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Posts tagged ‘remission’


Advent is the beginning of the end – the end of all we so long to see end and all we long to see begin – Jon Bloom

You are working in our waiting – Aaron Keyes

Lots of life is minding the middle place – Ashley Abercrombie


If you heard irrational screaming within five miles of our home about a month ago, let me reassure you:

No one died.

We were just watching the end of Season 3 of Anne with an E.

It took us all by surprise, and yet, of course – not at all. The books are nearly a hundred years old now, and its clear from the beginning of both book and Netflix series which particular story arc would be somehow resolved.

Here’s a hint: Anne’s last name does not stay Shirley.

The screaming was from our oldest. She’s always had a soft spot for boys – fictional or real – who themselves have soft spots for feisty, smart girls that the rest of the world doesn’t understand.

But while she was happy with the ending of Anne with an E, she was less-than-thrilled the next day to find out it was the



The show claimed they’d written all they could with the material, and of course, all three Meredith girls vehemently debated that point,

because there are eight books, people.


And yes, at least three of those books are about the next generation;

book seven is mostly about the adventures of the many Blythe children

(oops, spoilers! – except you’ve had about a hundred years advance notice with which to figure that out)

spend the majority of their time

with the family next door.

Who are…

Wait for it…

The Merediths.


Go check it out.




Hence our personal attachment to the storyline.

In those eight books, it takes Gilbert over ten years and two proposals to win Anne over as an intellectual rival, friend, co-teacher, and eventual wife,

so to resolve that relational storyline by the time Anne turned sixteen in Anne with an E,

the series had to depart from the book’s canon fairly dramatically.

And while some might object that Lucy Maud Montgomery dragged the tension on for too long,

there are obvious internal reasons for the delay,

mostly around the psychological trauma of Anne’s orphan and foster-kid experience,

as well as the gentle benefits of waiting;

over the course of many pages we meet many an entertaining character

and learn,



So, while Anne with an E was an entertaining ride – particularly this last season – the takeaway for our story-writing teenager was a deep and passionate resolve that

They resolved that too soon, Mom.


A few months ago I was purging my closet and found a journal from the spring of 1998.

At the time, angsty melodramatic teenage WB shows were allllll the rage, and not only with me and my handful of super-emotional teenage girl friends:

Even some of the guys I played (correction: more like hung-out-with-while-they-played) Nintendo 64’s 007 watched Dawson’s Creek.


Can you even?

But as I glanced through that journal, the thing that stood out to me was that

tension didn’t bother me so much back then.

Somehow the gap between the things-I-wished-for-but-didn’t-see

felt fuller,

deeper, and

more satisfying

as an 18 year old.

It might have been because I was living it more acutely.

The things I wanted resolved in my life back then –

a job,








a home –

weren’t going to resolve any time soon,

Because they couldn’t.

And while us adults are quick to point out the gaps in teenage brain development, logic,

and ability to be rational,

(because those gaps are very, very real)

sometimes we forget

the particular wisdom they also possess,

because they are living between two worlds

and we are more firmly encamped in just one.

I’m seeing that through a microscope now,

as the plaque of my heart gets dug up

by each of the hills and valleys my kids walk through.

As my oldest said last week,

I know everyone keeps saying that I’m only fourteen, but this is the oldest I’ve ever been and you’re telling me I’m only half way to beginning to understand the world?

The waiting is exhausting.

She’s right.

The waiting is exhausting –

But it makes us who we are.

Several years ago when life went sideways,

we sought out advice from someone who’s known us since we first started dating.

And for awhile he didn’t say anything in response to our painful story.


Well, one thing is clear. You guys are resolvers.

What does that even mean? I laughed in response.

Well, in conflict, there are avoiders and there are resolvers. You guys are resolvers. You are driven to fix it. Get it over with. Resolve.

There were another few moments of silence, and then:

That’s a really great trait to have.

It doesn’t feel like it, I told him.

I remember telling Noelle what he’d said when we got home, and in her other-worldly sense of wisdom, she just paused, lifted an eyebrow, and said,

You’re a story-teller, Mom. You don’t like leaving things unresolved.

Even in the stories you’re writing, you hate ratcheting up the tension on your characters. You know it will hurt them. I find that hard too.

– So what do I do? I asked, unsure of where she was going.

Well, it’s like we’re living at

the one and a half hour mark

of a movie,

and its taking more

than a few scenes to resolve,

and that’s scary.

She was right, of course.

– It will resolve one day, Mom. You know that, don’t you?

Either the situation will improve

or you won’t care about it as much,

or … both.

A few years later, the situation hasn’t improved so much,

But there is a peace that pervades our home

that I didn’t see coming.

It’s like we’ve learned how to be okay in the tension.

Last week I caught up with someone who has known me since, well, forever.

It’s awkwardly awesome to have those kinds of people in our lives.

The benefit is that they’ve known you forever

and not gone anywhere.

The downside is that they’ve known you forever,

so there’s not much you can hide.

And I’m not sure if you can have a relationship like that without a struggle or two.

But, as the conversation went to a deeper place than usual, and I was invited in to something difficult and painful,

I was surprised at the fierceness of protection I felt for this person.

It was a compassion that wouldn’t have been possible without pain.

Some of the pain was on their side, and some on mine.

Some of it came long ago, and some more recently.

All of it kept doing its work:

edging off the parts of our


minds, and


that were getting in the way

of who we are supposed to be.

And it made me realize that,

while we long for the right circumstances

the Disney endings –

let’s face it;

in the face of right circumstances,

most of us become the worst version of ourselves.

The uncomfortable reality

is that the thing we eagerly avoid,


minimize, or

frantically try to resolve,

(that’s my old go-to)

might actually be our best friend:



I saw this recently in a sensitive situation with someone who really matters to me.

The circumstances were awkward and the stakes were high.

And the thing about tension is,

if it gets to be too much,

we can snap.

For a few days, I contemplated the risk involved.

Fight, flight, or freeze?

In the end, I saw there was another option:

Embracing the tension.

Look, I get it.

Being known is scary.

There’s always the possibility that revealing yourself as you really are will end in rejection.

And it’s one thing to be rejected for a projection of yourself, or just a layer of who you are.

You can always tell yourself,

if they really knew me…

But when they really do know you and still walk away, that leaves a mark that’s hard to shake.

I should know.

But something about this high stakes scenario caused me to consider that there might also be

risks to retreating.

In fact, the losses of retreat might be more confusing and harder to recover from than outright rejection,

because you don’t really know

what would have happened

had you just been brave.

On the flip side of that scary moment, I can tell you that embracing the tension is sometimes very, very worth it.

It’s what I told my girls yesterday as I shared some of the things I wrote about in that 1998 journal

and empathized with them

that when we’re in it,

tension seems unbearable.

But it’s often exactly what we need.

Sometimes its working behind the scenes, crafting something that’s not ready to be revealed just yet.

Something that we aren’t ready to see just yet.

A friend of mine summarized this best a little over two years ago.

She had begged for resolution in something that really should be resolved.

And yet she had to wait.

The wait was excruciating.

But just when we thought it wouldn’t turn,

something happened that no one saw coming.

And it was so much better than getting that premature resolution she so longed for.

I see this sometimes at work.

First time moms are often especially eager to be over with the waiting of pregnancy

that they sometimes try and bring on labour itself

a little earlier than their due date

so the angst of growing more uncomfortable is resolved.

The problem is, this often happens when their babies are right on the line of maturity.

Truly premature babies tend to come out with challenges that they often know they need to fight against.

The magnitude of the gap between where they’re at and where they’re supposed to be

is the very thing that drives them

to make up for what they’re lacking.

It’s the babies right on the borderline

that, if born slightly too early,

tend not to do so well.

And if I think about it, it’s the same thing I see in my oldest.

If you tell her something might happen, it drives her crazy.

If you say its impossible,

she puts her shoulders back, narrows her eyes, and says,

Challenge. Accepted.

And, as one who’s known her forever,

Good luck to those who try to get in her way when she’s in that place of resolve.


its often the very tension we dread


drives the resolution we long for.

My girls are learning to embrace this.


But I’m staying in it with them,

not only because this is a season where we celebrate a Saviour Who chose to walk with us in our messes

instead of prematurely resolving them,

but because I know all too well

that it’s often the drive to resolve too quickly

that leads to our worst decisions.

I wish I’d known that a few years ago.

I wish I’d known that the


-while exquisitely painful-

can be more productive

than trying to rush a resolution.

But, I’m not the first to make that mistake.

Take the disciples, for example.

Once they figured out who their Master was, they began to get used to the idea that

the Resolver-of-all-the-things-they-considered-bad-in-their-lives

(hint: it was mostly circumstances)

would massage out the tension

on a grand scale

and set up a kingdom of peace and joy for all.

They weren’t wrong,

But they got the timing wrong.

And in hoping to rush the resolution of their circumstances,

they failed to see the need

for their Master to work through the broken circumstances

and resolve their character.

I think this might be why so many New Years Resolutions fail.

Too often, we center them on a desire for utopia,


instead of letting our current dystopia

make us into the full-grown Image-bearers

we were always intended to be.

It’s only when we make it there that we’ll be ready to receive the kingdom we long for.

For the last eleven years,

I’ve gotten to wrestle with this tension in a microcosm.

Every three to six months or so,

my husband and I navigate crazy traffic

to see a doctor whose specialty

is analyzing

whether my blood system

is still trying to kill me.

And for these last five years or so,

including that surprisingly sunny day only a few weeks ago,

the answer has been

that I’m incredibly close to remission

but still not quite there.

It can be maddening, that lack of resolve.

But its what I’ve been given.

And I think it might be so I can learn to embrace that there’s beauty in the

‘steady on, same, same’

current plan of my hematologist

whose expertise has evaluated the potential outcomes of change

and concluded that

this current course is best

even though there’s still tension.

And every day that I – get to – take those little white pills

I also remember

there is one resolution to this tension that I really don’t want.

At least, not yet.

So while many of us will rush into 2020 with big plans and lofty goals,

and visions of a future far better than the past,

or hunger for an ease and comfort

that we think will fulfill us,

I wonder if any of you are longing for a resolution

that can be kept no matter what’s coming.

I think it might look something like this.

I resolve

to be resolved

by all the things that won’t resolve

Until the Resolver of the most unresolvable gap in history

returns and makes all things

more right than they ever have been.

And until then,

I resolve to trust

that He knows what He’s doing

with all the pieces that have been left as they currently are

Even if I don’t like it

And it doesn’t feel good.

I wasn’t called to feel good.

I was called to look like Him.

So friends:

For those of you whose hearts ache this Christmas season,

I hear you.

I am with you.

It’s okay to ache.

It’s okay to want things to be different than they are.

There is such a thing as a holy discontentment,

but there is also such a thing as a holy


in which we not only long for the King to return,

but we also learn to trust

His bizarre-to-our-eyes plan

of ratcheting up the tension.

We really are in the pains of childbirth until now.

And it’s okay that we feel a bit anxious about it.

But on the day all that we are waiting for to be revealed,

I’m pretty sure we won’t remember a moment of the angst.

So as we sit here

in the one and a half hour mark

and learn to tell ourselves

that it’s okay that it seems to be too tense for too long,

I hope that you, like me,

are starting to see,


not only will the ending be worth it,

but it’s also best not to rush it.



Tenacity is the ability to hang on when letting go appears most attractive – Anonymous

Let us hold fast our confession, for He who promised is faithful – Hebrews


Yesterday I stumbled on a podcast of two of my favorite



and perched on my lawn chair amazed

as they described the sense of anxiety

that accompanies an idea they don’t fully understand,

and won’t fully get

until they sit down and write it out.

Because if we writers are honest with ourselves,

most of us try not to write.

Confession: When a deadline looms

(even a self-imposed one)

I come up with 150 projects around the house

that need my

desperate attention

right this second,

or any other remotely plausible potential distraction.

When that stops working,

I argue with the not-quite concrete thought

and tell it

since you’re not actually fleshed out,

I have no business writing about you.

But what’s really going on,

and what I hate to admit,

is that the actual act of writing is far from enjoyable.

Some of you just online-high-fived me.

Others have yet to experience what I just described, but if you asked me to detail it for you,

I’d say writing a blog

like this one

is like extracting a tapeworm

that has infected your whole body

and captured all of your attention

and not always in a good way.

If that description is too graphic for you, I apologize. #nursebrain

And while I am grateful these women were able to flesh out this painstaking process on the podcast I listened to,

I also kinda hate them for it,

because they were expressing what had been happening to me the past few weeks,

the thing I was trying to ignore

and knew I couldn’t anymore.

I’ll be reallly honest with you:

I didn’t want to sit down and write this.

So I ask for your patience

as I try to be patient with the thing

I don’t fully understand yet.

Let me back up a bit.

Last Monday, I woke to run and found glass in my running shoes.

I didn’t realize it was glass at first – I assumed it was some Houdini pebbles I’d collected along the road in my trail runs of the previous week.

But they didn’t shake out well.

Glass doesn’t, usually. But its also not the usual suspect when digging through your shoes for the thing that makes you say ‘ouch’ with each step.

But that Monday, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

The day before, I’d risen to temperate sunshine over the gentle blue waters. Fourteen years and four days after our first trip to the island as a married couple, the blog star (aka. my husband) surprised our little family with a spontaneous night away.

It couldn’t have come at a better time.

We drank coffee, we read, we ate good food, we laughed with our kids.

In short, we did all the normal things we normally do on a vacation.

Except on this one, I turned thirty-six.

I can hear some of you scoffing – just a baby.

And in many ways you’d be right to do so.

Yet from where I sit, thirty-six feels old.

But then,

I sit in a rather unusual place.

Not every twenty-eight-year-old mother of two is told she has cancer. Not every thirty-something is forced to wrestle every day the fear that this year might be her last. Not every family knows that part of how we live well is to live moment-to-moment, because, really, there are no guarantees.

(I actually wish we did all know that).

But while some would call this living lightly,

I’m starting to see it differently.

The day of my birthday was an otherwise glorious day: We ate brunch at a favorite restaurant. We wandered the surprisingly sparse streets of Vancouver’s downtown core. My husband patiently waited for me while I tried on clothes,

(if you call patient testing out the newest noise-cancelling wireless headphones at the Bose store)

and we went to a Broadway show

I had always wanted to see

but was finally in the area.

Good day, right?

Yet somehow I couldn’t shake the feeling

all day

that something was just a little bit… off.

I’m not sure if David felt it, but something just outside my awareness kept gnawing at me.

I tried to shrug it off

– as we all do-

and pretend I was cool

and not, you know, the other thing.

And yet halfway through our night at the Q.E.,

– just as I’d convinced myself  I wasn’t going to be paranoid –

an usher approached us

with the kind of expression

that usually accompanies

a terrible World War II telegram


any other sorts of news of something terrible happening to someone you love.

Fortunately, in our case, it was just something we love.

My girlies started to cry as they heard the words of the Vancouver policeman over the phone: a repeat smash-n-grab offender had broken into our car and taken all of our luggage.

Elliana shook

as she realized

the broken window

was right next to her booster seat.

Did they take Brutus, Mommy?  she managed through a quivering lower lip.

(Brutus is the current favorite of her stuffies).

I don’t know, I said, because I didn’t.

We didn’t really know much at that point,

except that four of our backpacks were taken

from the now windowless-backseat of our miraculously-provided van.

Wanting to keep the rest of the evening as normal as possible, David insisted the three of us finish the show while he went to figure out the rest.

And as we traipsed back to our seats, Noelle tugged on my hand.

I don’t understand, she said.

I thought nothing bad would ever happen to us.


That’s a pretty incredible thought for a girl who’s been praying since she was two for her mom’s blood not to be… confused.

And yet, she kinda nailed it.

Don’t we all believe that bad things only happen to other people?

Don’t we tell ourselves:

That’s never going to happen.

Don’t be paranoid.

Everything will be fine.

Those kinds of things only happen to people who make mistakes,

people who deserve it?

We might even call ourselves mentally healthy for thinking this way. Or better yet, optimists.

We chalk happy thoughts up to our sunny personalities or fundamental beliefs in


and the goodness of other people.

I hate to tell you this, but none of that is even remotely true.

While we’d love to believe the opposite,

all of us are just so far from good.

I know.

I’m uncomfortable with that too.

The most powerful time I was confronted with this was eighteen months ago.

Calamity often comes in threes, as it did then: my world turned upside down in the course of three separate, fractious, events

that all threatened the core of what I believed in.

Not so much that bad things don’t happen to us,

because that lie has been dying for a long time now.

But there were other things I thought I could cling to

in the middle of that bad thing,

things that

in the end

showed just how much I’d built my

fragile little house

on nothing but sand;

things like

These people will never betray me


This thing would never happen to me


At least I know I can rely on ­­­­_____

And so I’m not off in the corner navel-gazing by myself, I urge you to ask yourself how you would answer those questions.

What would be your fill-in-the-blank?

If you’re brave enough, write it down.

(somewhere no one else will see, of course)

Now stare realllllly hard at what you’ve written.

Do you still believe it?

Or does it look a little… weak?

I know what you’re going to say: I don’t have any of those things I believe in.

And you probably think you’ve found the solution:

believe in nothing,

bank on no one,

trust only yourself.

I understand the temptation.

After a certain number of pain points, each of us are tugged that direction.

We think we’re protecting ourselves,

but really, we’re just drowning in a sea that tastes oh so bitter

so we keep our mouths shut

and hope we don’t take in

any of our own water.

Our culture loves this option, and they love to offer the fix for it, too – just find the right person.

Think of how many fictional romances begin with the protagonist who’s been hurt too much to trust again.

Enter the solution: the perfect person.

I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry at that.

But we all know its bogus, right?

There’s just no such person.

And even if there were, we wouldn’t deserve them.

But before you accuse me of being a Debbie Downer, I want you to know I get it.

Off and on these past few years, I’ve been living this protective way.

But there’s another Force that tugs at me and

suggests another option:

something both

in between

and so much better than 

care about nothing


care about everything.

The truth is, most of the freedoms Western individualism was built on were entirely dependent on  passionate people who let themselves care about things.

The show we watched the night our car was broken into was based on a true story of some of these people.

And we really need so much more of them.


it’s only a little over a hundred years ago

that most poor families

were forced to pull their children from school

and put them to work in factories

where they were underpaid, abused, and targeted

by those who had more than enough.

In many ways this thread has continued throughout our history. Those who have will always be tempted to take advantage of those who have not so the haves can have even more.

They convince themselves they deserve what they’ve been given

and the afflicted deserve all they’ve not been given

leave the oppressed two options:

accept it


change it.

I’ve tried my hand at both, and I’m not sure that one is better than the other.

Both sides have pitfalls,

yet the stability of the world we see today

is so largely dependent

on those who chose the second option,

that we really can’t ignore it.

What’s even more powerful though,

and what I believe the world is waiting for,

is that third option.

I believe it has two parts.

The first: a liberator from outside the people needing liberation.

Take William Wilberforce, for example.

He was a man of influence, even a bit of money. An excellent orator, Wilberforce could have spent his days in reclined debates at the highest of privileged institutions, but chose instead to use his passion and eloquence

to abolish slavery in England

while fighting physical and emotional maladies himself.

Wilberforce’s American counterpart, Mr. Abraham Lincoln, went to physical war to accomplish the same.

I don’t think he intended to. But the passionate plea of his first inaugural address declared war on the South and their entire way of life:

a life built

of haves

abusing the have nots

so they could have even more.

Those of you who know this story know that Abe spent every day in office following that address – and the rest of his life – in pursuit of liberty for the oppressed.

He didn’t do it to become a hero.

He did it because he couldn’t not.

I can’t imagine how he stomached some of the injustices he saw.

How does one live with,

for example,

the knowledge

that a country built on revolution from oppression

a group of people who prided themselves on ‘liberty and justice for all’

used slaves

to make the very flag

they declared represented freedom.

But then there is some insidious darkness that tends to follow us when we throw off our own shackles.

Freedom can soon become indulgence.

Take the history of the last one hundred and fifty years or so.

As Susan Wise Bauer has said in her children’s history series The Story of the World:

Violence is not random. It is alarming, but not random. You will see, again and again, the same pattern acted out: A person or group of people rejects injustice by rebelling and seizing the reins of power. As soon as those reins are in the hands of the rebels, the rebels become the establishment, the victims become the tyrants, the freedom-fighters become the dictators.

And isn’t that what The Hunger Games was really all about?

That, without check, the abused become the abusers

given the right amount of power?

Take Adolf Hitler, for example.

Here is a man who knew power, even if only for a brief period of time. Many would still call him one of the greatest and most inspirational speakers of all history. It was likely this very ability to bind his audience in a spell of sorts that persuaded an entire country to back the biggest mass genocide in history

and call it good.

See, Hitler thought he was throwing off his own shackles.

He thought he was standing up for the rights of his country.

And yet even the most cold hearted of us can see that he went much further than that.


It’s not tenacity itself that is the problem.

It’s what we’re holding onto that counts.

This past winter, our family hit another season of crisis.

What I thought were merely bad shin splints from a particularly long run was really the beginnings of septic cellulitis.

I know, I’m a pro at finding the old-lady diseases.

But it was this very fact that I got this at 35 and not 75

that made those who were taking care of me

wonder what else might be going on.

And so Pandora’s box was opened once again:

Blood clot, stress fracture, leukemia blast crisis, these were all things we were looking dead in the eyes.


Except this time, I really thought so too.

I’ve never experienced pain like that – pain that takes your breath away, that none of the normal medicines touch, none of the regular strategies begin to relieve

Pain that left me rocking on my bathroom floor at 4:30 in the morning, with nothing else to say but help me get through this, help me get through this.

In those days and weeks I gave myself IV antibiotics at home, rested with my foot up while I stared at house messes I didn’t have the strength to even begin to think about cleaning, taught my girls school with one foot always in an ice pack and often waiting in a doctor’s office.

And while David and I learned how to kill some of those hours when the pain was at its worst, we encountered one of the most disturbing movies I’ve ever seen.

I don’t want to name it for fear I trash your favorite of all time.

But if its your favorite of all time, we really should have a chat.

Because really, I left that movie with not only a bad taste in my mouth, but in my whole being. It wasn’t just the plethora of tired tropes (see the lighting of the candles for a special dinner? Cue the disappointing phone call), it was more the diluted definition of faith it not-quite-enthusiastically embraced:

All your dreams will come true if you just believe.

Cue every Disney movie ever made.

This is the problem with the whole world, I told my almost-asleep husband.

He peered his eyes open at me. This man is used to dramatic bedtime statements like this one. He’s even learned to fall asleep in some of them.

(That makes him sound worse than he is.)

I mean to highlight the number of so-called-epiphanies I think I get in the wee hours, and not his overwhelming call to the land of Nod.

I also knew I might have something when he woke up to hear this one.

What do you mean? he asked curiously.

I mean, this is what is wrong with the world. Even those who call themselves people of faith have somehow begun to believe its nothing more or less than

wishing for things we don’t know will come true.

And really, that doesn’t pack much of a punch, does it?

All it does is leave me asking


should I choose to believe things like hope does not disappoint us

when the only hope my culture has ever taught me

is the kind that shows nothing but disappointment

because its grip is so fiercely tied to family, football and The American Dream?

Let’s be honest, friends.

When we’ve grabbed onto a rotten branch –

or ten –

in a row –

our option isn’t only to keep doing the same thing and expecting different results

(by definition, that’s called insanity)

nor is it only letting ourselves fall into oblivion

and hope we fall on something soft.

It’s grabbing on to a branch with roots

or better yet

grabbing the hand of One anchored to firm ground.

It was this image that hit me as I considered Noelle’s oh so important question.

But it wasn’t until

I grabbed my biggest girl,

who gets bigger by the minute,

and looked her square in the eyes

and said:

Our safety doesn’t depend on the absence of bad things happening to us, girlie.

It depends


on the One in charge of all of those things –

good and bad

that I knew I even believed that.

Just like I wasn’t sure I believed that a minor malady often cures us of an underlying cancer

until my oncologist told me

that somehow

while my entire body was septic

there was, in fact, no leukemia blast crisis

but instead,

the cancer gene dropped to the lowest its. ever. been.

So low, in fact, I can see that tiny elusive horizon of

the amazing world called


We aren’t there, and there’s no guarantees we will ever be

but that’s okay

because my safety doesn’t depend on it.

It depends on Something much firmer than that.

Take what David found when he returned to our damaged van:

two plainclothes Vancouver policemen

planted in plain sight of our vehicle


saw the whole thing,

arrested the ones who stole from us,


returned to us all of our belongings – unharmed.

(plus a really gross orange sequined purse that I don’t really want to think about right now)

I looked at Noelle and asked her:

Girlie, what are the chances of any of this happening?

She gave me a faint smile.

Not many, she admitted.

It was almost as if it had been designed just like that.

There were still hardships to deal with, of course.

You try driving home late at night on the Trans-Canada highway with no window and two children.

(there was lots of laughing about that)

And when I think of all the things we chose to do that day, where we should not have parked, what we should not have left in our car, what we should have perhaps not spent our money on,

I wouldn’t go back and make it not happen.

Or as Steve Saint, the son of murdered missionary pilot Nate Saint, says:

If I could go back now and rewrite the script, I would not change a single scene. I have come to understand that life is too complex and much too short to let amateurs direct the story. I would rather let the Master Storyteller do the writing.

What makes Steve’s words more powerful is knowing he wrote them as he developed a familial-type relationship with the man and the tribe who speared his father and four other missionary fathers who were only trying to establish the first friendly contact between white people and the dangerous Waodoni ‘Aucas.’

Friends, that’s tenacity

the kind that holds onto

the Thing that just doesn’t give out

no matter what kind of storm comes.

Its that same kind of tenacity I’m willing to bank on,

the kind that sees the tiny shards of glass in my shoes as a reminder that One so much bigger than me

was looking out for me,

yet again.

It’s the kind of tenacity that knows hope that doesn’t disappoint.

Its the second part of the third option.

Find the One Whose feet are on firm ground

and hold on with all your might.

I promise you

You won’t be the only one holding on.



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