2024: The Year of Strange Joy

"Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed." 1 Peter 4:12-13

2024. You were a hit from my blindside that literally left me with a blow to the head. I feel like I've lived a lifetime in a single year. It’s been a year of shock, upheaval, and chaos at times. It’s been a year of figuring out how to live in a body that has often not felt like my own and a brain that has aged seemingly overnight. It’s been a year of moments filled with trying to fathom life beyond the next hour, let alone December 30. It’s been a year filled with moments of crying my eyes out because that’s all I felt like I had the capacity to do. It’s been a year of moments spent walking laps around my parents’ yard, practically wearing out what looks like a game trail, aiming to strengthen muscles that had forgotten how to function. It’s been a year of staring at one MRI after another, some showing large white masses and some now showing large gaping black holes. 

But it’s also been a year of financial abundance when it should have been a year of financial scarcity (turns out living with your parents can do wonders for your budget).  It's been a year of supernatural peace on the inside despite the swirling maelstrom on the outside. It's been a year of hearing God's voice more clearly despite the deafening noise of beeping monitors and the chatter of so many medical providers. 

It's been a year of strong weakness.

It's been a year of fractured hope.

It's been a year of strange joy.

Author Hannah Anderson wrote in her book Heaven and Nature Sing: 25 Advent Reflections to Bring Joy to the World, referencing the 1 Peter verses above and the stories of Mary and Simeon found in Luke 2:

This is a strange kind of joy - one that cannot be explained by sentimentality or celebration. It's the joy of an old man like Simeon, exhausted and broken by the suffering of the world, holding hope in his arms. It is the joy of a mother like Mary knowing that her child will change everything, but that she will lose him in the process. It is the joy of us who have followed this Promised Son in the way of suffering and found him faithful. It is . . . the joy of sharp pain and glorious beauty persevering together (pg. 111).

I have followed this Promised Son this year as best I know how.

And I have found that Promised Son faithful. Unimaginably so.

This cannot be explained by sentimentality or celebration. 

This can only be explained by a God who is wildly gracious, loving, and kind. But he's also a sovereign God who, in wisdom, allows trials to come our way. Trials that soften the edges of our souls. Trials that show us he is God over all we know. Trials that humble us and remind us we cannot live by bread alone, but on every word that comes from his mouth. Trials that teach us there's a story greater than ourselves being told, stories that are largely about him and not about us. Trials that refine us, leaving us more tender, more compassionate toward the world around us (most of the time anyway. There's still some goofballs out there for whom I have little compassion).

This is the joy of sharp pain and glorious beauty persevering together. 

This is the year I've witnessed strange joy up close and personal.

It turns out strange joy looks a lot like the face of Jesus.

"I've Witnessed It" by Passion, featuring Melodie Malone

When I was lost and all alone
Your presence was where I found home
You were there and You’re here right now

In every high and every low
You never left me without hope
You were good and You’re good right now

[Chorus]
I’ve witnessed Your faithfulness
I’ve seen You breathe life within
So I’ll pour out my praise again
You’re worthy, God you’re worthy of all of it
Your promises never fail
I’ve got stories I’ll live to tell
So I’ll pour out my praise again
You’re worthy, God you’re worthy of all of it

Challenge Accepted

My dad has long been a champion of my writing. He's also long been great at giving speeches and pep talks. Now, whether he would own that talent or not might be a different story, but I've been on the receiving end of quite a few of those pep talks in the last ten months and can vouch for the skill. 

 

But his speech last Christmas might be etched in my memory for years to come. 

 

Our family was gathered around my parents' living room just before Christmas - both of my brothers, their spouses, and their kids. My dad gets up to address us all, and I can already feel the tears coming. Something about my dad when he gives a speech, I immediately feel vulnerable and emotional. He starts by addressing the two youngest grandkids. He then moves on to my other nieces (my one nephew is the lone member of the male species among seven nieces, and now a great-niece was added to the mix this summer), exhorting batches of them as he moves around the room. He starts to say something to me, and then stops, points at me, and says, "I'll come back to you." We all kind of look at each other with raised eyebrows, trying to figure out what that comment was about. He then moves on to both my brothers and their wives, addressing them, offering up wisdom about life and marriage. Then he comes back to me.

 

"I have something different to say to you, Courtney. I have a challenge for you. You have a gift for words. And this is not the first time I've told you that. You know how to put words and ideas together. This time next year, I want you to come back to this family with a book of 52 devotionals, one for each week of the year."

 

The handwritten quote from Staples
in January 2024

At first I really didn't know if I could pull it off. It felt like a lot of writing to me, and I wasn't sure how to lay it all out. Do I pick a theme? Do I write ones targeted toward specific family members or stages of life? Can I really dump out that many words to fill 52 weeks' worth of devotions? How do I tie it all together so that it's not just a choppy bunch of separate entries? What would the title be? I started a note in my phone with some basic ideas that might work for entries, adding to it as ideas filled my head throughout January. I even went to Staples a few weeks before my diagnosis to get some quotes on what it would cost to get a completed product printed and bound, a copy for each family member.

 

But as it turns out, I didn't need to worry about any of that:

 

My previous post was post number 52 since I was diagnosed in February. 

 

I can assure you this was not intentional on my part. (Well, mostly not intentional. I genuinely was not paying attention to the count until about post number 48. Then I started reverse-timing things so that this one would fall around Christmas. But still.) I've been writing this whole time just for the sake of writing, not to achieve a number or to fulfill my dad's challenge. I had bigger fish to fry. After the diagnosis, I had so many things rolling around in my head, and it all needed somewhere to go. And all those words came effortlessly, entry after entry. All 52 of them.

 

When my dad issued that challenge at Christmas last year, neither he nor anyone else could ever have imagined the form those "devotionals" would take. They would take the form of updates on my cancer, reminding my family that their daughter/sister/aunt/niece/cousin was still here - alive. It would take the form of reflections on the sovereignty and faithfulness of God. It would sometimes come in the form of silence as I took a break from the frantic pace of existence. 

So, to my family: I pray these "devotionals" have been an encouragement to you. Perhaps in the sovereignty of God, I wonder if maybe these posts have really been for you all along. Everyone else reading them have just been beneficiaries of a plan that had nothing to do with their edification or encouragement, but yours. 

 

Yes, they have come at a price - for all of us, not just me. But maybe these were words you each needed to hear in some form or fashion.

 

I couldn't have weathered these recent months without each of you. 

 

To Mom and Dad, at 60-something years old and retired, you found yourselves with a new roommate in the form of your nearly-40-year old daughter, freshly minted with a brain cancer diagnosis. You served as my Uber drivers, my chefs, my mail checkers, my lawn care takers, and my hand holders when I had a seizure. You took me to nearly every single medical appointment, learning medical terms you never imagined you'd have to learn (oligodendroglioma, anyone?). I know you'd say it was no sacrifice and you'd gladly do it no matter what, but I know these have not been easy days and months.

 

To my brothers, my sisters-in-law, my nieces, and lone nephew, you all have played a role in my story, no matter how big or small. You have gathered around my deepest pain, wrapping me in your arms and in your prayers. Your presence and patience have mattered deeply to me as I sorted out life with a new version of my body and my brain.

 

So, Pops, challenge accepted. 

 

But do you think maybe we could skip out on any challenges for 2025?

_____________________

Functional updates
I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

Since I last gave an update in November, I started round four of chemo, which is now winding down. (The goal is to do twelve total rounds.) This was also the first round that we opted to raise the dose of chemo, which is the max amount I can take because of my physical size (For those who saw me before all this started: If you thought I was tiny then, shave off another fifteen pounds, which is how much I've lost since April.)

The beginning of this cycle was by far the worst I've felt since starting chemo. It was down right miserable. At one point, I just found myself laying in the bathroom closet, which was near enough to the toilet but still on warmer carpet instead of cold tile. Nausea, vomiting, lots of sleeping, all of it. Even the taste of water made me want to gag. Nothing will top how miserable I felt post-surgery in April, but this was a close second. I struggled to eat because nothing sounded good, and drinking enough fluids was also a challenge. Things started to head down hill on the evening of day four and by day six, I was totally out of commission. (I take the pills only on days 1-5 of a 28-day cycle, and it seems to be trending that day six is a real whopper.) By day ten, I felt right as rain and then have had no issues since then. So, thankfully, the misery was not prolonged, but I'd still prefer it didn't happen at all. I'll see the neuro-oncologist again the first week of January to see what my blood counts are looking like and what the dosage will be for cycle number five.

I was thrilled to find another provider outside of my current healthcare system who focuses on a more holistic perspective than what my traditional providers offer. She was able to refer me out to a functional nutritionist and a functional medicine provider. They are not available until April and May, but I still booked them and asked to be put on the cancellation list should a slot become available sooner. I am a strong proponent of functional medicine, so I was glad to find this missing piece to my healthcare team who works in both the functional medicine space and oncology.

I also scheduled a neuro-psych test, which lasts four hours and will establish some baseline cognitive functioning abilities like short-term memory. We can then use this data in the years ahead for comparison. That originally scheduled out until June, but a slot opened up in March. 

One significant area that continues to be impacted by all of this is my ability to go to church anywhere. The combo of my seizure meds and the chemo still cause me to get drowsy in the mornings, making it impossible to go to church anywhere that doesn't have a service outside of the usual Sunday mornings. I haven't been to church on a Sunday morning since May, which was pre-chemo and pre-naps. I did make it to the Christmas service, but that was at 6:00 at night. I'm on the hunt for somewhere that either has a Saturday evening service or a later Sunday service. But even if that happens, I still have some sensory issues when there's a lot I have to take in visually and hearing-wise. I'm continuing to pray that God would lead me in this area to where I need to be.

All in all, I continue to be so humbled and in awe of God's faithful protection and provision through this process. Yes, even on the miserable days. Thank you to everyone for their continued prayers and support.

Seeing Until We See No More

I've been thinking about Moses a lot recently, particularly how he died. There are some peculiar tidbits in the Bible about the matter, as it says that God buried him and didn't bother telling anybody where he was buried. Apparently God felt it was nobody's business where he buried his friend, "And Moses the servant of the Lord died there in Moab, as the Lord had said. He buried him in Moab, in the valley opposite Beth Peor, but to this day no one knows where his grave is" (Deuteronomy 34:5-6). Being in command of the universe, I suppose God's entitled to do such mysterious things. (I've also heard he's a big fan of doing the opposite, resurrecting a body from a grave and then spilling the beans, telling everybody to not even bother looking for the grave because it doesn't really matter, the body won't be there anyway. Strange being, this God.)

The Bible also notes that while Moses had gone to great lengths to set the Israelites free from slavery under Pharaoh and lead them to the Promised Land, he would not be permitted to enter the land himself because he "broke faith" with God, violating the commands God had set forth for Moses (Deuteronomy 32:48-52).

I can't help but wonder if God had handed Moses a supernatural version of a View Master (remember those things?) and had him click back through images of his life:

A baby in a basket in the Nile.

Click.

Growing up in Pharaoh's palace.

Click.

The burning bush.

Click.

Staffs into snakes.

Click.

Piles of frogs.

Click.

Blood on door frames.

Click.

Parted waters.

Click. Click. Click. ClickClickClickClickClickClickClickClick.

Hundreds, thousands, of images spanning his life rapidly going by. (He's obviously changing out cartridges regularly. Although, this is a supernatural View Master, so maybe not.)

And with each passing image, he's getting closer and closer to the end of his life.

And what are the final images he clicks through?

Then Moses climbed Mount Nebo from the plains of Moab to the top of Pisgah, across from Jericho. There the Lord showed him the whole land—from Gilead to Dan, all of Naphtali, the territory of Ephraim and Manasseh, all the land of Judah as far as the Mediterranean Sea, the Negev and the whole region from the Valley of Jericho, the City of Palms, as far as Zoar (Deuteronomy 34:1-3).

Gilead.

Click.

Dan.

Click.

Naphtali.

Click.

All of the Promised Land.

And with one last slow press and release of the lever, Moses saw all that he needed to see. All of the images of his life culminated in this one final view of the Promised Land. The Master of it all removed the View Master from the hands of his friend. No more clicking. No more images. And just like that, Moses was gone. God had faithfully sustained Moses until he saw all that he needed to see. Better yet, all that God wanted him to see. And he let Moses see it in all its fullness: "And Moses the servant of the Lord died there in Moab, as the Lord had said. Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died, yet his eyes were not weak nor his strength gone" (Deuteronomy 34:5, 7). Moses wasn't seeing the Promised Land through a haze of cataracts and near-blindness. His eyes were not weak, it says. He saw it in all its glory, from end to end, valley to valley, sea to sea, with eyes that God created and sustained, and then ordained at a precise moment, and not a moment before, that they should see no more. 

And with that, the slide show was over for Moses.

But wait! It looks like there's one more slide. 

But there's no image.

But Moses knows. He knows what's on that image. He knows he has eyes to see what's on that slide.

Moses saw him who is invisible.

". . . he persevered because he saw him who is invisible" (Hebrews 11:27).

Moses' final view wasn't a view of the Promised Land. 

It was a view of the Promised One.

"The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation" (Colossians 1:15).

"For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse" (Romans 1:20).

Jesus. The image of the invisible God.

Click.

"But blessed are your eyes because they see . . ." (Matthew 11:16).

Prayers for a Man That May Not Exist

Today marks ten months since my first seizure and the discovery of my brain tumor. A lot has happened in those ten months. A lot. You all have been witnesses to that, whether up close or from afar.

When I look to the past months or to the yet-unknown future months and years, you know what strikes a nerve faster than anything else and immediately brings tears to my eyes at just the thought? (I mean, I just moved the box of tissues closer to me, and there's already a small pile of snotty ones next to that because those tears are already in full swing). It's a question I have asked myself often in these months:

Who is going to want to marry a girl who has cancer for the rest of her life? Who is going to want to live with that kind of uncertainty in his spouse?

It brings tears to my eyes and feels so tender and vulnerable just to write it out, to put it before this small corner of the world that reads these words. 

I remember going to an online support group shortly after the April surgery. I really wasn't sure what to expect. There were maybe 30-40 people. All ages, all different brain cancers, all different stages in their diagnosis and treatment process. As I logged off, I was hit with a startling realization, which at the time included some mental expletives, which I will refrain from using here. I realized I had adopted a short-term view of the circumstances - Just get through the next 14 months, then I'll be done and can move on with life - but where the mental expletives came into play is when I realized this isn't just about the next 14 months.

This is about the rest of my life.

Regular scans to check for any growth or changes, regular check ups with a neuro-oncologist, moments left wondering whether an ailment or symptom really means something more significant is brewing beneath the surface. 

Who is going to want to marry a girl who has cancer for the rest of her life?

As I was driving home from work today, I was reflecting on all that has happened these last ten months. I was also listening to a sermon preached by Louie Giglio back on December 26, 2013. (For you Apple folks, you can find it here.) I've listened to this sermon (it's the third part in a series of three messages) probably every year during Advent since he first preached it eleven years ago. His words have always resonated. But today? They landed differently today. He talks about trials in this life. We know Jesus the Messiah came once and we know he is coming again, but in the middle there's waiting and trials. There's a key statement he makes that helped tremendously in answering my own question about an unknown future husband: 

God is not primarily interested today in making our lives easier. 

He's primarily interested today in making our lives matter.

I realized something in that moment, not for the first time, however: 

I want my life to matter more than I want to be married.  

I'll be okay if I never have a husband, but I won't be okay if I don't have Jesus.   

I don't know if God will so ordain in his wisdom that a man should come along and answer my question and say, "Me. I'm the one who will take the girl with cancer for the rest of her life." 

But should God choose to send such a member of the male species along, then I do have a three specific things I am praying for the guy that decides to answer that question in the affirmative because I want his life to matter, too:

I pray he is a man of God's Word. This is my chief prayer. I want him to love the Bible. (And I want to be a woman who loves the Bible, too.) He doesn't need to be a scholar or a theologian. (I'm a seminary dropout myself.) He doesn't need to have memorized the entire book of Colossians or James or Ephesians (I can barely remember what I did two seconds ago, so I'm in no place to judge), but I want him to be a man in love with the Word of God, someone who is familiar with it, well-acquainted with its pages. I want to know that the man I'm with is actively moving toward the Word with regularity and intentionality, choosing to wrap his life in its pages.

I pray he is a man of his word. I want him to be the kind of man who keeps his promises. I want him to be the kind of man who shows up when he says he's going to show up, the kind of man who honors his commitments, whether big or small, come hell or high water. The kind of man who is going to sit with me in appointments and take me to regular scans. Again, I'm not seeking perfection, but I want someone who is faithful to his promises. 

I pray he is a man of words. Allow me to state the obvious: I love words. They matter a great deal to me. Words are in my nature. I have kept journals for the last twenty-seven years, and have had this blog for nearly sixteen years. I haven't been penning all these words because I thought somebody would read them or because I was trying to build a brand or a platform or make a name for myself. Writing and reading represent some of the deepest parts of my identity. I pray the man I marry would at the very least have an appreciation for words (I'm not saying I want him to be a chatty Cathy, though, either. I know, picky, picky.) He doesn't need to be a bookworm or a bibliophile or the world's greatest writer of love letters. (Although, I would certainly relish it if he were the world's greatest writer of love letters).

I can't see into the future (thank God because I think if I had seen brain cancer coming I would have likely opted out) to know if there is someone to answer the question that is so tender to my heart these days, but even if there isn't, I will still say that I want my life to matter more than I want to be married.

I'll be okay if I never have a husband, but I won't be okay if I don't have Jesus. 

I want my life to matter. And that can happen with or without a husband. 

But it can't happen without Jesus.