Wet noodles.

It's been almost 2 weeks since receiving the news that Alex's PET scan did not show a relapse of cancer. The relief was tangible, palpable. An indescribable kind of weigh lifted immediately. A feeling of euphoria, weightlessness and also suddenly a new quiet. The constant hum of this cancer diagnosis gone.

But as I'm reflecting on it now almost 14 days out, maybe the thing that is standing out to me the most is just how quickly we all pivoted back to "regular" life. How quietly we nodded, exchanging relieved hugs, and moved on. What I might have imagined would have been a moment for ticker tape parades, horns, music, honking, the throwing of confetti, turned into just simple quiet relief. 

I think back to the celebration that spontaneously erupted when at the mid-point of his first 6 months of chemo everything looked really good. The troops rallied and off we went to Sanford's in Cheyenne (cause where else ya gonna go in January)! That was a celebration. Entirely too premature, as it turned out, but the joy was tangible. Now, here we are receiving glorious news like wet noodles. Life is strange sometimes.

Jury's out...

This place that I'm sitting right now? This suspension between hope and dread that makes me catch my breath, makes me hold my breath, makes my heart seize? yeah, I can hardly sit in this space. I haven't counted the # of scans because I don't want to. This last moment of hope before having hopes dashed is the worst. I've gone into every single scan with hope. But if I'm completely honest right now, I'm just mad at hope. Mad at the promise that doesn't deliver. If you want to be critical of that, be my guest. Come sit in my seat.

This past week I served on a jury. It was weighty. It's not an easy seat to sit in, listening, weighing facts, deliberating justice, rendering a verdict. As the 12 of us discussed and re-hashed the facts of the case and the unspoken impressions of the case I was thinking of the defendant out there waiting to hear our verdict. Sitting in that seat, knowing his future was in here with us.

At the end of the day, I am grateful that I can leave the verdict of this scan tomorrow in God's hands. I know at my core that if the word tomorrow is terrible, shattering and on it's face feels like complete cruelty, the one who yielded that verdict is trustworthy, loving and sovereign. He sees what I cannot see and therefore often allows what I would never. God renders pure justice, not the frail, uninformed justice of men. So I leave tomorrows verdict with him, and yes, I still hope.