Date night. That’s the photo above. We went to a sports bar for a just-the-two-of-us dinner. On the way in, we played the game we always do. We tried to guess who we’d run into first. A client? Patient? Someone from church? Kids’ friends? Other?? Jason won. On the way out, we were met with the smell of rain and heavy clouds. And so we finished the night with camping chairs in the garage watching the rain and cars splash into the growing puddle in the street. The kids even joined us eventually. Talks. Laughs. Life.

I have sat down to write dozens of times. What do I say anymore?

You have asked, “How are you? How is Jason? … Really.” Sadness in your eyes. Unintentional frown on your face. Your voice pleading for a deep, heartfelt answer.

“We’re doing okay. Thanks so much for asking. We really appreciate you continuing to think of us.” All said with a veiled tone that can’t possibly capture the breadth and depth of what ‘doing okay’ can mean, yet I’m still genuinely sincere.

It isn’t the answer you want. I know that. There’s simply no good answer. It’s complicated is the truth.

It’s been 11 months since Jason’s brain tumor was found. Can you believe it?! If it were a baby, it could be taking its first steps by now. I bet some of you are surprised he’s still around. Obviously, we’re so glad he is!

On the opposite spectrum, after 11 months of prayer and treatments there’s also been no miraculous disappearance of the tumor either. A few millimeters smaller is the current progress, and another MRI in July will check it again. Plus, chemo sucks. A year of chemo sucks even more! His left leg is still ataxic, left hand still uncoordinated, vision will still double when he looks to the side, head still aches, chemo still makes him vomit if he’s late on his nausea meds, and he could sleep for 12 hours of the day – easily.

So, what do I say? Really, how am I? How are we?

Afterall, it should be the worst year of our life. Should we be angry? tired? bitter? sad? scared?

There’s certainly been all of that, but it’s also been an oddly good time for us, too. The equation for life must say that if the bad is extra-bad, then the good is extra-good. It’s a balance, I guess.

Cancer at 41 was an instantaneous priority check. Like cut-down-at-the-knees-and-let’s-just-see-if-you-will-get-back-up kind of priority check. Yes, people stare. Yes, it hurts. Yet, it has given us the advantage of knowing what it means to have strength in weakness, and it has revealed the truth about what REALLY matters. Cancer is big. Cancer is so big that it hasn’t left much room for selfishness, vanity, and greed. It’s a whole new beautiful ball game in a way that only young-cancer can bring.

Money is different. We’re content.

Time is different. We rest.

Health is different. We appreciate.

Work is different. We serve.

Sunsets are different. We enjoy.

God is different. We trust.

With all of the difficult things this year has brought, the reality is that it’s the honest truth when I say that “We’re doing… fine.” okay.” good.” better.”

Now don’t get too far ahead of yourself – I still wouldn’t wish this on any one. Cancer can, and will, rot in hell some day! But, when I tell you we’re doing okay, you can trust that we are (even if I had just cried my eyes out this morning).

“I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. … At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. … and then he told me,

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift.”

2 Corinthians 12:7-10 MSG