Prayer Journal: July 17

 June 17, 2021

Dear God, today I was thinking about my naivete. I’ve been thinking about it a lot actually. I’m choosing to be naive because I don’t want to assume the worst in people. But by not being more critical I’m potentially putting people in danger. I feel like the cousin and friends I took to downtown LA and they thought it was funny to flash gang signs at people on Olvera Street. It was really dangerous but they didn’t want to know. They thought it was a game.

I think that’s how I feel about myself. I don’t want to know how bad things can get, how evil people can be. It’s like I think it’s a game. I’m glad I’m not afraid of death threats, but maybe it’s only because I imagine myself immune. I think I’m invincible. But I don’t want to live in fear either and I don’t know where the middle ground is.

Sometimes I think it is good to be uber honest and not hold back any of my cards. I feel like building trust takes trust and a big part of all this mess, for all these years, is that no one trusts each other. I’ve earned the trust of several people in the community who were jaded. For the documentary it opened up people to listening because they saw I wasn’t hiding anything, I don’t have any secret agendas. 

But with some people I don’t know if it’s a good idea to be so vulnerable and open. And what’s more, what if I’m intentionally ignoring any danger because I don’t want to admit that I’m powerless against it? I don’t want to become jaded. I don’t want to be cynical. I want to see the good in people and I believe people can become what you believe them to be. 

And that’s why I try to do everything your way God, and thought I make mistakes, then I have nothing to hide. And even if something bad I did was exposed, I wouldn’t want to hide from it, I’d want to admit it and apologize and make amends. That’s what we learned to do in CR. 

But I get scared that the public might not accept my apologies if I were to make a mistake and everything I’ve done, and all the people I’ve tried to help, would be ruined. 

I don’t have as much of my “we learn from mistakes” attitude right now. I have more a “be afraid of running everything” view. But that’s all coming from the standpoint that I have to do this, instead of the truth which is, you God are doing this. And I pray if I did mess up, that you would have another person ready to take over if I get taken down. 

I need to remember how much bigger this is than myself, even bigger than me and Jeni and Denise and our team. This is your plan God- these are your people suffering. It’s not my job to save them, that’s your specialty. It’s my job to show up and do my best to listen to you and obey. And when I make mistakes, because I know I will, you are bigger than me. All the same I pray my mistakes wouldn’t hurt people or the work you’re doing. Please catch me Holy Spirit before I do anything dumb so I can do things your way, because your ways are so good and you bring life to everything you touch. 

Please give me wisdom to know when/what to hold back to be wise, please let me know when I need to spill my guts. Thank you that hardship is the path to peace, and that you’re not afraid of my naivete, mistakes and awkward moments. You know what to do and if you can use me to do any of it, than you are a miracle worker.  

And you are a miracle worker. 

Please remind me that you use the weak to lead the strong. I am weak. You are the leader. And I don’t have to be strong. Help me to see you, to hear you, to trust you. Please give me a double dose, a triple dose, of wisdom for this Lord. It’s so complicated on so many levels.

Amen.

Resiliency

 
"Resiliency" has been the buzz word in our house these last few weeks. It's not an easy skill but one I feel my kids need growth in. Today that was a hard lesson for Grace. We had planned to go ride our bikes to their friend's houses and covertly chalk messages on their sidewalks for thanksgiving. It was beautiful out today and kids were excited.

Grace was supposed to pump her tire but by the time I came back she said she refused to come with us. She couldn't get her tire pumped and she was mad because her bike fell over and said she wouldn't come. End of story. 

So I gave her a second choice. If she didn't go on the bike ride she wouldn't get any screen time. Needless to say, she decided to come bike riding. She cried the entire time. She said she didn't have enough energy. She was dehydrated. She managed to fall off her bike. But I knew it was really about the fact that she got frustrated and didn't want to push past that. 

On the bike ride I remembered Grace's bone marrow transplant. Immediately after she relapsed she was inpatient with heavy duty chemo for five weeks straight. The chemo tightened her muscles and it became painful for her to walk. And staying in bed all day from feeling sick and tired causes the muscles to atrophy, compounding the pain and difficulty she was already experiencing. 

The oncology nurses had started a program that every wednesday they would put a stash of treats at each nurse station to encourage the kids to walk the halls. Grace cried with every step and my heart broke with each cry. But I knew how important it was for her body and mental wellbeing.

Next Grace went through radiation that tightened her muscles even more. The bone marrow transplant kicked my strong, tenacious, dare-devil-of-a-daughter to the mat. When she walked I had to completely support her so she wouldn't fall. When she became too weak to walk I would carry her. I had to lift her into and out of her baths. Walking down the hall stopped being a possibility, she couldn't walk across her hospital room without intense crying from the pain. Several times the physical therapist recommended getting Grace a wheelchair and I repeatedly declined.

Grace was exhausted, in pain, and vomiting all day long. Still, Chad and I decided she should continue school work with a hospital tutor*. Physical therapy was agonizing for her but Chad and I decided it was for her best. Not because we needed her to keep up with school, or because we needed her physically fit... it was because we understand Grace better than she knew herself at the time. We believed in her more than she did at the time.

Grace is fiercely competitive. Her teachers tell me they've never met anyone like her. Her karate teacher pushes her because he know she loves a challenge, like the time she was the only kid to climb the rope to ring the bell at the top...while on chemo. She only rides the most terrifying rollercoasters. She was almost kicked out of private school in first grade for mocking the teacher. Her teacher was reviewing kindergarten that first week, so Grace rationalized she knew more than her teacher did so she shouldn't have to listen to her. The only way we could get her to eat her veggies as a toddler was to try to eat faster than her. She can't handle being second in anything. She's first at being competitive. 

And Chad and I knew that if she recovered from her bone marrow transplant and went back to school, she wouldn't be able to mentally handle having the worst grades in class because she missed second grade. We knew being in a wheelchair would be more frustrating for her than the pain she would have learning to walk again. Those things might break her. But we knew that as painful as it was, staying in school and exercising wouldn't. Again, only because she's Grace. I don't think I'd do it that way for another child, but we knew Grace and what she would want a year later.

And that's what I had decided about the bike ride. I want her to learn resiliency because I know life is full of sucker punches and I want my kids to get back up after they've gone down. Grace said I was unfair and pushing too hard, even though it was a 1 mile round-trip ride we make all the time. She said she hated me. But I was determined that this was an opportunity for her to learn how strong I believe she is, and to prove to herself that she is more resilient than she believed.  

We made it back home. 

Not long ago, I thought God was being unfair to put so much on my shoulders. Obviously Grace suffered physically more than I ever have, but my mental anguish was to my breaking point. The testing of my faith left me barren. My mental health became so broken that I'm still on antidepressants three years later. I still shudder to imagine having to endure a time like that again. I'm so afraid I won't be strong enough. And I often wonder if I'm strong enough to be an advocate for the SSFL cleanup.

I love Grace enough to have pushed her to what she believed her limits were. Because I know it's what she needs, I know she can handle it, and I know that looking back she would be thankful. And God loves me even more than I love Grace. He didn't cause Grace's cancer, but he used it. He saw an opportunity for me to grow past what I believed my limits to be. He knew it would be good for me. He knew I could handle it, though it was excruciating. He knew looking back that I would be thankful to not be the same person I was five years ago. 

And there's still a very alive sliver of my heart that is afraid of God for allowing me to hurt that badly. But everything he knew then, I am grateful for now, though some of my wounds are still raw and tender. 

Later this afternoon I reminded Grace about how I pushed her so hard to stay active during cancer. And she said thank you, which amazed me. And today, though she was furious with me, I know that pushing her past her comfort is what she needed. That healthy pain teachers her how to become a strong, mature, and resilient woman. 

And after we got home we ate popcorn and drank hot chocolate and I got to tell both kids how proud I was of them. And Grace was proud of herself. 

And I am thankful for that.

* Though we pushed Grace during her cancer treatment, it was still within her capacity. Her inpatient tutor mostly read stories to her, no intense learning and no homework. The tutor worked only with hospital kids and knew what a good limit was. Her painful time in physical therapy was under medical supervision and they knew how to challenge her without injuring her. I just want to point that out because I'm an A-type personality. I often think that I'm not working hard enough unless I come out injured. And that's not healthy either. And I found God doesn't want me to be injured. He wants me to be the fullest version of me possible, even if it's painful for a while, and he knows what my limits are as well...though they're much bigger than what I believed them to be. 

I was a robot addict.

When I was about to graduate from Celebrate Recovery, a 12 step program, I was supposed to draw on one side of a poster what I was before, and on the other, what I've become. 

People from the addiction-spectrum participate in CR together. There are those who struggle with "conventional addictions" like substance abuse, chemical abuse, sexual abuse, self-harm, eating disorders, etc. But Celebrate Recovery recognizes that our "hurts, habits and hangups" all come from the same brokenness. So it's also a place for people struggling with anger, codependency, manipulation, over eating... and there was me.

I didn't fit in any real category except I knew broken from Grace's cancer. Somehow I had still managed to heal and after 9 months, I was ready to graduate the program. But I still didn't know what "hangup" I was graduating from. 

I turns out I struggle with becoming a robot. And I've been struggling with it a lot lately. When I'm a robot I stop feeling and just make the motions. It can be so subtle that sometimes I don't even realize. I'm still functioning, in fact, I'm often functioning at 200%. On the outside. Inside I'm huddled in fetal position, lost in a cold, dark void.

This morning during prayer time (the first in a long time) I felt God point out that I was a robot...yet again.

• I'm really stressed out about the presidential election. 
• I'm incredibly concerned that Cal EPA hasn't done anything tangible to enforce the cleanup of the SSFL. 
• I'm stressed about finances. 
• I haven't been exercising enough. 
• I need to go back to the chiropractor but won't because of Covid.
• I'm worried that low-level radioactive waste could be deregulated and sent to regular dumps across the US. 
• I'm worried about some of my friends who are really struggling with depression. 
• I'm weary from the kids homeschooling. 
• My house is a mess. 
• I'm depressed from seeing holocaust images and learning more about it.
• Luke's birthday is coming up and I have no energy for it.
• Home repairs have been never ending. 
• Covid 19 restrictions have left me lonely and feeling helpless. 

So when I saw the potential to get lost in a work project, I threw myself in, not even bothering to see how deep the pit was. It's a documentary about the Santa Susana Field Lab and how several Nazi scientists quietly worked there after WW2. Instead of keeping the project to it's proposed 8 minutes, I've expanded it to 24 minutes. I've spent countless hours pouring over holocaust footage and images. I've allowed myself to work 8-12 hour days. I decided to shoot my own historical scenes. I decided it needed amazing graphics. I've been so immersed in it that I became a robot.

The advantages of being a robot is that I could blame my exhaustion on being tired from working instead of admitting that life is frightening me. It became an excuse to justify that I was too busy to play with the kids. Too busy to pray. Too busy to relax. Too busy to taste my food. Too busy to feel anything. 

God pointed out to me today that I'm concerned about many things, but I haven't picked what matters the most. I've lost myself inside the cold, metallic shell of overworking instead of allowing myself to be the bruised human that I am. 

Good thing God knows where I hide and knows how to draw me back out. And I think because of Celebrate Recovery I thaw much faster whenever I relapse into being a robot. It doesn't always feel good to thaw back into my human form. With support from my husband and family I can be honest about my struggles and they help me to venture out of my robotic armor. 

The day before I graduated CR I finally realized what to write on my poster. On one side I wrote, "robot." I was a robot addict to avoid the pain, confusion, and the limitations of being a broken human in a broken world. 

On the other side I wrote, "child of God." 

I am still bruised and sometimes bleeding. I am still confused, frightened, and frustrated about the problems in my life. But instead of trying to dull the pain in unhealthy ways, I am safe enough to feel when I know I'm held in my Father's arms. 

And feeling is hard. Feeling is painful. But it's human. And when I can accept myself as a human I won't get as much done, but I will be connected again with the people I love, the things I love, and able to be myself again.

Scars in his hands and feet

I've wondered why Jesus still had his scars after his resurrection. I would assume they'd either be bloody and raw, or so completely healed it looked like it never happened.

Lately I've felt safe with Jesus again. But not always with his Christians. In a Bible Study I'm part of (we meet on Zoom) there is a mom whose 21-year-old child also has cancer.

One of the ladies said, "I really believe that having a good attitude makes all the difference in cancer treatment," insinuating that having a positive outlook affects who lives and who dies from cancer. Phrases like that always cut my heart out. I'm instantly isolated, frightened, angry, and heartbroken. That's a lot of big emotions for a statement she said so easily.

Kinsley was ready to graduate from High School. She had been cancer-free for six years. She had everything ready to move away to college. She was funny, witty, sassy, and beautiful. When her cancer relapsed she developed sepsis. She fought it off. Was it because of her attitude? Maybe a small part. But when the sepsis returned two weeks later, it quickly consumed her. Kinsley wasn't the type to roll over and die, she already proved what a fighter she was the first time she beat cancer.

Cancer killed her because that's what cancer does.

Bailey was 18 months when she was diagnosed. I called her my sassy-pants-girl. She knew who she didn't like, what she didn't like, when she wanted it, and how. Bailey was also careful about whom she would befriend, especially at the hospital, but she and Grace were instant buddies. Probably because both of them loved Frozen, wore glittery skirts and huge headbands. Bailey died 11 months later.

She was a tough little girl. It wasn't her fault she died.

But "being positive" connotes that it was somehow her fault. That she just didn't want it bad enough, and that she could have controlled it if she tried hard enough.

I know people will say I'm really taking that phrase too seriously, but they probably never knew (not knew of, but actually had relationships with) seven children who later died of cancer. Maybe if they had, they'd at least be more hesitant to say a phrase like that.

Hazel was diagnosed at two-years-old with the same cancer Bailey had. Hazel beat her cancer and for two and a half years she lived as a "regular kid" with her two brothers and two sisters. She relapsed the day before she started first grade. When neuroblastoma kids relapse, there is no treatment plan. It's a throw-everything-you-have-at-it approach because that cancer has a very, very low survival rate. She went into remission again. It came back again. Hazel was talking with her family, sleepily making jokes and telling stories up to the moment she took her last breath. She was full of life, literally, until the minute she died.

Emily had brain cancer and beat it. She had a massive scar on her head from the tumor retraction. She relapsed the same time Hazel did. She died a week before Hazel did. Grace and I went to both her friends' funerals, even though Grace was so weak from her own treatment that she could barely walk and was so tired that we had to leave early.

Kinsley

Bailey

Hazel

Emily

JoJo

Eli

Tinka

I just don't know how someone could think it's ok to say something so hurtful. I know it's meant to be an encouragement. I know she meant well. I also know she's probably never had to think through what that common belief actually means.

And for me, 2.5 years after Grace's bone marrow transplant, my heart wounds are still there. Some are still bleeding. Some are healed. But even the healed ones still show ghastly scars. And I used to think that was wrong. That being "healed by Jesus" meant things would go right back to the way things were, or how they "should" have been.

Yet when Jesus rose from the grave, he had a 2.0 body. He could walk through walls. But he still had the scars from his crucifixion. And I think that was probably a choice. If he could bring the dead to life, he certainly could have removed his own scars. But he didn't. I don't know what that means yet, but I do know that if Jesus still bore his scars, maybe mine are ok too. Maybe I don't need to feel so ashamed of them.

One thing I do know, it's great to be positive. But being positive doesn't tame cancer. That raging, thieving, uncontrollable monster doesn't consider who deserves to live and who will die. It doesn't allow anyone to control it with positivity or thoughts- it can barely be controlled with toxic medicines.

Maybe as time goes on it'll hurt less to hear it. Until then, my scars are fragile and thin and can bleed at the slightest injury. And maybe that's ok. I want tobe like Jesus, and Jesus had scars.

That makes sense to me

As I'm trying to heal I realized I have a lot of spiritual condemnation for myself. I feel like a failure, or that God was disappointed in me for being so furious at him. I thought I needed to forgive God for letting Grace get cancer. Maybe I need him to forgive me for being so angry and refusing to accept his will. Though I know he understood me in it more than I did.

I don't think He was angry at me or felt like I was a moral failure. I see now that he accepted me as I was at that time. Maybe he didn't expect me to be anything else. I saw my anger as so big and strong, like lethal weapons that I was always shooting at him. But maybe I was more of an angry toddler, hurting and confused, throwing toys, who was still loved just as deeply by a much bigger, stronger and secure Father.

I think I wanted to hurt God so he would feel my pain. At least there is a touch of that in here somewhere. But he loved me, understood me. "Hmm. Yes. That makes sense to me. I might feel like that if that happened to me." And I guess that's a big part of why Jesus came to earth. So he could say that. He really could understand, that it really did make sense to him, because he was human.

I talked to a friend who has done EMDR therapy. She said that the closest way she could describe it, is that it changed your physiological reaction to traumatic memories. The panic and terror are gone. She said that she still remembers the memories, but her memory of them has altered so that she now remembers herself at that moment as being resilient, brave, and capable of change, instead of just as a helpless victim.

Even though psychologists are offering EMDR therapy online, I feel like it'd be hard to do for the first time that way. But I was able to revisit the root of a lot of my pain yesterday. I didn't see myself as resilient or determined then. I felt like I was the victim of cosmic injustice. I felt angry, robbed, frightened. And I felt like Jesus was disappointed in my less than spiritually-wise attitude.

But I think from now on when I think of that memory I'll hear the words of Teri in the mouth of Jesus. "Hmm. Yes. That makes sense to me. I might feel like that too if that happened to me." It's a compassionate Jesus. One who understands how frail and human I am, even if I don't. He accepts me and loves me as I am, not as I "should" be.

And I want to change my perception of myself in those memories. I was broken. I was scared. I was angry. I couldn't say to God, your will be done. But I refused to curse him. I didn't leave him. I still sought him. I reached out to my community and admitted when I needed help. I did my very best to be a good mom to my kids, though it still hurts that I couldn't do it all. I think that's another condemnation I need to heal from. I couldn't do it all.

"Hmm. Yes. I think I'd be frustrated by not being able to be in two places at once, even though I loved both of my kids. I might feel angry at myself for not being able to do that. But it's not fair to yourself to judge yourself for not being omnipresent. Only God can do that. You did the best with what you had as a human. You put in 200% whenever you were with either of your children. I can understand how would be painful it would feel to not be able to give them everything they needed. But if I were you, I might also feel proud of myself for putting them first and for loving them with every exhausted ounce of energy I had. And I would forgive myself for not being God. Yes, I think I would feel that way."

That's both Teri and Jesus saying that to me. And it's also me, saying it to my broken self.

Ready?

Thank God I went to see Teri Reisser again. There's a lot to be said for saying something out loud, especially when there's an empathetic listener.

I finally admitted out loud that I didn't want to heal from the emotional scars of Grace's cancer. I wanted to be able to hate every bit of her cancer and show it no mercy by keeping myself under the crushing weight of hatred and pain. I thought I was appropriately punishing it. And somehow, appropriately punishing myself for the deep-rooted belief that somehow, maybe, I did something wrong.

But I'm stuck. And I'm tired of being stuck. every time I start to thaw and every time I start to feel near to God, that hatred and anger for her cancer hits me like a bus and sends me crashing back to the moment when Grace was diagnosed for the second time. It's always there. Because at that moment I felt totally abandoned by God. That is the moment that holds all of the pain.

If I look at the photo of Luke smiling on "bug day" from preschool, my heart aches because it was one of the few events I was able to attend. I am heartbroken looking at it, since he was smiling so big because I was finally, actually there for him. And at the root of that moment of pain, I feel totally abandoned by God, immediately back in the first moment of her diagnosis.

Teri has recommended EMDR therapy for me. To help deal with the pain of the first moment that is so deeply entangled in all my memories from the last two and a half years.  That's when I realized I didn't want to let go of that pain. It's also when I realized I have to if I'm ever to heal. I have to heal. I'm on a trajectory of bitterness and regret and anger. That would be a horrible life, especially as Grace is cancer-free.

Maybe its because I'm secretly afraid that if I let my guard down, and admit to healing and happiness, that it will curse life and bring her cancer back. Or even if not, if her cancer ever came back, that all my defenses would be gone and I'd be too vulnerable to the pain.

But I'm so angry. And that's so tiring.

When my best friend's boyfriend died suddenly from a heart attack, the first thing Chad and I did was get on our knees and worship God. Because we didn't want to go into the grief and pain without the Holy Spirit leading us. Similar to the Old Testament when the worshipers went before the armies in war, making the battle God's, molding their will to his. When Grace first had cancer, it was similar. We felt God's presence so tangibly, and that may have been because we accepted that whatever happened, we wanted God's will instead of our own. We were determined to worship and obey him no matter where he lead us. There was so much peace in that.

That didn't happen when she relapsed. We were in escrow on a home in Indiana, trying to escape cancer. I had family there. It was close to a great children's hospital. The schools were stellar. The house was brand new, on a culdesac designed for family living. We'd be paying off all our debt from the sale of our house in California, and have money left over after the purchase of the new one in Indiana.

We had been playing in the pool together the night before and life was starting to feel safe again. Her oncologist had told us just three weeks before that Grace was unlikely to relapse and to "go live our lives." Grace's hair had grown back, she was back in school. Luke's phobias had healed and he was feeling secure again. I was leaving the SSFL behind, which was good according to many concerned family members who felt it was too emotionally damaging for me. Chad was going to change careers and trying living out his dreams. I was going to become a writer. Everything was lined up for our happily ever after.

And she hadn't had any signs of relapse until the day it was obvious. No bruises. No petechiae. No lack of energy or appetite. After the pool she cried because her arm hurt, we figured she somehow hurt herself in the pool. By the morning it was apparent to Chad and I. She was in pain like she had broken her arm, and that type of pain is often a sign that leukemia in her bones was swelling and putting so much pressure on the inside of her bones that they felt like they would burst. And that's exactly what it was. I think the nurses and doctors knew, just like Chad and I did, the moment we walked in.

The first thing they did was give her a shot of morphine. Not oral Tylenol. Because they already knew what they were dealing with before her bloodwork came back. Still, we were all praying we were wrong, though no words were spoken.

I went to get the kids some food from the cafeteria while a child life specialists watched cartoons with the kids. Coming back to the infusion center I was intercepted by a nurse. His eyes were so sorrowful. He was so sad for us. I knew then the bloodwork showed cancer. He brought me to the procedure room so I'd be away from the kids when they told me.

When the doctor walked in, it must have already been on my face. You know already, don't you? she said. After holding me while I cried, she told me to wash my face, dry my tears, and put on a brave face for the kids.

It was a brave face. I already knew that if she ever relapsed she would immediately need a bone marrow transplant. I already knew that her survival statistics would plummet. I knew a lot of kids with her type of PH+ Leukemia didn't always make it.

And so I did not start her relapse with worship. I didn't start with wanting God's will to be done. I was so angry. So hurt. I called Chad so he could be there when we told Grace and Luke. I called the realtor and canceled the sale from the hallway. I called the grandparents and heard their grief.

I was so frightened for Grace. I grieved for Luke. I let go of my hopes for our happy ever after. I was so angry. So angry that God let this happen. Such an opposite attitude from her first cancer.

And so I wonder now, what would have happened if we had started on our knees like the first time, determined to follow God's will. It wouldn't have changed Grace's treatment, just like it didn't miraculously heal her the first time. But maybe I wouldn't be in so much pain now. Maybe I wouldn't have felt so abandoned. Maybe I was the one who abandoned God, not the other way around. I didn't want his will. I didn't want his presence. I didn't want cancer. I didn't want Grace to die.

Maybe it was because I had no time to grieve. She was hospitalized that day and the two of us lived there for five weeks straight. Even now, over two years later, the memory is terrible. It goes to the root of who I am. And even now, I don't really have time to grieve. I have to go make breakfast for the kids. Life has to continue, just like then.

But at least now I want God's will, no matter where he leads. Clearly, life without him didn't work so well, I almost destroyed myself with my anger. I was losing who I am. And it's still so scary to trust him, even to trust him to heal.

But heal I must. I don't want to waste life in anger. Or debilitating pain. And I pray that as I open myself to that opportunity, and to accept God's will, that I will feel his comforting presence through such a frightening time in my life as I reexamine that time.

And if Teri were here, I know she'd say, "Hmmm. Yes, I could see why you would feel that way. That makes sense to me. I might feel the same if I had all that happen." She's always such a merciful listener.

And maybe Jesus would say the same too.

Also

In Celebrate Recovery, one of the hardest of the 12 steps is the dreaded step 4...inventory. It's an opportunity to list out every harm you've caused and every harm done to you. It's an incredibly painful step but thankfully my sponsor helped me through it. Several times she helped me see that my beliefs about certain events were based on a child's reasoning, but I was carrying the guilt and pain into adulthood. Whenever she pointed these out it was an immediate relief, because children's understandings are 90% emotions and fears and are often interlaced with superstitious equations, not logic.

But if she hadn't been there to give her objective opinion I wouldn't have questioned what already seemed settled.

At church last Sunday we talked about surrendering to God's will for our lives. That's been a really hard topic for me. When Grace last had cancer I surrendered and did my best to trust and obey God. (And as I write this, the feelings in the pit in my stomach is sprouting into a choking weed). The thought of being willing to surrender to God's will feels like Grace would get cancer again. I know it doesn't make sense, but sometimes logic made under duress is a lot like the reasoning of a child. And the thought of Grace relapsing again is so frightening that I won't allow myself to think about it.

But God took the role of my sponsor last Sunday.

He gently reminded me that I hadn't surrendered to Grace having cancer. I had surrendered to God in the things that coincided with Grace's cancer- to try to trust him.

Grace's cancer was never in my realm of control, though realizing I have no real control in my life is also frightening. And that might have been an unconscious reason I allowed myself to think I had let Grace get cancer by obeying God- because then somehow I could prevent it in the future. It seems so childish on paper, but it's been a daily influence in my walk with God lately. The fear that somehow my willingness to obey Him in the hard things could open the door to another relapse.

He also gave me a prophetic word, "Also."

I've been angry again that Grace's cancer is one of the main reasons that the SSFL is getting cleaned up. I would have never become the woman who could be brave, people wouldn't have listened without my personal experience with Grace's cancer, and it was the medium which revealed the problem in the first place. I hate Grace's cancer so passionately that sometimes I resent the work God has me doing to help fix the problem.

I've been so angry at God for letting Grace get cancer. I know it was because of the decisions made by greedy people, but I also believe He is a miracle giving God and I know he could have stopped her cancer with one word, especially when it existed as 1 or 2 cells. And he chose not to. I know it's not the same as giving her cancer, but in his sovereignty, I believe he allowed it.

And I've been so mad again. The PTSD rips open the wounds every single time I think I'm getting better, and every single time I'm back at the beginning again. I feel like it's the day Grace relapsed and I have to decide if I will continue to follow God, or if I will reject him. It's been so emotionally exhausting.

And I've also watched the good God is bringing out of her cancer. I feel so conflicted that some days I think I'll implode.

But "Also" is an important word for me, a word I need to hold onto as if it were life support.

• God allowed Grace to get cancer. Also, He is using her cancer to protect others.
• My faith in God was completely devastated. Also, I continue to trust him.
• I am broken. Also, I am healing.
• I hate Grace's cancer so much I want to burn the world down. Also, I am grateful for the good things God has allowed to come from it.

Again, it seems so simple on paper, but it's been a nightmare living in my brain lately. My faith (and emotions) have been ricocheting from one extreme to the other until I think I'll lose my mind. It's been exhausting. 

But there's calm in Also. It's a place of rest where my extremes can coexist.  It's where I don't have to make sense. 

And that seems to be where God keeps leading me back to, the place where I find him waiting for me, the place where he understands me when I don't understand anything.