal involves tests and screenings twice a year, daily hormone blocking drugs, and a shot every three months to keep me locked in menopause (my cancer loved estrogen, so to keep it from coming back, we have to cut off the supply.). Stewarding my slowly-improving energy reserves is an art I haven’t quite figured out. Van is often tucking me in before he tucks the kids into bed. Physical therapy is helping with left arm range of motion as well as mitigating lymphedema, an uncomfortable side effect from lymph node removal. Truth is, I’ll never quite be the same on my left side. My radiation oncologist gently reminded me of this reality last week. It’s in those moments that I miss my pre-cancer body. A small cost, though a real one, for being able to enjoy this and many more Christmases.

Being the season of Advent, Christ’s incarnation (fancy word to describe how Jesus became fully human without losing His deity) has been on the forefront of my mind. I’ve been thinking about how Jesus left Heavenly perfection with God the Father and the Spirit to become just like us, but without sin. Hard to fathom why God would want to do such a thing. The best analogy I can conjure would be the world’s most powerful and benevolent King leaving his glorious castle to live among the peasants and outcast. But Jesus, the Son of God, delighted to do it. He knows what it is to be weak, scarred, and even face death. He is well-acquainted with our sufferings because he too was born of a woman into the brambles and brokenness of this world. What love and mercy and grace! So, while my heart is heavy with sadness for all the broken things, as I consider God’s rescue plan for us, hope rises in my soul.

One of my favorite hymns, O Holy Night, describes it beautifully….

Long lay the world in sin and error pining, 

‘Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices.

Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

So tonight I lay my port-less body and hopeful heart down to rest. Farewell little medical marvel.
With joy,

Anne

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.

 

 

last. chemo. treatment.

I don’t quite have the energy to capitalize those letters. Though I have a significant portion of treatment remaining, I am happy to say the toughest days will soon be behind me. I’m making it! With lots of help, that is…

…which I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. Samuel Rutherford wrote, “Whenever I find myself in the cellar of life’s affliction, I always look about for wine.” If anyone is wondering what God’s love–the choicest of wine–looks like, there are three stand-outs for me. (When I share these with folks, I get teary every time.)

FIRST stand-out: our kids. We knew from the get-go that shielding them from the woes of cancer would be impossible. We also knew God would use this trial in some good way…some uniquely fashioned way for each of them. Jack, Luke, and Sarah have seen mommy puny, pokey, pukey and bald. Well, Sarah never saw me bald.  She didn’t want to whatsoever. I don’t blame her. Each time I saw my own hairless head in the mirror I was a bit freaked out.  Even still, our kids have grown, have known love, have gotten to know Jesus in new ways, and have had a good year. It took a village. His love endures forever.

A vignette for you…

Sarah’s angst over mommy having cancer showed up in two main ways: Repeated inquiries about when my hair would return. And wakeful nights. Night lights and stuffed animals didn’t offer much consolation.  She needed presence.  Loving, reach-out-and-hold-you presence. Grandma to the rescue!  (Yes, Virginia, there is a Wonder Woman.)  Then, sure enough, as soon as my hair started its comeback, so did Sarah’s sleep.  His love endures forever.

The SECOND way I’ve known God’s love? 180 meals. Count ’em: ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY.  The bounteous gift of meals, meals, meals has been a salient reminder of God’s care for me. In a couple of weeks I’ll be moving from our side porch to the basement two coolers which held specially-delivered meals for the last nine months.  It’s going to be a poignant moment.  A sense of arrival.  But I’m going to miss walking by them each day as they seem to call out, “God loves you.”  Now I’m rethinking my plan…I wonder how much it would cost to bronze them?  His love endures forever.

The THIRD stand-out experience has been the comforting presence of my faithful God.  For me, fighting cancer is an experience of abundance and desolation. The journey is rich and brimming with surprising grace, love, and provision.  And it’s bleak with loneliness, fears, physical pain and long nights of sleeplessness.  An anxious heart is sometimes to blame for the sleeplessness.  Often, my inside-out, upside-down, rip-torn, drugged-up body is the culprit.  It’s a bit out of sync with the cadence of normal life.  However, each morning mercies are new.  Time after time the grace-thread by which I’m “hanging in there” proves enough.  Day by day my soul is being renewed.  Through it all, I can tell you, God is faithful and he is present.  His love endures forever.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.  His love endures forever.” Psalm 136:1

Gets me every time.

 

 

Wednesday mornings I arrive at the door to the chemo lounge and take a deep breath.  My quiet prayer is usually something like, “Ok Lord, here we go.  Give me courage and strength to do this.  And help me love the people around me well.”

This past Wednesday looked no different, save for the happy little Christmas tree in a corner and colorful lights lining the windows.  As usual, the dark green pleather recliners were filled with sick people receiving potent medicine to battle a common foe, cancer.  Some folks were chatty, while others sat with their eyes closed, huddled beneath a blanket.  The shadow of death always looms.  Even still, we all exchanged smiles and nods of tacit understanding about what it’s like to sit in that room.  I felt a new weight to our “Merry Christmas” greetings.

Christmas doesn’t offer a break from the battle, but I’ve been thankful for this season of Advent, a time of reflecting on the coming of Jesus, our long awaited Savior who entered our hurting, fallen, cancer-stricken, sinful world to redeem us.  It’s remarkable, isn’t it?  Our majestic, holy God took on mortal flesh and lived among those He came to save and redeem.

I love this insight from Tim Keller about Christmas:  “The gift of Christmas gives you a resource–a comfort and consolation–for dealing with suffering, because in it we see God’s willingness to enter this world of suffering to suffer with us and for us.”

2 Corinthians 8:9 may be the best summary of the meaning of Christmas in scripture…

“You know the grace of your Lord Jesus Christ that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich.”

I need Christmas this year.

I don’t need the fun holiday parties. I don’t need the presents. I don’t need the glee and sweetness of Christmas morning with all the merrymaking. I don’t even need to feel good on Christmas. But boy do I need Christmas. I need the reminder that God loves me. That He sent His son Jesus to rescue me. Not just from this broken world. Or my broken body. But from my own broken, sinful heart.

Emmanuel – God with us – changes everything.  Jesus has walked these shadowlands before me.  He is with me as I settle into my green recliner and go to battle with an enemy.  And you know what? I can’t wait for the second Advent of my King, when the once lowly, suffering Servant, who was laid in a manger at his birth and died a shameful death on a cross, will come again in triumphant glory, once and for all removing every trace of sin and sorrow.  Cancer of the body and cancer of the soul.  GONE, forever and ever.

This Christmas, Isaac Watt’s famous hymn is more encouraging to my heart than ever before…

“Joy to the world!  The Lord has come!  Let earth receive her King!  He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found…  He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glories of his righteousness and wonders of his love…

and wonders of his love…

and wonders, wonders of his love.”

THIS is the Christmas I need.

PS – Our kids are bubbling with excitement about Christmas morning. Though I will not be feeling well, the little joys sprinkled throughout tomorrow will help!  Next week marks the 2/3 completed point in this chemo plan.  Just four more weeks of the “Clean Up Crew” to go.  I received an early present when I found out my blood counts are strong enough to skip the immune system booster shots this round.  Translation:  no achy bones side effect to weather the next few days.  AND my hair is making a strong comeback!  Even had bed head when I woke up this morning.  Good gifts from the Giver of good things.

Merry Christmas!

Anne

 

This past weekend Luke returned home from a Y-Guides outing with Van at Camp Kanata.  Flopping next to me on the sofa, he says, “Mom, I feel just like you.  Tired but happy.” 

My first thought was one of gratitude.  While I’ve had to miss out on many kid events this year, my time with Jack, Luke, and Sarah sure does make me happy.  And tired. So I guess Luke’s observation is pretty spot on. 😊

My second thought was more along the lines of: “Boy, do I have you fooled.”  Tired, yes.  Happy?  Um, not the first emotion I would choose to describe the state of my heart lately.  Battling cancer has served up almost daily platters of hard and sad experiences. 

I find myself attempting to keep the sad stuff of life in a manageable place where life seems more trouble-free(ish).  That doesn’t work for long.  Being told you have cancer certainly destroys the false comfort of the self-protected life.

 Okay, let me pause right here. 

Isn’t it good news that God isn’t like me!?  He dove headlong into my troubles – my sin troubles, hurtling me toward certain death – and overcame them so that He can always be with me in my troubles and rescue me from them. Having a Big Jesus in a broken world sure is better than a dinky Jesus in a self-protected, make-believe world. 

I love what Psalm 56:8 says about the Lord and my sadness, “You have kept count of my tossing; put my tears in your bottle.  Are they not in your book?”  And I love what the end of the story holds for us.  No more tears or sorrow or pain.  Restoration.  All things made new. That’s the promise I need on the days when a platter of sadness is shoved in my face. 

One of my favorite authors, Paul Tripp hits the nail on the head in his book, New Morning Mercies:

“No one is satisfied with things the way they are….You know the world is not stuck and that it hasn’t been abandoned by God.  You know that God is working his eternal plan.  He is moving things toward their final conclusion.  You can’t see it every day, but you know it’s true.  In the middle of your sadness there is celebration, because you’ve read the final chapter and you know how God’s grand story is going to end.”

This Resurrection hope helps me bear my losses. The loss of breasts has been particularly sad. It was a no-brainier decision to exchange a part of my body for 12 inches of scars and better health. Unlike the hair now starting to sprout atop my noggin, this part of my body will never come back. At least not in a natural way.  That’s sad.

But, a trouble-free Kingdom is coming.  As I wait for it, my faithful, good King is with me, giving me all I need to press on.  That’s hope. It makes it possible to grieve honestly, weep with those who weep too, and await the day when Jesus himself really will wipe away my tears. That’s His promise. To that my heart clings. 

Tired, happy, sad, hopeful.  All by God’s grace.

What’s next?  Yesterday I began the 12 week journey of more chemo, a.k.a “the clean up crew.” (We’ve retired the ninja terminology to help the kids)  Navelbine, as this chemo drug is called, is supposed to have less severe side effects.  Fatigue will certainly continue, and other side effects will announce themselves in the next day or so.  Radiation will begin after I complete this 12 week treatment. Sigh. 

Mercies are new each morning.  Just enough, and right on time.

Jack returned home from seeing his first hockey game last night to find me asleep in his bed.  His brother Luke, so used to having big bro in the room at bedtime, asked if I would stay as he tried to find sleep.  I am pretty sure I found it first.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, buddy!   How was it?”

I scooted over and patted the bed.  Jack climbed in to share the single person space, our heads side by side on his Star Wars pillow.  He’s almost as big as I am now.  The aroma of the sports arena still lingered in his hair.

“It was awesome. Those guys can skate probably twice as fast as I can.”  (Jack has never ice-skated.  I love the confidence.)

Jack told me stories of fights, body checks, and getting tossed a puck as he and our dear friend, Manning, watched from the front row.  This was her birthday gift to Jack, and in the words of our boys, it was epic.

And then, as he often does, he checked in with me, “Mom, how’s your cancer?”

“Jack, I’ve waited all day to tell you some good news.  The doctors took special pictures of inside my body and the tumor is gone.  They can’t see the cancer anymore.”

Smiling, Jack slipped his arms around me and snuggled in close whispering, “This has been a really good day.  God is good.”

“God IS good.  Bad days or great days, God is always good,” I whispered back.  And once again, I think I found sleep first.

In the next few days we will tell the kids about my surgery.  Would you pray for wisdom as we tailor the conversation to each child?

And would you pray for the road ahead?  The two steps of treatment remaining – surgery and radiation – are the clean-up crew.  The ninja medicine certainly worked!  Hallelujah!  The tumor disintegrated, and the assumption is that the cancer cells anywhere else vaporized too.   As we all know, cancer is a war at the microscopic, cellular level.  Surgery will remove the areas where the cancer was visible, but it will also provide the tissue needed for the pathologist to determine if any cancer cells remain.  Radiation is the special-ops forces with gamma-ray laser guns to zap any lasting hold-out cells.  We’re gonna blast those suckers into smithereens.

While the war goes on, we are rejoicing that the hardest part is done and was so effective. Thank you for rejoicing with us!   Your messages and comments have been like throwing a party this weekend.  And thanks be to our good and mighty God, the Great Physician, who has tended to me so well, body and soul!

Pressing on with hope,

Anne

Mammogram, ultrasound and MRI show no visible signs of cancer in my body!  CLEAR! Tumor is GONE.

Happy, happy, happy tears.

Van and I met with my surgeon today who said it well, “It is great to know that all you have endured the last few months has been well worth it.”

Yes!  It certainly is!

Surgery is Tuesday at 10 am.

“Let your steadfast love be upon us, O Lord, as we hope in you.” Psalm 33:22.

When Van and I moved to Philadelphia in 2002, we decided that a proper initiation into the City of Brotherly Love meant reenacting the famous scene from Rocky in which Sylvester Stalone sprints up the steps of the Art Museum. I know what you are thinking: what a novel, unique idea, right?!

At the top of that grand stairway sat a bronze statue of Rocky with arms held high in victory. Once we caught our breath, we snapped a photo with the iconic figure, then spent the next several Friday nights watching all 17 Rocky films.

Cue the theme song to Rocky.

Today I’m stepping into the ring for my last chemo round. LAST round. My boxing gloves are laced. I’m punching the air with my opponent in sight. Dancing around the ring. Deep breath through my (pink) mouth guard. Pep talks from loved ones in my corner.

Did I mention it is the LAST round? (Music now changes to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus.)

Rocky Balboa isn’t known for his eloquence, but he had a handful of memorable lines. One that particularly resonates: “The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows.”

Looking back across the traveled terrain of the last four months, I see lots of rocky, dusty, difficult stretches. Dotting the landscape are piles of stones, visible reminders of how my Heavenly Father was with me. Every step. That gives me courage to endure what lies ahead.

Ahead…

Scans are Thursday, October 1st. How I long to hear the word “clear”! Bilateral mastectomy mid-October. Then daily radiation soon after, for 5-6 weeks. Followed by infusions of Herceptin, a hormonal therapy, which will continue until next June. Lastly, reconstruction surgery mid-summer. The hard-hitting treatments will be finished by this Christmas! Hair sprouting on my noggin will be a welcome Christmas gift. Sarah even said she would give me some new hair bows for my new hair. I’ll share the photos, don’t you worry.

As this last round of ninja medicine and body scans approach, fear is starting to pump up the volume in my heart. I needed C.S. Lewis’ encouragement yesterday…

“The great thing with unhappy times is to take them hit by hit, hour by hour, like an illness. It is seldom the present, the exact present, that is unbearable.”

Jesus taught us to pray for daily bread. Battling cancer is a grand lesson in this. If I get too far ahead on roads unknown, daily bread doesn’t seem to cut it. In those moments, I’m existing in an imagined life with a small God. Living in the exact present is hard work at times…

“He who did not spare us his own Son, but gave him up for us all–how will he not also, along with him, give us all things?…For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:32, 35-39)

Past, present, and future grace summed up right there.  God has given his children a Kingdom that can never perish, spoil, or fade. He has given us Himself.  He is with us.  We know how this grand story ends…all sunshine, rainbows, and so much more.  Sooooo much more!  All because of the perfect sacrifice of Jesus.

My present fear just got swallowed in love. Cue Amazing Grace.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace

---

I’m sitting here in the land of chemo side effects, feeling especially thankful for laughter. Can’t get enough of it these days. Web MD, my favorite online health resource, repeatedly lists laughter as a powerful agent in treating all sorts of illnesses. So then it’s official, right?!

The other morning I got a good dose of laughter.  Sarah, my kindergartner, who possesses a silly bone the size Texas, chimed in while eating cinnamon bread, “Mom, did you know that ‘booger’ and ‘booger’ rhyme?”

After further discussion, I figured out that she was trying to say “burger” and “booger”.  The fact they actually do not rhyme is beside the point…we’re working on that. My kids have each had homeschool speech therapy for pronouncing the word “burger.”  Burrrrr-Gurrrrr.  Ok, try again.  Burrr-gurrr, not boog-er.  Burrr-gur. These therapy sessions occur on hamburger nights and when we have drippy noses.  They all have their first cold of the school year, so boogers are on their minds and unfortunately, their sleeves.

But I digress…

During these harder, feeling-really-icky days of fighting the big, bad thief, laughter has truly been medicine for my body and soul. It both invigorates and flows from recognition of the good things in life. God is the giver of those good things. Funny things. Just look at a walrus or platypus; God certainly has a fantastic sense of humor. And as those created in our Heavenly Father’s image, we can laugh because He laughs.

Part of this cancer journey for me has involved growing in the skill of “good-things scavenging”, a.k.a. thanksgiving.  When laughter comes via my kids, Jim Gaffigan, Jen Hatmaker, and my husband Van, giving thanks comes more easily.

On that note, I am thankful for some biggies – the comforting presence of my Heavenly Father, the peace of my Savior that pervades my fearful heart, and the loving embrace of my church, friends, and family. I’m also thankful for little things that, from where I am sitting, make a big difference. They make me smile. Like my eyelashes.

At Van’s insistence, I would like to give my beloved lashes a Standing Ovation by sharing a poem I wrote the other day, entitled Ode to my Lashes. Hope you enjoy…

Ode to my Lashes

Your comrades adorning my head and the rest, abandoned their stations at the start of this test.

Determined you’re clinging with admirable might; Standing firm on my lids for this prolonged fight.

Heavy the pressure you endure from your peers. But you, oh lashes, are my faithful dears.

---

Beating the odds and proving your strength, your staying-power is rather impressive in length.

Even the micro-hairs deep in my ears have, along with the nose kind, surrendered, I fear.

Assessing each day what hair remains still, I admire, oh lashes, the strength of your will.

---

Applying mascara, I’m exceedingly proud; you’re strong little guys, standing out from the crowd!

Your presence provides a near-normal appearance; grateful am I for your dogged perseverance.

A small but significant help to my sanity. Thank you, oh lashes, for this one gift of vanity.

---

Realizing, indeed, a rough road lies ahead, you may, at long last, be forced out and shed.

Even the mightiest can not forever stand, as winds and waves buffet your soft land.

Yet it seems through the tempest you’ll hold on ’til the end. For you, oh lashes, are my loyalest of friends.

“Blessed are you who hunger now, for you shall be satisfied.  Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.”  (Luke 6:21.)

I’m thankful for these heavenly doses of laughter.

As I fight this battle with cancer, I am connecting with other women, younger and older, who comprise this unique breast cancer sisterhood. Marion, Amanda, Debbi, Nancy, Wendy, Jenny, and Rebecca – thank you for sharing your journeys with me.

I love our conversations.  There is freedom to say certain things with these friends because they get it. Having to face and fight the thief themselves, their empathy is deep, wide, and tangible.  The specific comfort God has given them flows to me in the course of our conversations, and my heart drinks their words.

In fact, I’ve realized that sharing our hearts through any hardship is often ripe with help and hope.  It’s a refreshing drink of savory lemonade on a warm summer day.

The Psalms have long been my soul’s lemonade, and even more so these days.  Sweet with hope, refreshing in honesty, rejuvenating with truth, the Psalms give me words to express my raw fears.  They sing of God’s sovereign care and mighty strength.  They fill in the blanks and surprise me along the way with word pictures that express far more than any technical description of suffering.  And they reorient my wayward heart from its dark, hopeless wanderings to the stalwart hope of Christ, anchoring me to Him, not my shifting circumstances.

My circumstances are not offering much refreshment these days.  While there are certainly joys and even belly laughs every day, (I am married to Van, after all), this is a tiring, long road.

Weary.  I’ve used that word a lot more the past two weeks.  It’s different than hopeless.  Weariness is the tattered sails of a soul that inevitably come after long-lasting, intense storms.  Deep sigh.  It’s only been 13 weeks.  Fodder for you as you pray for me.

My drink of lemonade this morning was Psalm 63…

“My soul thirsts for you…as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

There is no reprimand in this Psalm for feeling weary.  There is no correction for having a tired soul.  There is, instead, an invitation to be refreshed in God’s love.

“Because your steadfast love is better than life…My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips.”  

Lemonade AND bacon! (Van would stick an “amen!” right here)  God’s love, the yummiest of fare, better than life itself.

Psalm 63 is the song Jesus sang with His life, perfectly embodying and fulfilling its every word.  He knows weary.  He even knows what it is to be weary and have the refreshment He alone deserved intentionally withheld by his Heavenly Father.  Why?  So that I – undeserving of comfort and rest because of my sin – can be freely refreshed by the love of God.  Jesus Himself knows the specifics of my suffering.  He can read between the lines of my heart as I cry out to him, reviving me with his comfort and peace, his strength and help.  Jesus is divine lemonade.

Round 5 begins next Tuesday.  Pray I will be refreshed and satisfied in God’s love as the rockiest parts of this treatment road approach.  I’m beginning to see the finish line of ninja warfare in the distance.  I will feast and dance across that line!