In years past, God, I would thank you for your blessings.
Your faithfulness. Your mercy. Your grace. Then my daughter, my Katie, was struck with cancer. And I walked every step with her. The diagnosis. The hospitalizations. The chemo. The hair loss. The sticks and pokes. The days out of school. The excitement of returning. The zofran and EMLA always in my purse. The scans. The relapse. The weeks of being stuck in one room. The surgeries. The months away from home. The games and celebrations we watched from afar. The friends she missed. The homebound work. The favorite nurses. The awkward visitors. The dog. The residents who invaded our mornings. The beloved doctors who sat with us. The ambulance rides. The ICU. The weakness. The dragging IV pole. The bedside commode. The medications. The shower where we both got soaked as I shaved her legs. The hospital food. The snack machines. The wheelchair. The trips downstairs to the patio. The thrill of a day pass. The exuberance of discharge. The night my family slept under one roof again. The long day trips. The radiation. The infusions. The pain. The difficulty breathing. The suite life. The laughter. The Cone. The consultations. The questions. The answers that didn’t exist. The anticipation of a wish. The toes in the sand. The joy. The disappointment. The frustration. The fear. The fear. The fear. The strength. The hardest words ever. The last breath. I was there, God, but where were you? Where were you? You seemed absent. No guiding light. No angels. No healing. No miracles. Just darkness. Quiet darkness. Yet you were there. In the darkness. Quiet grace. Quiet mercy. Quiet faithfulness. And the blessings were so very, very quiet. Only I could see. Only I could hear. And only if I listened so carefully. And was quiet. Like you. Be still, my soul, and know. You are God.
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