But that wasn’t to be the last of the unexpected. Only a few months later, as Dad neared the end of his chemo treatments and we believed he had his cancer licked, a thick, painful lesion on the same left side of my tongue demanded a second look. I did my best to heal it, to get it to go away. But in the end my efforts didn’t matter. I found myself again on the examination table in the familiar patient room as Dr. Forrester performed yet another biopsy. Five days later, during which I once again hovered in limbo, the phone rang.
Yes, the cancer came back. More serious this time, requiring a six-hour surgery, tissue graft, neck dissection, and lymph node removal. Even so, even with all the pain, terrifying oncology conversations, and long, agonizing weeks of recovery, fear didn’t overwhelm. Instead, a sweet, palpable peace.
Call it a move of divine orchestration, but this second diagnosis showed up the same week I worked on edits for this book. Hours before the phone rang, I read through the pages of this story, remembering with awe God’s nearness in that season of horrific darkness. Then, in the moments after I hung up the phone and faced full the enormity of this new challenge, he eased my tears with the same inexhaustible truths I’d lived years before.
Looking back on those wearying weeks, I’m relieved God saw fit to blanket me with an extra measure of peace. Although I had no way of knowing it at the time, I’d need it more than ever before in the weeks to follow. A far greater storm was yet to come.
Six short weeks after my surgery, while I was yet consumed with my physical and emotional recovery, my sweet daddy likewise received an unwanted phone call. The cancer we’d all believed he’d soundly beaten returned. Only this time it was inoperable. All those radiation treatments, chemo appointments, and healing prayers to no avail. One to two years, the doctor said. If we were lucky. Regardless, the prognosis was plain: terminal.
My dad — our Papa — called me the day he found out. I’ll never forget the heaviness in his voice, the weight of sadness as he spoke words he knew would break my heart. But more than our shared emotion, I’ll never forget the conversation that followed. You see, we needed each other that day in a way few can understand. Father and daughter, two undone Jesus-lovers fighting cancer together. Holding onto each other and our faith with both hands. Cheering each other on, praying each other through. Considering the horrific circumstances, you’d think our phone time would’ve been spent commiserating. Certainly we had every reason to be despondent, angry even. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end! This wasn’t what we’d prayed for! Of course, my time of wrestling and anger would come, later. But for that day, with a father on one end of the phone and a daughter on the other, we simply cried together and took inventory of our blessed and beautiful lives. Our joint cancer diagnoses wasn’t a nasty string of bad luck. It was a tender provision.
“Even if I don’t live another day, I’ve had such a good life,” he told me. “I’m so blessed!” His voice carried certainty. Peace. And calm, even as he cried. He trusted the God who’d always loved him. And in hearing his words, I found new courage to do the same.
Three months after that phone call, far less time than any of us imagined, my sweet daddy flew home to his Jesus. To this day, I have no answers to my question of why God didn’t intervene. I don’t understand why he didn’t step in and protect us from yet one more loss. It makes no sense to my limited perception, and my heart still aches from the pain of it. Even so, even as this daughter who misses her daddy cries rivers of tears, I hear another Father drawing me back to the love that will not fail, even when the world turns upside-down:
Nothing will be able to separate you from me, Michele. Nothing!
It’s seems too easy, doesn’t it? To claim to find this kind of anchor in the face of unbelievable tumult? On the contrary, it isn’t easy at all. Making peace with the unexpected life isn’t some trite, Christian cliche. It isn’t a beautiful string of words that looks nice and shiny hanging around my neck. The kind of peace that weathers a furious squall by sleeping in the boat is both hard earned and God delivered. One story — and serving of manna — at a time. And by the mercy and grace of the one who walked me through all the storms leading up to this one, I can finally say, even as the rain soaks my face, “I am convinced.”43 He will not let me go.
As for all the other undone places, the list is far too long. In the past several weeks, we’ve had broken bones, car accidents, busted pipes, and all other manner of parenting and marital challenges. It’s the way this crazy life rolls. Part of the deal when you exit the birth canal and give that first lusty cry.
It’s an undone life. But I don’t have to be undone by it. Stressed? Yes, quite often. Exhausted? You bet. Do I cry, rant, and sometimes act like a toddler on a sugar high four hours past bedtime? Yes, yes, and yes.
I am an impossible, stubborn, gloriously imperfect woman. From my bad hair-color job to the piles of unlaundered clothes. From my list of missed appointments to the kids’ impressive collection of tardy slips. From my marriage in progress to the children who still think it’s okay to use their arm as a napkin. From my desperate closet prayers to the long days of doubt.
I’m undone. Hungry, questioning, searching, struggling. Not even close to polished and pristine.
But I’m breathing. And believing. And loving this crazy, unexpected, and imperfect life.
Several months ago, while at my parents’ house, we took the littles to California. They’d never seen the ocean before, didn’t understand the vastness of the water or the power of the waves.
When we arrived, the girls squealed in delight and ran down the sand of Huntington Beach. Unafraid, they jumped into the waves, then screamed and exited with surprise at the cold. Even so, their faces filled with mirth. For the next hour they giggled and played in both sand and surf.
Jack approached the ocean with more caution, holding a grown-up hand and keeping quiet. He could see the intensity of the water, felt the strength of the tide as wave after wave crested his feet and then threatened to pull him back out into its depths. For the longest time, he simply stood there, watching rather than playing. I could see the conflict within, his desire to play warring with his fear of danger.
His was a valid battle, because the ocean is dangerous. It can’t be managed or controlled. And sometimes, even though you ache for it to be otherwise, it takes a person under.
But the ocean is also a place of adventure and thrill, of deep belly laughter and memories you’ll never forget.
But only for those who dare to dive in.
This is the choice you and I face each day, as we wrestle with forgiveness and cancer, complicated relationships and unknown outcomes. Retreat or dive? Watch or live?
To stay on the beach is to miss out on the ocean. It’s safer there, on your beach chair far from the unpredictability of the water. But it isn’t really living. Instead, dare to lean in. Allow the water to drench and cover and clean. Experience it, savor it, enjoy it.
Why? Because this is where your story and mine are written, right here with so much at stake and even more possible. And with an incredible Author pulling it all together for the perfect end. Ours is a God who heals all things sick. Who redeems all things lost. Who brings orphans together in unusual families. And who weaves all frail and broken things into a glorious overall whole. A story. His story.
And the best news of all?
When we reach the final page, regardless of what happens between now and then, hope wins.
So go ahead. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Dive.
Acknowledgments
THERE’S A STORY I TELL OF MY SON’S FIRST CROSS-COUNTRY RACE.
Only thirteen at the time, Jacob didn’t yet understand the agony of a runner’s journey. He simply wanted the thrill of the finish. Thus, when the day of that first race came, I planted myself deep in the middle of the course and readied myself to cheer like only a half-crazy mama can.
For years now, I’ve been running a to
ugh race. Looking back, I see clearly the faces of those who lined my course, cheering when both courage and strength waned. This book made it to the finish as a result of these people, as much as any effort of my own.
To Carolyn McCready, this really must begin with you. Two years ago, over delicious hors d’oeuvres and a delightful cabernet, your eyes shone when I shared my story. With grace, you challenged me to find the metaphor, to dig deep and uncover the golden thread. Turns out you gave excellent advice. Thank you for your belief, prayers, and always-keen insight. But thank you, especially, for those shining eyes.
To Brian Phipps, Londa Alderink, and the rest of the Zondervan team: I’m not sure how I ended up with such stellar colaborers, but I’m thrilled. The months between signing contract and seeing book on shelf came with a second diagnosis, surgery, and unknowns none of us could’ve anticipated. You handled the unexpected with grace and efficiency, and always made it about both my healing and the Healer. Thank you for that.
To Brian Scheer and Joy Groblebe of the Frontline Group, my two-person army: Only you (and Troy) know how many times I nearly walked away. Like Moses’ Aaron and Hur, you kept me in the battle when I didn’t have the strength to fight. You may be my managers, but you are foremost my dear friends.
To my agent, Andrew Wolgemuth: The first time we met over crepes, I could see your love for Jesus as clearly as your warm smile. You’re a fine agent, and I’m honored to partner with you. But more than your expertise, I love that we share our First Love.
To Ken and Diane Davis: I had no idea how much my life would change the day I met you and the Dynamic Communicators International team. I thought I was signing up for a part-time job. How grossly I underestimated what our God would do! Your influence on my heart and family runs deep. Thank you for loving me enough to push me forward.
Michael Hyatt: You and Gail are far more than my coworkers. For all the countless ways, both seen and unseen, that you have advocated for this project, prayed for our family, and cheered me on, I am in your debt. I’m so glad we’re friends.
To Robbie Iobst, Melissa Caddell, Danica Favorite-MacDonald, Kay Day, Loretta Oakes, and Amy Thedinga, my longtime writing friends who courageously read through page after disastrous page of early copy: Lord have mercy, “longsuffering” doesn’t cover it. Somehow you saw the gold through the dross, in both the manuscript and me. You should be sainted.
To Greg and Becky Johnson and Lindsey O’Connor, fellow word lovers and friends: It’s impossible to overstate how much I esteem you, treasure you. Not only did you deliver countless meals and pep talks while I juggled surgery, recovery, motherhood, and writing, you believed in me and this book from the first word. Not once did you sway. I will never forget.
To those who slogged through the first draft, and the many friends and family who allowed me to share their stories: Marion Roach Smith (who edited the entire first copy, with brilliance), Rhonda, Don, Dana, Bev, Greg, Evan, Danny, Cassie, Mark, Erika, Damian, Alece. And to Kathi, Renee, and Crystal, who generously share their expertise, heart, and affirmation with a deep and divine sister-love.
To my parents, Loren and Deanna Trethewey: There is not room enough here to give you adequate thanks. But I will say this. You have given me two immeasurable gifts: (1) Belief that I could do anything. Anything. And (2) faith. Both made what you now hold possible. A princess couldn’t ask for more. I love you.
To Tyler, Ryan, and Jacob, the boys who filled the first pages of my mothering story with ample material (and then gave courageous permission for me to share it): How I love you! No one has made me cry harder or laugh more than you. You are God’s answer to the grade-school prayers of a girl who wanted nothing more than to be a mom, in all the glorious imperfections of it. I wouldn’t change a thing.
To my littles, Princess, Peanut, and Jack: Although grief and loss brought us together, it is the grace and love of God that make us a family. He will redeem all things lost, heal all things broken. It is my honor to be your second mama. How much do I love you? Yes, thaaaaat much! Will I ever stop? No, never. You will be “oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor” (Isa. 61:3).
Troy: Just typing your name tightens my throat. You, more than anyone, see my undoneness. I’m in-progress, unfinished, immature, and quite possibly undermedicated. And yet you see something in me worth fighting for, worth loving. I will never understand it, but I receive it. And I offer the gift right back to you. Oh, and one more thing. Remember that Mother’s Day laptop? Turns out you were right. I love to write.
Now. At the risk of sounding like a star receiving an Oscar, I have one last thank you.
Jesus, from the moment I met you I’ve been undone. You have pursued me, confused me, led me, wrecked me, and, above all, loved me. I have no idea what’s next, and sometimes the truth of that scares me. But this I do know: I am yours. And you will not let me go. “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. . . . Now show me your glory.” (Exod. 33:15, 18).
Notes
1. Exod. 16:4.
2. Stuart K. Hine and Carl G. Boberg, “How Great Thou Art” (Carol Stream, IL: Hope Publishing Company).
3. Luke 15:11 – 32.
4. Luke 15:22 – 24.
5. Sam Keen. To Love and Be Loved (New York: Bantam-Random House, 1999).
6. John 20:19.
7. John 20:20 – 21.
8. See Luke 2:14.
9. Placide Cappeau and Adolphe Adam, “O Holy Night,” 1847.
10. Isa. 9:6.
11. John 14:27.
12. 2 Cor. 4:16 – 18.
13. 2 Cor. 1:3 – 4.
14. 2 Cor. 12:7 – 8.
15. Luke 12:25.
16. 2 Cor. 12:9.
17. 2 Cor. 12:10.
18. Isa. 58:10.
19. Mark 8:34 – 36.
20. Heb. 11:1.
21. Luke 2:6 – 7.
22. Joseph Mohr and Franz Gruber, “Silent Night, Holy Night!” 1818.
23. John T. Cacioppo and William Patrick, Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection (New York: Norton, 2008), 52.
24. Isa. 49:15 – 16.
25. Isa. 61:1, 3.
26. Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York: North Point Press, 1980), 55.
27. Rabbi Evan Moffic, “How We Turn Anger into Holiness,” Beliefnet.com, October 2, 2013, http://blog.beliefnet.com/truthsyoucanuse/2013/09/how-to-turn-anger-into-holiness.html#ixzz2g7vTGU5d.
28. Luke 8:22.
29. Luke 8:24.
30. 2 Cor. 4:7 – 9, 18.
31. 2 Chron. 20:2 – 3.
32. 2 Chron. 20:12.
33. 2 Chron. 20:15.
34. Matt. 11:28 – 30.
35. 2 Chron. 20:17.
36. Timothy Keller, The Prodigal God: Recovering the Heart of the Christian Faith (New York: Penguin, 2008), 125.
37. Sarah Young, Jesus Calling: Enjoying Peace in His Presence (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2004), 178, June 19 entry.
38. Jude 24.
39. “What Can Separate You?” Babbie Mason/Donna Douglas © 1996 May Sun Music (Admin. by Word Music, LLC), Word Music, LLC, Did My Music. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
40. Rom. 8:35.
41. Corrie ten Boom with Jamie Buckingham, Tramp for the Lord (Washington, PA: CLC Publications, 2010), 145.
42. Luke 12:25.
43. Romans 8:37.
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