Relent, LORD...

The week of Alex's last PET scan found me uttering this phrase over and over..."Relent, O Lord, please relent." Maybe that seems like a strange prayer, but it was almost all I could ask God in those days. Begging Him to relent and grant Alex a reprieve from this cancer.  And then on the morning we were waiting to hear what the scan revealed I opened the word to this word: 

Lord, you have been our dwelling place
    throughout all generations.
Before the mountains were born
    or you brought forth the whole world,
    from everlasting to everlasting you are God.

You turn people back to dust,
    saying, “Return to dust, you mortals.”
A thousand years in your sight
    are like a day that has just gone by,
    or like a watch in the night.

Yet you sweep people away in the sleep of death—
    they are like the new grass of the morning:

In the morning it springs up new,
    but by evening it is dry and withered.

We are consumed by your anger
    and terrified by your indignation.
You have set our iniquities before you,
    our secret sins in the light of your presence.
All our days pass away under your wrath;
    we finish our years with a moan.
Our days may come to seventy years,
    or eighty, if our strength endures;
yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow,
    for they quickly pass, and we fly away.
If only we knew the power of your anger!
    Your wrath is as great as the fear that is your due.
Teach us to number our days,
    that we may gain a heart of wisdom. 

Relent, Lord! How long will it be?
    Have compassion on your servants.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
    that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
    for as many years as we have seen trouble.
May your deeds be shown to your servants,
    your splendor to their children.

May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;
    establish the work of our hands for us—
    yes, establish the work of our hands.

Psalm 90

Reading this psalm in the cool of the morning with the intense pressure of this major 
unknown outcome was a balm to my soul. A reassurance that He sees, He knows. 

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.