A thought came to me, thinking about my fellow cancer fighters.
You fight, you battle, you give it all you can, you win.
But not everyone wins.
I am stopped in my tracks about a young girl and two guys my age, all three died the end of last year. Boom. Six months ago they were here, fighting as I was fighting. Now they are gone. Of cancer.
Why them, not me?
They went to doctors, and they prayed. I am sure they prayed fiercely, and people prayed for them. Good prayers. They did the same things I did.
Here I am, why was I allowed to live?
Maybe it isn't about me. We are each one thread in that beautiful tapestry of life. Some things happen which aren't about me or you, they are about someone else. The end result is to be with God for eternity as part of His work.
But why am I a lucky one?
This is a mystery I will not understand while I am on earth.
My heart aches for their families and friends. They are, all three of them, in heaven now. I am certain of this.
And here I am.
Thinking of them, I get all quiet.
This summer I asked a dear friend, fellow cancer survivor, how did she feel every day, ten years after her surgery and chemo. She told me she feels so grateful and humble everyday when she thinks of three women who had breast cancer when she did, and aren't with us today.
I thought to myself then, I don't feel humble. Or grateful. I don't feel either of them, even one iota of humble or grateful. I was in the midst of chemo. What I felt like was a boxer in the ring, or like a soldier carrying 80 pounds of equipment in 110 degree heat. I was in the middle of the fight. Adrenaline was pumping.
Now, six months later, a 180 degree turn around in thinking.
I feel truly humble that I am allowed more days.
Humble with a lower case H.
And grateful, thankful, achingly appreciative
that I am allowed more days.
The quiet in my soul is a good quiet. A peaceful quiet.
A still and motionless quiet.
An expectant intake of breath quiet.
I am a serene little sparrow, not an elegant and powerful raptor but a common backyard sparrow.
Curious, small, alert and looking at everything around me.
No one notices me when they pass by though.
No one takes my photo or texts to their friends that they saw a gray-brown sparrow sitting on a branch this morning.
I am perfectly okay with that.
I am sitting at the foot of the cross, looking up into the face of Jesus.
He looks down at me with love and tenderness.
To Him, I am the reason.
You fight, you battle, you give it all you can, you win.
But not everyone wins.
I am stopped in my tracks about a young girl and two guys my age, all three died the end of last year. Boom. Six months ago they were here, fighting as I was fighting. Now they are gone. Of cancer.
Why them, not me?
They went to doctors, and they prayed. I am sure they prayed fiercely, and people prayed for them. Good prayers. They did the same things I did.
Here I am, why was I allowed to live?
Maybe it isn't about me. We are each one thread in that beautiful tapestry of life. Some things happen which aren't about me or you, they are about someone else. The end result is to be with God for eternity as part of His work.
But why am I a lucky one?
This is a mystery I will not understand while I am on earth.
My heart aches for their families and friends. They are, all three of them, in heaven now. I am certain of this.
And here I am.
Thinking of them, I get all quiet.
This summer I asked a dear friend, fellow cancer survivor, how did she feel every day, ten years after her surgery and chemo. She told me she feels so grateful and humble everyday when she thinks of three women who had breast cancer when she did, and aren't with us today.
I thought to myself then, I don't feel humble. Or grateful. I don't feel either of them, even one iota of humble or grateful. I was in the midst of chemo. What I felt like was a boxer in the ring, or like a soldier carrying 80 pounds of equipment in 110 degree heat. I was in the middle of the fight. Adrenaline was pumping.
Now, six months later, a 180 degree turn around in thinking.
I feel truly humble that I am allowed more days.
Humble with a lower case H.
And grateful, thankful, achingly appreciative
that I am allowed more days.
The quiet in my soul is a good quiet. A peaceful quiet.
A still and motionless quiet.
An expectant intake of breath quiet.
I am a serene little sparrow, not an elegant and powerful raptor but a common backyard sparrow.
Curious, small, alert and looking at everything around me.
No one notices me when they pass by though.
No one takes my photo or texts to their friends that they saw a gray-brown sparrow sitting on a branch this morning.
I am perfectly okay with that.
I am sitting at the foot of the cross, looking up into the face of Jesus.
He looks down at me with love and tenderness.
To Him, I am the reason.
