The Casserole

Blog 3

The Hardest Four Days Yet

The last four days have been the hardest so far.

The doctors and nurses had told us that Day 3 after chemo would be the worst. But they also said that after that, Jenn would begin to slowly feel better, and then enter the recovery window before the next round.

That’s what we were expecting. That’s what we were clinging to.

But each morning brought more of the same: nausea, fatigue, and frustration. Each day we woke up hoping she’d turned a corner. Each day, we found ourselves back in the same place.

Jenn has felt especially discouraged, not just because of how she feels, but because she expected to feel better by now. We had held onto that hope so tightly, and when it didn’t happen, the disappointment cut deep. She’s been doing everything “right,” and still the days have felt long, heavy, and unmoving.

That kind of waiting wears you down. It chips away at hope.

But then, something shifted.

Yesterday, Jenn had a little color in her face. She ate and didn’t immediately feel sick. She was more alert at work. She smiled. Her voice had a little more strength. It was a flicker—but it was real.

And today, more of the same. Still weak. Still fragile. But something is shifting.

So far, she hasn’t started losing her hair. We’re grateful for that, especially while we wait for her wig to arrive. It’s a small mercy, but we’ll take it.

The Grief That Catches You Off Guard

Cancer is costly—and not just in the ways you expect.

This week, we felt the cost in a new way: Jenn had to miss our daughter’s 8th-grade graduation.

But it wasn’t just the graduation she missed. It was all the things around it—the parts that matter even more than the ceremony itself. Dress shopping. Getting her ready. The silliness of being with her friends. Take pictures, watch her perform, stand in a room full of other proud parents, and see your child cross from one season to another.

Those are the moments you never think you’ll have to miss. You assume you’ll be there. You plan on being there.

And when you’re not, it hurts in ways that are hard to describe.

There’s also the grief of having to see my daughter’s disappointment in not having her mom be available for all those special moments. And yes, I’m her dad—but these are the moments that only a mom can fully know and understand.

Cancer doesn’t care about connection.

Cancer doesn’t just attack the body. It invades the moments that make life meaningful.

It robs the normal. It steals the shared joy.

We’re just beginning to understand that loss.

A Different Kind of Absence

With Jenn back at work—and me too—I’ve had time to reflect on how I’m really doing. And the truth is, I’m just really sad.

I miss my wife.

She’s here. I see her daily. We talk, we eat meals, we sit together. But something’s missing, not in her effort or her presence, but in her fullness.

Her voice doesn’t ring through the house in the same way. Her eyes aren’t scanning the room to make sure all the little things are cared for. Her “Welcome home!” doesn’t carry the same lightness.

I miss the way she notices everything, the way she moves through the house and quietly makes everything run, and the warmth she brings just by being her whole self.

She’s here, but her presence feels quieted.

It’s that kind of absence that sneaks up on you. It’s grief, but it doesn’t look the way you thought it would.

The Wilderness and the Promise

In preparing for Sunday’s sermon, I’ve been living in Exodus 33.

The golden calf incident had just taken place. God had confronted His people and said, essentially, “You can still go to the Promised Land. I’ll keep my promise. But I’m not going with you.”

That struck me.

He would send an angel to guide them, but His presence would not go. And Moses responds with this:

“If your presence will not go with me, do not bring us up from here.” Exodus 33:15, ESV

I paused there.

Would I say that?

Would I really choose the wilderness with God over the Promised Land without Him?

Because if I’m being honest, there are days I’d trade. I’d take the comfort without the suffering. The gifts without the Giver. The promise without the Presence. No cancer. No grief. No unknown.

But Moses reminds me that God Himself is the reward.

Not the land. Not the healing. Not the relief.

God.

And if He’s not in the Promised Land, I don’t want to be there either.

If He’s in the wilderness—then I’ll stay in the wilderness.

That’s where He is. That’s where I want to be.

A Casserole of Grace

This past Saturday, it showed up in the form of a breakfast casserole.

Our youth pastor and his wife dropped it off for us. The kids sat down to eat, and after a few bites, one of them looked at me and said:

“Daddy, it tastes just like Mommy’s.”

And I almost lost it.

For the first time since Jenn’s diagnosis, life felt… normal.

Well, as normal as it can feel right now.

It wasn’t about the food. It was about what it represented:

Care. Thoughtfulness. A sliver of familiarity.

A simple breakfast casserole became a signpost of God’s presence.

His nearness. His kindness.

That’s how He meets us in the wilderness.

Not with fireworks, but with warmth. With casseroles. With whispers of “I’m still here.”

How You Can Pray for Us

If you’re wondering how to support us right now, here’s how you can pray:

1. For Jenn – That her strength would continue to build between treatments. That the nausea would lessen. That her peace would deepen. And that she wouldn’t feel like she’s failing—even on her hardest days.

2. For our kids – That God would protect their hearts, help them feel secure, and remind them that even though things are different, we are still anchored as a family.

3. For me – That I wouldn’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. That I’d have grace for my sadness. That I’d keep trusting God, even when His presence feels quieter than I want it to.

We’re still in the wilderness.

But we’re learning to find God here.

And sometimes, He shows up in something as simple—and sacred—as a breakfast casserole.