Today, I know where I stand. I feel tired, but otherwise well. I am home with my family, where I am cozy and comfortable and known. My body looks familiar in the mirror. Though it carries more weight than I like and has some unsightly places, it has always been here, and it is mine.
Tomorrow, everything changes. There are blanks I can’t fill in. I don’t know how well I’ll come through surgery, though I have every confidence that I will come through. The pain is inevitable. I don’t know how it will feel exactly, but It will be difficult to handle.
It will take me awhile to be brave enough to look in the mirror; I will not like what I see. Even the excellent work of skilled surgeons will be difficult to look at–cut, bruised, and wounded–unfamiliar.
I will experience floods of emotion. Grief will be the overwhelming one. Add to those core feelings fatigue, exhaustion, and pain. This family’s about to scale a mountain.
So today, we will make an effort to be normal, even though normal is clouded and tainted by tomorrow. We will worship with our church body, then pack for the hospital and make sure all is in order. I’ll go early to bed, and pray for sleep. I will be as ready as I can be.
I take captive these thoughts of fear and grief and loss. I know that all will be well and very well. I can see the sun on the horizon and I know that the Son travels with me.
Today is grim. Tomorrow is unknown. The future is very, very bright. Lord willing, this trial will yield for me a long and happy life, cancer free. These difficult days will become a blur, and I will have to read this to remember how I felt this morning. Time is fleeting, and Mercy is sure.