Hallelujah

 It is still so hard to believe that this is our life. 

Today was probably the most normal-feeling day I've had since all of this began.  Getting ready to start school and having back to school in-services all feels so familiar and rhythmic.  And I'm taking great comfort in knowing that predictability is around the corner.  

But also... 

Having the knowledge that this diagnosis is happening in the background - forgetting in moments of life and then remembering about a hundred times a day makes the normal days feel almost harder than the abnormal ones.  

As I wrap up today - I've gone to work, been a mom, cooked dinner, cleaned the kitchen, made bathtime happen, had a shower and started to wind down.  This is my normal rhythm.  My normal way of moving about my days.  But the early evening in preparation for another normal day tomorrow has allowed me a little too much time to reflect.  Too much time to remember just how normal these everyday tasks used to be.  And to remember that they aren't anymore.

In these moments, I hear myself asking "Will anything ever feel normal again?  Will I ever just be able to relax into my day without a worry, fear, or sadness creeping in?"  I don't know.  I'm not far enough into this thing to really know the answer to that.  Right now, I'm just trying to remember to give it to God.  Every time I find myself sad or worried or fearful, I'm trying to remember to pray without ceasing.  I never really understood the full meaning of that command until now.  I literally have not stopped praying.

Today, tomorrow, and the next day will feel "normal."  But Thursday, we go for Casey's first infusion.  Whether it is standard chemo or the experimental drug, we don't yet know, but we will know by the end of the week.  And with that will come new things to be on the lookout for.  As much as I wish we could freezeframe time and put that day off forever, I also am finding strange comfort knowing there's a day coming when we will be back at the hospital, seeing the doctor, and talking about a plan.  Maybe it's because the action of a day like that keeps me too busy to think too much.  Those are days that feel so out of the realm of reality that I don't think about our life from before.  

Days with appointments allow me to float outside of myself watching my body take charge, ask questions, fill prescriptions, manage appointments - anything but think or feel.  And I'm not really one to avoid feeling.  I'm a feeler - it's who I am.  But I do find myself using the age-old coping mechanism of "keeping busy to avoid feeling."  So I sat down to write tonight because I know I can't avoid the feelings.  If I don't feel them now, they will just hide inside of me until they have no place to go but to bubble over in some unhealthy way.

And when I tune in, what I feel is overwhelming sadness, crippling fear, heavy worry, and absolute dread.  I question God, but in the same breath, I thank Him for never leaving our side.  I know He doesn't want us to feel this, and I'm begging Him to take it away.  I know that He can. And I'm thanking Him, through fearful tears, for whatever The Plan is that we just cannot yet see.  

Last week at church, the service centered around prayer and worship.  It was a powerful service - probably the most powerful I've ever experienced.  Casey and the boys went with me.  One of the songs that played, I've heard a million times - "Gratitude" by Brandon Lake.  As the voices in the church sanctuary sang "Come on my soul, don't you get shy on me. Lift up your song 'cause you've got a Lion inside of those lungs.  Come on and praise the Lord," an image filled my mind.  The image was of a lion inside of Casey's lung - roaring with something to say.  I believe those lyrics were meant for us to hear and know that what's in Casey's lung isn't there to silence him but, instead, to give volume to whatever it is that he is supposed to share.  Big volume.  Roaring volume for many to hear.  That song has become my anthem for him.  I play it every single morning.  Interestingly, Casey is a Leo - a Lion - coincidence?  I think not.    

This week, as Casey faces this next step of starting his infusions, please keep him in your thoughts.  If you have a moment, maybe play this anthem and visualize the great Lion inside of his lung roaring goodness into the world.  Maybe if we all imagine that, we can collectively become part of that great big roar that's growing inside of him.  I believe, with all my heart, that we have the power, through prayer, to transform that weak tumor into something far greater and stronger than anything that threatens the peace that God means us to have.  

I can feel all of your prayers.  They are so palpable, I feel like I can actually reach out a touch them.  The song really sums it up when it says, "all that I have is a Hallelujah."  I've been trying to find words for weeks now to express what I've only been able to describe as a physical feeling of gratitude for all of the overwhelming and humbling support.  I think now I have it, and it's simply, "Hallelujah."