Update on our life: March 18, 2024
As many of you know, last August my husband Steve began a series of blood work and scans to discover why he was losing weight and coughing his head off. After his doctor told him three times during the appointment that she was worried about him, she sent him for a CT scan.
Shortly after that we got the news that Steve has a malignant mass in his lung and one in his back. It’s a rare, aggressive cancer called a pleomorphic sarcoma. The survival rate isn’t good.
For the next seven months it was unrelenting bad news: every blood test, every scan, every procedure produced not a glimmer of positivity. Chemo didn’t work, blood transfusions didn’t help, Steve got weaker before my eyes and became a man I didn’t recognize. It continues to this day.
The image that came to me was of the two of us holding hands in the warm waters of Kauai, and every test or scan took us into deeper water. Pretty soon we were in over our heads, and Steve couldn’t swim. I had to try to hold him up so he could breathe and be saved. Let me tell you, every week of going farther and farther out where you can’t touch is very daunting and scary.
As each long week has turned into another long week, Steve and I keep slogging through.. It’s been all endurance. The care and support from many of you have felt to me like you were literally lifting us out of the deep water so we could get a breath before the waves took us under again. Having so many, many people pray for us on a daily basis is an almost other-worldly experience - I feel surrounded at all times by warmth and light and love. And hope, which we desperately need.
About a month ago I shuffled into my kitchen in the early morning and sat at the table with my head in my hands. I spoke to god out loud saying, “you have to meet me, you have to meet me.” And then the most amazing thing happened: in my mind’s eye I got the clearest image of Jesus I’ve ever had. I swear I wasn’t hallucinating! He sat in the chair next to me with his hand on my shoulder. He was wearing a dark red cloak - one might say, as Taylor Swift does, ”so scarlet, it was maroon.” Jesus had dark brown wavy hair almost to his shoulders, a dark brown beard, a compassionate smile, and deep brown eyes. Those eyes and the knowing smile did all the communicating. It was clear as day what he was saying to me: “I know all your things, the good and the bad, and you’re my girl. Just as you are. You’re totally accepted and shamelessly loved by me. I’m here.” He communicated with only a glance and an understanding smile, and I felt like I could make it through. Here’s the crazy thing: I can see that image as sharply today as I did on the morning when Jesus showed up to meet me when I asked him to. I’ve been on the road to spiritual and emotional maturity for a very long time, and this is the first time in my life that I met Jesus like that. I embrace the mystery of it, because I can’t explain it with my rational mind.
If you wonder how that kitchen encounter changed me or my situation, I have a two-fold answer: my burdens weren’t lifted, I wasn’t levitating with hope for Steve’s recovery, I didn’t experience a surge of energy that I sorely need. But what DID happen was Jesus came to me in a wholly unexpected way with a message I couldn’t have made up in my head. Jesus knew what I truly needed at the core of my soul was that He loves me utterly and he will do whatever it takes to show up for me in ways that are specifically tailored just for me. What I learned is Jesus specializes in surprising us with himself, and he refuses to be confined to culture or systems or empires. Plus he found my house in San Luis Obispo and seated himself at my kitchen table to make sure I know that nothing about me or my life escapes his heart. I asked and he answered. So that’s where I’m at right now.
Steve finishes radiation on Monday, March 18, and his immunotherapy infusions continue every three weeks. We won’t know if the treatments are working for at least 2-3 months. We’re entering the deeper level of waiting, and we appreciate all of you who send love and prayers to keep us going and surround us with hope for healing.