thank you.

My Dad missed the Lutheran confirmation class he teaches to be with me last week. When he returned, his 8th graders all asked him why he missed. What could be so important? He explained what was happening. And that night, as the kids prepared to write in entries for their "prayer tin," they gathered as a group a few feet from my Dad. Two of them stepped to the tin. When the prayers were read, my cancer was one of them.

I tell the story simply because it doesn't need to be told any other way. You just need to know what I know.

Love is humbling. So humbling.

I've learned a lot of things already in this process. I've learned that the physical intensity of the cancer fight will expose every weakness of faith. I've learned that letting people minister to you is an important ministry to people. That chicken noodle soup is heinously disgusting when vomited, and that throwing up cherry popsicle will give you the momentary terror of wondering why there's blood in the toilet.

The most enduring, though, the most overwhelming thing I've learned, is the humility of receiving love. When people you barely know are offering incredible encouragement, when a group of 8th graders are using their entries into the prayer tin to show solidarity with the sickness of their leader...

It's just so humbling.

I can't be eloquent about this. My tears are my eloquence. My heart is my eloquence. Words aren't good enough for the truth of it.

Those kids don't know, probably couldn't understand right now, how close they are to the heart of Christ. They inspire me. I'm so proud of them, and so in awe of them simultaneously. I find myself just lapsing into prayer for them--offering them the only thing I really can. Oh Father, raise up these boys as your leaders, bless them wildly, and without reason. Put favor and grace on their lives such that they are never far from the wisdom they know now--that selfless prayer and thought is the power of grace in their lives that will bring them through to the full glory of Your Kingdom.

In the meantime, I'm accepting the love, and the grace of not only these 8th grade boys, but all of the people who have been so steadfast in their encouragement. You all humble my heart. You make me a better follower of Christ, by reminding me of the love and humility that is the heart of Christ.

My words fail me.

Thank you. Thank you.

mighty in me. and in you.

I'm up early, taking meds to get a jump start on any of the expected symptoms of my chemo--today is supposed to be the bad day. I decided yesterday that it would not be.

Anyway, as I'm awake, drinking an energy supplement, and a boatload of water, and downing pills, I'm taking the time to read and respond to some of the many wonderful Facebook messages people are leaving for me.

And I'm crying.

At first, I thought I was crying from fear, or sadness. "Oh, I have cancer," would come to mind, as you read. But in my heart, I realized--I'm crying because I'm so grateful to God for what He's providing. So many wonderful people, so wonderfully willing to reach out and to offer well-wishes, and prayers, and support. It's overwhelming, and humbling, and undeserved. (Say what you want--it's entirely undeserved.)

Let me give you an example. A couple of days ago, I received an incredibly encouraging email from a friend of my Dad's. I've known the guy since I was a child, but we've never been particularly close, so as I read the words of this near-stranger, I cried openly--they were so raw, and wonderful, and powerful. "[Jesus] is mightier in you, more than you know," closed the letter, and that simple encouragement, that powerful reminder that there are those around me who know Christ better than I do, who have lived longer with Him, who can tell me with assurance that Jesus is mighty in me! That He is so much mightier than I can now know! That is some stuff! I felt blessed. Encouraged. God is so good.

As a sidebar, my Dad later told me a story of how the night that his friend heard of my illness, his prayer group was slated to be canceled, but the guy called his friends, and said no--we have something to pray about. And so somewhere in the cold, snowiness of northern Wisconsin, a group of stranger set about praying for me, a nothing in Christ 700-something miles away.

That's so humbling.

So...part of this process is thankfulness, or what you might call extreme gratefulness. God is providing what I couldn't dare provide for myself. I can't rally people towards me, but God has done so quickly. I can't give them the right words to speak, but He must whisper to their hearts.

It is humbling, but also glorious, to need. I'm glad to be learning this now. So that I might give that much more powerfully.

His and His alone.

At times over the past three weeks, I've felt so awful, I've prayed that God would take me. Then, knowing that the worst is really yet to come, I feel even more resolved. "Father," I've prayed, "I cannot take my own life, but would You protect me from the treatments, the pain, the restlessness, the sleeplessness, the fear? Would You take me now, before it really starts?"

I'm alive. Apparently--there's purpose.

Whatever anything is, it ought to be honest. So I'm giving you the real deal.

About three weeks ago, I found out that at 26, and with no risk factors, I have a cancer that gives me a 50-60% chance of life at the 5-year mark.

Immediately, I knew that I wanted to live this thing for God. Right at this moment, I know that strongly. But in between--I've lived a decade in only days.

I've been angry at God, doubled over in tears in the shower, shouting silently at Him about pain and promises. I've been ecstatic with Him, thanking Him over and again for the opportunity to praise Him in that same pain. I've fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, too nauseous to get to bed. I've cried openly as the nurse tries to find a vein, struggling to tell her that I just found out, I'm just so scared. I've learned that each person I know deals differently, and because each is so precious to me, it's worth it to figure out how to deal together.

I've been hopeless. And today, hope-filled. I've been humbled by the sheer number and force of the prayers storming heaven on my behalf. I've known, somewhere, that this is a powerful testimony if only I can keep faith. And I've felt, just as gently, that He'll keep my faith, as He keeps everything, so that in the end the final testimony is His and His alone.

It's easy to imagine that you love God when the first call comes. The oncologist says, "You have cancer," and you say, "God will give me peace." And then, you're violently throwing up a saltine cracker and a couple sips of ginger ale, thinking, "Jesus, some peace would be great right about nooowwww."

The truth is that if I praise Him, I do it because He rallies within me, and if I show strength, it's really His you're seeing, and if I seem at all courageous, Jesus is working a miracle. But I'll tell you something--if that's what this life of faith is about, if that's the secret to the incredible joy I see in the lives of life-long Christians, if that's what causes them to go out and give extravagantly, and live dangerously, and love courageously--this cancer is worth it.