Waiting…

The final days of 2025 have been a mix of sweet family time and also trying to make sense of the disaster that has become my home as a result of the fun that is Christmas as well as the chaos of survival mode from the last several months of chemo treatments. Life didn’t stop back there when I was trying to stay afloat so the last days of the year have me trying to pick up all the shrapnel from the cancer bomb that is our life. 

Mixed in there is some reflection and prayer over the year to come. I don’t want to miss the lessons the Lord is teaching me or the opportunity to prepare for what he’s planning to show me in the future.

We had Anthony’s follow up appointment this week. He’s finished 6 months of 2nd line chemo for stage 4 colon cancer. In case there was any confusion out there, chemo is no picnic. Anthony of course doesn’t complain but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. In fact, it’s utterly exhausting in a multitude of ways. The physical toll is enough to knock you down. The mental and emotional toll is enough to keep you there. The weariness is truly next level. We’ve traveled this wretched treatment road twice now with work and parenting and homeschooling and sports and basically all the things of life still mixed in. Words cannot begin to express the gratitude I have for the dear people who have carried us through with their prayers and thoughtfulness and gift cards for meals on the hardest of days. God’s kindness to us is tangible because of you. 

Anthony’s PETscan looks good which means the cancer shrunk in response to the chemo. He will have an MRI in the near future to determine if there is any remaining cancer spots on the liver to hit with targeted treatment. However, his Signatera (a highly accurate personalized blood test that detects circulating tumor DNA) is still positive. (We hope for negative) After his MRI he will likely start maintenance chemo, which is a much smaller dose of poison and for many people causes few side effects.

Basically, this just means we wait and see what the future holds. Which is what I feel like we’ve been doing since he was first diagnosed over 2 years ago. 

It’s annoying. I hate waiting. And I hate watching people I love suffer. I hate having to explain cancer updates to my children. I hate unknowns. And. I really, really hate cancer.

Goals for 2026? I desire to be more like that somewhat unattainable Proverbs 31 woman who dresses herself in strength and dignity and laughs at the days to come. (Laughs? At all the days to come? Or just some of the more promising ones?)

But I do continue to find there is a sacredness in the waiting. An expectancy of the heart that cannot be replicated in days with less tension. The eagerness for answers and completion creates a longing for something deeper and purposeful. The helplessness in waiting forces a renewed reliance on the One who really is in control.

There is also truth to that perseverance building character and hope thing. And even though perseverance involves too much, well… persevering for my preferences, it truly is a beautiful thing.

This Christmas I reflected much on the Simeon that Luke tells us about. He spent much of his life waiting, possibly years. Waiting expectantly for the Messiah, for the consolation of Isreal.

Is it ever coming, Lord? You told me I would not see death before he comes but truly, how long will this process be? 

His life, at least the part Luke tells about, was defined by waiting. 

Initially, I thought of his waiting as much different than mine. He was anticipating something perfect and redemptive and hopeful. Peace and goodwill for all men. I feel like often I’m just waiting for another cancer recurrence or for several years from now until we can hear the words “cancer free.” 

But this waiting has taught me that what I am actually waiting for, and always longing for, even when I don’t realize it, is a great and beautiful consolation. In the mundane yes, but more importantly in all that matters for eternity. 

Waiting is a gift which forces me to seek the things that are above. Where Christ is. Not the disappointing and painful things of this earth.

Maybe I don’t actually get to laugh about what is to come with cancer. But maybe the truth of this is that I look forward to the future with a lightness, knowing there is no need to fear. Dread cannot settle on a heart where hope is firmly planted.

The days to come may or may not have more cancer lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce again and wreak its destructive havoc. But they most certainly will have the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives, buffering what is hard and softening what is unwelcome and pointing us continually to what is unseen and eternal. 

I don’t know what our future holds. None of us do, even without a cancer diagnosis. But I do know in this world I will have trouble. 

But I take heart. He has overcome the world.