the longest marathon

I remember the way my body ached with fatigue and how I felt like I was underwater, holding my breath, trying to figure out which way was up. I remember sitting at lunch with my mom and my sister and trailing off mid-sentence and never finishing conversations. It felt like the hours would never end and surely this was a nightmare. Surely this couldn't be my life. God wouldn't do this to us.

I remember the way I screamed on my floor that night. I choked several times and gasped for air and almost threw up as I punched and pounded my fists into the carpet and cussed at God and wanted to know HOW he expected me to be okay with this and why he would do this to us. I remember looking around the next day at all of the faces that smiled at me and I smiled back at, and how I thought about how none of them knew how late I had stayed up gasping for every. single. breath. with half a box of used tissues piled in a drenched and snotty mess.

I still feel the sting of the words "I have cancer," and even now, writing that, it feels like it's the first time I've heard it. I know all too well the weight that sat on my chest and in every. single. one. of my bones for days, weeks after that. It felt impossible and it still feels impossible now.

I remember the nights not long after her diagnosis that I spent curled up next to her in my bed, crying on her fuzzy pajamas, and the way she whispered, "I'm sorry I have cancer," into my ear and how it felt so unjust that any mother should ever have to apologize to their child for that. If God is good, and he isn't against me, why do I feel so crammed into this box of misery?

I remember the way my breath stopped and then quickened when I saw the words DUKE CANCER CENTER across the building and how it was like having the news broken to me all over again. I remember the tears I fought just sitting in the waiting room and how every time a doctor or a nurse walked into the room it felt like my lungs were so full of everything except air, and clusters of tears threatened in the back of my eyes. My eyes burned when I saw my mom getting her vitals taken. We are here because my mom has cancer. I turned away and blinked it back.

I remember all of these things; all of these moments; all of these days, but I'm still living them. I live hard moments--lots of hard moments. And these are waves unrelenting. I am trying to learn what it means to walk with Jesus in long suffering, and to endure, instead of questioning him and fighting every waiting period and breech of the original plan. Some days this feels like a living hell and I absolutely cannot keep up with anyone or anything like I used to.

Here we are. And here he is.

He is enough and he is faithful. I'll believe that.