Thunder, Drizzle, and Blue Skies

The Room We Didn’t Ask For

Here we are sitting in the chemo room—and when I say room, I mean a massive floor with about 40 cubicles.

Let me try to describe this space so you can have both a visual in mind and an emotional awareness. Each of these cubicles holds a typical hospital chair—not totally comfortable, not totally uncomfortable. The kind that’s always just about to recline.

Every cubicle has its own station: gloves, IV poles, monitors, all the necessities. And throughout the floor, there are all kinds of noises—but the sound you hear the most is the beeping. Since this is now our second go-around, I’ve learned that the beeping means a bag of meds is finished and it’s time for the next round.

That sound has become oddly comforting—because it means we’re one step closer to being done—but it’s also a little sad. Sad that we have to be here at all.

After each round, a nurse comes by to talk and check on Jenn. They ask the same question 100 times, or at least it feels like it: “What’s your name and what’s your date of birth?” What hits me about that is how deeply caring the nurses are—and how dangerous these drugs must be. The repetition isn’t laziness. It’s love. And it’s also protection.

Mixed with the beeping and the nurse visits are all the conversations happening around us. We can’t help but overhear pieces of other people’s journeys—some just starting, some well into treatment, some hinting that this is going to be their path for a while. The room started out quiet this morning, but it’s filled in as the day’s gone on.

And I’ve noticed something through these first two rounds:

Cancer isn’t biased. It doesn’t care how old you are, where you’re from, what language you speak, or what sex you are. It’s an equal-opportunity thief. Cancer simply doesn’t care.

Although every patient here is different in so many ways, they all have one thing in common:

CANCER.

Jenn’s Strength, Even Here

Many of you continue to ask how Jenn is doing, so I want to take a few minutes to answer.

These past few days, she’s said she feels almost as normal as possible. Her strength has returned some. Her mind has become clearer, less foggy—what they commonly call “chemo brain” seems to be easing a bit.

That said, it hasn’t all been easy. Each day, more of her hair falls out. And for the first time on this journey, she mentioned the other day that she was thinking about calling the salon to schedule a time to shave her head—rather than wait for the rest to come out.

But even with that, her spirit has stayed strong. She continues to be the fighter she is—gritty, grounded, full of quiet courage.

When the Weather Reflects the Heart

Today feels like such a metaphor for everything we’re experiencing.

We woke up this morning to grey skies. The forecast called for thunderstorms. As we drove the kids to school, it started to drizzle. By the time we pulled into the cancer center, the rain had picked up. And as we entered the chemo room, the thunder and lightning rolled in hard.

But as the morning went on—and the meds were administered—the rain began to ease. And just as they came in to give Jenn her final round of meds, the sun began to break through the clouds.

Now, just a few hours later, it’s a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. Just deep blue and warmth. It’s beautiful.

This Is Life Right Now

This day feels like life right now.

There are moments when the clouds are so dark and heavy, it feels like we’ll never see the sun again. Then there are the drizzly days—just enough rain to make things dull and grey, but still manageable.

And then—there are those rare moments when the sky is completely clear. When you can feel the sun on your skin again. And it makes the hard days feel doable.

Today is one of those days.

The day started off dark and cloudy and full of uncertainty. But now, as we come to the end of this second round of treatment, the sun is out, and the Lord is shining His mercy and grace on us.

We know there will be more heavy days ahead. But we are holding on to Hope—a real and rooted hope that He will see us through.

Thank You, Again

We wanted to take just a moment to say thank you.

The love and support that has poured in from all over has been overwhelming—in the best way. We’re sure we’ve missed sending out a thank you here and there, but please know: every prayer, every kind word, every meal, every text—it’s helped carry us through these days.

Your care has mattered more than you know.

How You Can Keep Praying

We’d be so grateful if you’d continue to pray with us in these specific ways:

1. For Jenn – Sometime between now and the next post, Jenn will most likely have lost all her hair. Please pray for strength and courage as she faces this change.

2. For the Kids – This will be one of the hardest parts for them—watching their mom’s appearance change. Please pray for their hearts as they try to process it all.

3. For Our Family – That we would continue to grow closer through all of this—that love would deepen, that connection would hold, and that we would find joy even in the hard places.