Cheeseburgers, Castles & Cravings

In Sickness and in Health

Twenty years ago this week, I can still remember the nerves—standing in the back of the church, peering through that small rectangular window in the sanctuary doors. It was just me, hidden behind the scenes, heart racing.

I’ll never forget what my best man, Dave, leaned in and said to me:

“You got this. You’re not standing up there alone. Look at all those people who are here—and I’m here with you.”

That one moment settled me enough to step forward, take my place, and wait for Jenn. I remember it like we were just standing there yesterday. The rest of the ceremony is a blur—except for the look on her face. She lit up the room.

And then… there were those words:

“In sickness and in health…”

I had rehearsed that line over and over in the days leading up to our vows. The “health” part was easy to imagine. The “sickness” part? I assumed it would come someday, when we were much older.

I had no idea what “sickness” would mean twenty years later.

What We Planned

Back at Christmas, I gave Jenn a replica of the Veiled Virgin, a sculpture she loves and has long admired. And along with it, I surprised her with my plans for our 20th anniversary: a trip to England.

She’s always dreamed of walking the fields and visiting the castles that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy wandered through in Pride and Prejudice. She knows the book. She loves the movie. And I was excited to see that spark in her eyes again—the same one I saw twenty years ago, standing at the altar.

We were planning it out—train rides, picnics, long walks through old stone paths and gardens.

But instead of booking train tickets and researching tea rooms, we’re managing nausea, hoping for any kind of appetite, and sitting side by side in a chemo room.

What God Knew

God had other plans—ones He marked out long before we ever said “I do.”

He knew this would be the year I’d have the sacred, hard honor of looking into Jenn’s eyes and seeing new things:

Fear. Heartache. Terror.

But also: Determination. Desire. Will. Steadfastness.

These are looks I hadn’t seen before. Not like this. Not this deep. Not this brave.

And although I HATE cancer—hate everything about it—I can say with some peace (and even more surrender) that I’m learning to see Jenn differently now.

And it’s holy.

It’s sacred.

And it’s changing me.

One day, I hope I look back on this season the same way I look back on our wedding day. That I’ll remember not just her delight, but her strength. That I’ll remember her bright blue eyes—not just glowing with joy, but shining with resilience.

Cheeseburgers, Castles & Cravings

As we wrapped up Week 2, Jenn started to feel just a little better. Strength and endurance are slowly creeping back in. The nausea is still lingering, and most of the time, she has no appetite.

But then… she said something unexpected.

She told me she was craving a Burger King cheeseburger.

So I got in the car and surprised her with one mustard and extra pickles only, just the way she’s liked it since we were first married. I didn’t even have to ask. I just knew.

When I got home, I unwrapped it and brought it to her on a paper plate, pretending it was fine china.

She laughed. And then she ate it like it was an aged filet mignon from a high-dollar steakhouse.

Every bite felt like grace.

And watching her eat it felt like hope.

Facing the Hair Loss

Today we go to the wig shop.

None of us are looking forward to this part—not because we think beauty is tied to hair, but because it marks something we can’t undo. It’s another line we cross. Another threshold that says: “This is real.”

The other night, I took our son out for dinner—just the two of us. At a few quiet moments during the meal, in his own 10-year-old way, he opened up. He shared how scared he was about how different Mommy might look. About how people might stare. About how strange it would feel.

We talked about maybe shaving our heads together. At first, he wasn’t so sure. And honestly, I doubt he’ll go through with it. But the fact that he even considered it—that he wanted to make her feel less alone—that’s the kind of moment that sticks with you.

These aren’t just hard moments.

They’re sacred ones.

Trusting the God Who Holds It All

Here’s what I keep learning—over and over:

Life changes. Plans collapse. Dreams shift.

And we’re left with one option: trust.

I’ve been saying for years that God is sovereign. I’ve preached it. Taught it. Quoted it.

But now, I have to live it.

And I’m finding out that sovereignty isn’t just about God being in charge. It’s about believing that He’s good even when I don’t understand. That He’s holding not just the world—but us.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

—Isaiah 55:8–9

We hear that verse a lot. And usually, it’s quoted in moments of gentle disappointment.

But right now? I’m hearing it in pain.

And the pain speaks louder than the disappointment.

And yet—even in that—I continue to seek the God of all comfort (2 Corinthians 1:3), the One who sits with us in sorrow, who doesn’t rush the grief, who meets us in the middle.

Ways You Can Pray

As we begin Week 3, here are a few ways you can pray for us:

1. That Jenn would continue to regain strength, endurance, and appetite

2. That God would be our Comforter, especially as the external changes like hair loss become more visible

3. That we would keep learning how to live in this “new normal”—with grace, honesty, and connection

Thank You, Still

Twenty years ago, I stood at the front of a church and looked out at a room filled with people who were there for us.

Today, I look at each comment, each message, each prayer, each act of kindness—and I see that same kind of support.

You are walking with us.

We feel it.

We feel you.

Thank you—for loving us.

For showing up in the small ways that feel big right now.

Grace and Peace,

Todd