I’m writing this over Thanksgiving weekend. Since Xoe is home, that means I’m back at my desk in the kitchen, where it’s chillier than I’d like in the winter…but where I have a fabulous view out the window. The winter birds are now hopping around–always there, in reality, but so much more visible this time of year when others have migrated away and the trees are bare.

I see the blue jay, big and bold, flitting from one branch of the tree to the other. I see the cardinal, hopping from the roof of our old Jeep to a bush. Flashes of color in a world gone brown, frosted with white. I’m not, generally speaking, a fan of winter. But there’s such beauty in it–in glimpses, if not in a riot.

Chances are good that you’ve already seen my update on social media or in my newsletter, if you’re following my journey in real time. But I know some might have missed it and others only follow my blog, and still others are likely to find it later, when they come here searching for things as they put their foot to their own journey…so I’m writing it here too.

It was cancer. The tumor they cut out of my brain a few weeks ago–it was cancer and, not surprisingly, the same cancer I had before. HER2+ breast cancer, metastasized to the brain.

Now, this obviously isn’t the news we were praying for. But it was the news I was braced for. When the surgeon said that’s what it looked like to him, I kinda sighed and mentally said to myself, “Okay. He could still be wrong, but…okay. We’ll go from here.”

There must have been some confusion as to who would call me with this news, because no one did, in the 2.5 weeks between when the tissue went off to be tested and when I came back for more appointments and consultations. I know my family were chomping at the bit, but honestly…I was okay not having that news hanging over me when I went to Colorado to hang out with my Patrons & Peers girls and see the ballet production of Christmas at Sugar Plum Manor. (I’ll be telling you ALL about this soon!) We got back on Monday, November 24, and on Tuesday, November 25, we headed back up the road to Morgantown, for a CT scan, a Gamma Knife consultation, and a follow-up with my neurosurgeon.

When we sat down with the physician assistant in advance of the doctor coming in and she said, “So you know the pathology now” and we said, “Um, no, actually,” she looked genuinely shocked and taken aback. And quickly gave the news everyone had been dreading. “It was cancer, consistent with the HER2+ breast cancer you had last year.”

On the surface, this is bad news. Obviously we’d have preferred it be something benign. But amidst that bad, amidst that brown of winter, there are plenty of glimpses of color.

It was one tiny, isolated spot, now removed. Usually when they see metastasis in the brain, it’s a lot of spots, everywhere. Usually, it’s come through the lymph nodes and is elsewhere in the body. Usually, they Gamma Knife them away, yes, but also start talking about palliative care.

This isn’t the usual case.

Thanks to that routine MRI, we found it super early, and it was isolated. It’s not in the lymph nodes (which means it had to have traveled to the brain last year, when it was in the lymph nodes, and just wasn’t fully wiped out by chemo in 2024. It must have been one or a couple cancer cells that multiplied after treatment stopped). It’s, now, nowhere. 

The PA referred to it as oligometastasis, which means a very limited spread of the disease. It also means it’s treated very aggressively, with the goal of eradication. (This is not true of widespread metastatic disease, where the goal is prolonging life and keeping it in check but not elimination.) This is GOOD NEWS. As my oncologist put it on Wednesday, “There is so much to be thankful for here. Right now, we have no evidence of cancer in your body. That means it’s tricky, in a way–because we’re going to be trying to measure a disease that isn’t there. But that’s good!”

Right now, the plan is as follows. On December 11, I’ll go in for Gamma Knife radiation. This is a super-targeted dose of gamma radiation pinpointed to the spot where the tumor had been. The goal here is to take care of any tiny little cancer cells that didn’t come out with the tumor itself during surgery. The only side effects of this kind of treatment are some tiredness that day from the twilight sedation they use to keep me still, and maybe a headache from the frame they use for the same purpose. No biggie. I’ll be back up and operational next day, and it’s an in-and-out sort of thing, like other radiation treatments. Despite the word “knife” in there, there are no knives involved. 😉 That’s just used to indicate how precise it is. A radiation scalpel.

The following Wednesday, December 17, I’ll head back to the cancer center to start my blocker treatments. These are similar to what I had after surgery last year, aimed at specifically blocking the HER2-protein that feeds this cancer. They refer to it simply as in-Her2. (Way shorter than its technical name, LOL.) There are possible side effects, ranging from nausea/diarrhea to hair thinning to a rare lung disease, but I’m hopeful that since I responded so well to that previous treatment (with NO side effects at all), that it will be similar for me with these.

If this were widespread metastatic disease, these treatments would be forever. But when my oncologist came in last Wednesday, he said with a big smile on his face, “Oh, no! Not in your case, not necessarily. We’ll do it for a year or two and reevaluate. You might be able to stop. We don’t want to treat you forever for a disease you don’t still have.”

This is where the tricky part comes in–how do you measure what’s not there? And I am praying for that kind of tricky, LOL! That it won’t come back.

From a storytelling perspective, this makes perfect sense. That God made a way for us to catch it early, so that we could take care of it. So that I could have many more years with my family. So that I could have many years to write many more stories. So that I can have the opportunity to grow old with those I love.

Will my life be that story? I obviously don’t know. But I feel like that’s the way things will go. (I am keenly aware that feelings do not dictate reality, LOL, but that’s the bone-deep peace I have right now, anyway.) I will do what I can, medically speaking, to destroy and block this cancer. And I will walk forward, confident that there’s still a lot of life yet to live. I will sign book contracts. I will write others’ stories. I will savor each moment with my kids, my husband, my parents, my grandparents, my sister, my friends.

And I will thank God for that pituitary tumor that necessitated the MRI.

Which is funny, right? When I got the news about that tumor in 2022, I was dumbfounded. Terrified. Even knowing it was benign, I also knew how it was affecting me, and it knocked me for a loop. It felt…so…big. Everything felt so uncertain. I hated that tiny little microadinoma, hated what it had done to me, hated all the questions it made me ask.

Now? Now, I think about that tiny little growth on my pituitary gland and realize it may have saved my life. This tumor they just removed was asymptomatic–too small for me to see any effect from. They don’t do routine brain MRIs to check for cancer spread, not unless you have symptoms to call attention to something. The fact that I even had a brain MRI…the fact that I had it at that precise time, when the tumor was just big enough to be picked up, not big enough to cause symptoms…some would call that good luck, good fortune, an amazing coincidence. I call that the timing of a loving Father God.

Even so, I can grant that this has changed me…and I dare to hope and pray it’s changed me for the better. I’ve certainly noticed that tears are closer to the surface. Usually, I’m a cry-twice-a-year kind of girl. Now I’m swiping at my eyes every few days. And you know what? That’s okay. Because it means it’s easier to weep with those who are weeping. Easier to mourn with the mourning. Easier to appreciate each gift of a day.

On Thanksgiving last week, we went to my sister’s, along with everyone else in the extended family (or so it seemed, LOL). Her house was bursting at the seems. Some years, my dad asks everyone to say something they’re thankful for. This year, he joked that if he did that, we’d be standing there until it was time for dessert. But I had my gratitude there, in my heart and in my hands. And he said, “But while I have the floor, I’m going to say something.”

And he looked over at me, this man I’m so like. And his eyes were glassy, and mine went glassy too. I can’t see my dad cry and not cry with him, it’s just impossible. I’m weepy now just remembering it. I knew, obviously, he’d be saying something about the trials of the last six weeks and how God was getting us through them. I just didn’t know what, in particular, he would say. Know what he did?

“I’m so thankful for my daughter’s rock-solid faith. I’m so thankful that, all these things she’s gone through, and she not only hasn’t faltered for a moment, but she’s there inspiring so many other people.”

Cue me wiping at my eyes.

Next week, I’m going to be musing about these things we suffer and whether they’re God’s will. About my emotional reaction when people say this disease (any disease) isn’t from God, and that we need to claim healing. I don’t want to steal all I’ve already written for that one. 😉 But I will say this, here.

Cancer has given me a view of life I didn’t have before. Cancer has shown me how precious it is. Cancer has opened me up to depths I hadn’t known before. Cancer has drawn me not only closer to God but closer to you.

I guess technically, I’m officially in Stage 4 Cancer…without any cancer left in my body. It’s a funny thing. And in the back of my mind these last six weeks, I’ve wondered what I might write about this new perspective, maybe for a book someday. It wouldn’t just be about inspiration to get through your own sufferings.

It would be about the view of life from where I’m now standing. The View from the Stage, this Stage 4 I prayed so fervently to avoid. I’m not sure yet of the subtitle. Something about living boldly? That’s not quite right. Embracing life? That’s closer. Regardless, something about the lessons we learn from a place of suffering, whether it’s from chronic or terminal or acute illness.

I didn’t want to stand here–no one ever does. But so many of us end up on this stage, looking out over our lives, looking out at the crowds around us–some still healthy, some suffering too. We end up looking forward to what could be our end. Sometimes it’s closer than we thought, sometimes it’s still decades away. But we catch that glimpse of it. And it changes us.

It can make people frightened. It can make them bitter. It can make them tired, oh so tired. Sometimes we see the long path ahead and dread those long, aching steps.

Sometimes we see it, and instead decide to treasure each step we get to travel. Because the winter is always going to be brown and cold–that’s its definition. 

It doesn’t mean we have to focus on the color that’s missing. We can still focus on the color that’s there, flitting from branch to branch. Those flashes of red and blue as the birds dance about, unhindered by the cold. We can still cling to the beauty, treasuring it even more when it’s glimpses instead of a riot.

This isn’t my end. The road ahead of me is still stretching out for years, I believe that. But I’m also not going to relinquish the view I’ve found here on the stage. I’m going to treasure every moment of beauty. I’m going to listen for every birdsong. I’m going to let the tears come, and I’m going to smile through them.

And I’m going to remain, always, so, so thankful. Because I’m not standing here alone. I’m surrounded by those I love. I’m joined by others on their own journeys through suffering and trial and challenge. And most of all, I know that this stage isn’t an unmoored, floating thing. It’s in the Father’s hand. And that’s exactly where I want to be.

When the sun shines bright and warms me,
When the wind is gentle on my face,
When the world is awash in Your splendor…
I give You thanks, O Lord.

When thunder shakes my world,
When the waters rise and overwhelm me,
When the winds shake my foundations…
I give You thanks, my Savior.

When joy fills my heart each morning,
When my arms are filled with embraces,
When songs burst from my lips…
I give You thanks, my God.

When tears are always burning my eyes,
When my arms are empty and grieving,
When sobs wrack my frame…
I give You thanks, my Sustainer.

For when the sun shines bright,
I get a glimpse of Your face.

When the darkness rolls over me,
I know it’s Your hand, providing shelter.

When I see what You have given me,
I rejoice in Your kindness.

And when I feel the pang of lack,
I know it’s a new opportunity for You to surprise me.

Lord, I praise You.
That in my pain,
You have a purpose.
That in my heartache,
You’re writing a new song.
That in my weakness,
Your strength shines.
That in my joy,
Your Son is reflected.

No matter the circumstances,
Today and every day,
I will thank You.

Because though those things around me change,
You do not.

You are so, so good.
So, so able.
So, so faithful.

You are Love.
And I am blessed to be Your child.

A few weeks ago, as I was in that season of waiting to learn whether cancer had spread once again through my body, I had the simplest, most beautiful realization.

I’d been thinking a lot about how when rest in Him, we’re cradled in His hands. There’s such comfort in that, right? Such peace. Perhaps, if you’re a visual thinker, you imagine a parent cradling a newborn baby. Or perhaps even an artistic image of you as you are right now, full grown, cradled in an immense palm capable of supporting the whole earth.

Before, whenever I’ve considered the phrase “in His hand,” that image of rest is what I focused on. That the Lord’s palm is a place for respite. A place of refuge. I’ve also frequently thought of Him raising the other up around me to shield, to guard, to protect.

There is, I think, a deep spiritual truth to those metaphors. We do rest in Him. He is our shield, our protector, our salvation.

But as I shared my health updates and began answering the hundreds upon hundreds of emails and comments (each one a blessing—thank you!), as others opened up about their own struggles, I felt that stirring deep in my chest. The same one I noticed last year, when this same thing happened. I remember thinking, back in spring of 2024, that this was a blessing I’d never considered—that when I am open and vulnerable about my health struggles, it invites you to be open and vulnerable with me in turn about yours. And I then have the privilege of praying for and with you, of writing down your name. Of knowing I am not alone and getting to assure you that you are not alone either.

It didn’t take long for that same realization to wash over me this time, with the brain tumor looming. But as I was reflecting on all the unexpected blessings of those weeks of not-knowing, of waiting, of facing down fears once again, I was first thinking, “Thank you, Lord, for holding me in Your hand.” And then, when I considered this gift He’d given me of getting to reassure others of His love and provision, it hit me.

When we are in His hand, safe and secure, we are not just resting. Not JUST resting. We are working too, for His glory. We are being used. We are, as I’ve always prayed I would be, a tool in His hand.

In our modern lingo, being “a tool” isn’t usually a compliment, LOL. But let’s actually take a look at why we use it that  way (yes, I just went and looked up the etymology—I am me, after all. 😆)  By the 1660s, if one person was using another as a means to an end or for their own purpose, without care for that person, said person was called a tool of the other. So by 1700, calling someone “a tool” meant that they were useless or shiftless—which is to say, they had no self-directed purpose, so could only be used by others.

Not a great character trait in human terms, no. But it takes on whole new meaning, doesn’t it, when we consider the Master’s hands? Those hands created everything that has been created. Those hands fashioned our world. Those hands shaped mankind, preparing our form for the Breath of Life. Those hands were born into this world as a baby. Those hands hugged His mother, His earthly father. Those hands learned how to shape wood as humanity had to do it, how to lift and help and soothe.

Those hands lifted in blessing, and when the bread was broken, it multiplied instead of dividing. Those hands commissioned apostles who could go and do His work. Those hands touched the sick, and sickness fled. Those hands raised the dead. Those hands calmed the storm. Those hands accepted nails through them, so that He could offer us life eternal.

To be a tool in those hands is no insult. To be a tool in those hands is to receive the gift of co-creating with Him. 

When we are tools in His hand, He uses us to shape the world, to shape each other. He uses us to embrace those who need comfort. He uses us to build, to lift up, to soothe.

He uses us to multiply His love instead of divide. He uses us to spread His gospel and share His gift of salvation. He uses us to heal. Us to bring life. Us to calm the storms around us.

He uses us, in our suffering. He invites us to give it to Him, to join it to His. Because His suffering changed the world, friends, and keeps on changing it. So when we give ours to Him, when we put ourselves into His hands, when we say, “Take it. Take all of it. Take all of me,” we aren’t just saying, “Keep me and protect me and shelter me while I rest.” Not just that.

We’re also saying, “Use me, Father. Use me as a chisel, to chip away what doesn’t belong. Use me as a lathe, to smooth and soothe. Use me as a hammer, to drive home the Truth of your love and secure that truth in the hearts who need to hear it. Use me as a square to help others align with you. Use me…use me. Even now, when I ache, use me. Even now, when I am uncertain, use me. Even now, when all I want to do is fasten my eyes on you, use me to show others where to look too.”

I have seen others, shining His light in their darkest moments—I’m sure you have too. And I will never look at them the same again. Because now, whenever I see our own human weakness, I will see His strength anew. Now, whenever I hear human lips say, “I can’t,” I’ll think, “You don’t have to do. You just have to be. Be in His hand, and He will use you.”

Because ours is not a God of not-doing. He is not a God of laziness. His Creation is ongoing. His making is eternal. His love is an active, consuming, multiplying thing. By His nature, “I Am” is not just a statement of being but of action. He is the God of Abraham, who called him forth from among the nations. He is the God of Jacob, who led them out of slavery and into the Promise. He is Christ, the Son of God, who came to earth to save us.

And He always, always uses us in that plan. He always uses men and women to accomplish His will. We are His tools. And it is no insult.

It is the most amazing thing in the world. To know that, in His hands, we always have purpose. We can trust that even when we’re curled up in His palm, desperate for rest, we are not useless. He is still using us. Even when we can’t see how, we can trust that He is at work.

We can rest in Him…but He is never at rest. He is always moving. And, praise God for His goodness, He carries us with Him as He goes, as He works.

And perhaps, really, that is true rest—knowing that we can always have purpose in Him, even when all we can do is say, “Take me. Hold me. I am yours.”