The Sound of School Bells and Sweet Memories

This morning, I sat quietly on our back porch with a cup of coffee in my hands as the familiar hum of a lawn mower drifted across the fence. The landscaper at the elementary school behind our home was trimming the grass, preparing the campus for another school year. In just a few days, August 4th to be exact, those quiet hallways will once again echo with laughter, chatter, and the hurried footsteps of children eager to begin a new chapter. Hearing that mower transported me back through the years to a place that still holds a special corner of my heart: my high school. 

There was something magical about the weeks leading up to school. New clothes carefully folded in dresser drawers. Fresh notebooks waiting to be filled with dreams and assignments. The cellophane wrapped packages of notebook paper, pens, and pencils. Every new school year felt like a clean slate, filled with possibilities. We couldn't wait to reunite with friends we hadn't seen all summer, compare schedules, and wonder who would be in our classes. There was excitement in the air that no amount of growing older can erase.

The memories come rushing back so vividly. Walking the hallways with books hugged tightly against my chest. The metallic slam of lockers closing between classes. Pep rallies that filled the gymnasium with school spirit. Teachers who challenged us, encouraged us, and sometimes made us laugh when they didn't even realize it. Looking at this photograph of some of my teachers and our principal brings back faces that helped shape who I would become. At the time, I probably didn't realize the lasting impact they were making. Years later, I understand that education is about so much more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. It's about people who invest in young lives.

Life has changed in so many ways since those days. My own grandchildren are homeschooled, and I'm grateful they are receiving a wonderful education. Yet every August, I still find myself smiling when school buses begin rolling again and children shoulder backpacks almost as big as they are. A new school year represents hope. It reminds us that every ending is followed by another beginning, and every student is stepping into opportunities they cannot yet imagine.

As adults, we often long for "the good old days," but perhaps what we really miss is the anticipation that came with them. We believed anything was possible. We measured life by semesters instead of calendars, football games instead of deadlines, and friendships instead of followers. Those memories are treasures that time cannot erase. They remind us where we've been and often help us appreciate where we are today.

So, as another school year begins, I pray for every student walking through school doors, every teacher preparing lesson plans, every administrator leading with wisdom, every bus driver, cafeteria worker, custodian, and volunteer who helps make a school function. May this year be filled with learning, kindness, laughter, and friendships that last a lifetime. And may today's students someday look back with the same warmth and gratitude that fills my heart whenever I think of my high school. 

"Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it." — Proverbs 22:6 (KJV)

The Gift of a Sunday Well Spent

There was a time in my life when sitting still made me feel guilty. If I wasn't cleaning the house, running errands, working on a project, or checking something off my to-do list, I felt as though I was wasting precious time. On Sunday afternoons, if I settled into my favorite chair with a good book, I couldn't fully enjoy it because a little voice in the back of my mind kept reminding me of all the things I "should" be doing.

Age has a wonderful way of changing our perspective.

As the years have passed, I've come to realize that time is one of God's most precious gifts. None of us knows how many Sundays we have left to enjoy. Instead of feeling guilty for resting, I've learned to treasure those quiet hours. They are no longer wasted moments; they are sacred ones.

Sunday has always held a special place in my heart. It is the Lord's Day, a day to worship, reflect, and remember His goodness. It is also a beautiful reminder that God never intended for us to live our lives at a constant sprint. From the very beginning, He established a rhythm of work and rest. After the work of creation was complete, God rested, not because He was weary, but because He was setting an example for us. He knew that our hearts, minds, and bodies would all need seasons of quiet.

I think we've forgotten how to rest.

Our culture applauds busyness. We wear exhaustion like a badge of honor and often measure our worth by how much we accomplish. We rush from one responsibility to another, filling every spare moment with activity until we hardly recognize what peace feels like anymore.

But there is something deeply restorative about an unhurried Sunday afternoon.

For me, it's curling up with a good book while the world outside grows quiet. It's hearing the birds sing beyond the window, feeling the gentle stillness settle over the house, and allowing my mind to slow down. It's giving myself permission to simply be instead of constantly striving to do.

I've discovered that rest isn't laziness. It's obedience. It's acknowledging that the world will continue turning even if I pause for a little while. It's trusting that God never asked me to carry every burden or complete every task in a single day.

I've reached a season of life where I no longer apologize for slowing down. Instead, I embrace it with gratitude. These peaceful Sundays have become little gifts from the Lord, moments to breathe deeply, enjoy His blessings, and refill a soul that has poured itself out throughout the week.

If you've been feeling guilty for taking time to rest, perhaps today is your invitation to let that guilt go. Put aside the laundry for a few hours. Leave the dishes until later. Find a comfortable chair, open a good book, sip a cup of coffee or tea, and simply enjoy the quiet.

Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is rest in the presence of the One who created us.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  Matthew 11:28 (ESV)

May your Sunday be filled with worship, peace, and the kind of rest that refreshes both your body and your soul. Those quiet moments are not time lost, they are time beautifully invested in the life God has graciously given you.

The Zucchini are dead

Summer gardening in Georgia is hard. With the terrible heat and the sporadic rain, plants don't know how to thrive. 

About 5 weeks ago, I planted some zucchini from seed. I only had one large pot and I thought I'd try to plant something to grow. I had bought some heirloom seeds from a company several years ago and wondered if they still might come up. So I planted them in the pot, watered it with care and waited. Within a week, little seedlings were popping up everywhere. 

Over the next month, the plants begin to thrive and get bigger. I was excited hoping that I would get some zucchini squash this year without having to buy them at the store. In the past whenever I tried to grow squash, squash bugs would get in and ruin the plant. It was very frustrating. This year that hasn't been the case but there has been another issue. 

It's been extremely hot this summer, hotter than I remember from past summers. I've had to water the plants more often and usually an hour or two after watering, the plants look wilted from the heat. The next day, I'll water them again, and they spring up. I've been hopeful and carefully watching the plants to see what would happen. 

Over the past couple of days, we've had some unexpected torrential downfalls. It has soaked my plants, pelting them with hard rain. The zucchini looked wilty and unhealthy so I decided to just yank them up. I was tired of dealing with them. I was sad because I felt like I'd wasted time and energy on the plants but realized I had some other seeds. 

Today I planted some red and green leaf lettuce. It's supposed to germinate more quickly and hopefully, it will be able to thrive despite the terrible weather conditions. If not, I'll just dig them up and wait till next year to plant something again. 

Since we have an inground sprinkler system, we haven't wanted to dig in the yard for fear of hitting the pipes. That has caused us to find other ways of growing. I'm hoping to get some above ground planting boxes next year, but this year I only had one large pot. If we didn't have the sprinkler system, I would have already planted in the ground and had a large garden, but cest la vie.

Special unexpected gifts mean the most

One of the greatest joys of being a parent is discovering that no two children are ever alike. They may grow up in the same home, hear the same bedtime stories, eat the same family meals, and celebrate the same holidays, yet each one develops into a completely unique individual. Looking back over the years, I've come to realize that God doesn't make copies. He creates originals, and I have been blessed to watch that truth unfold through each of my four children.

They are all wonderfully different. They each have their own personalities, talents, strengths, and ways of expressing love. Some are more outgoing while others are quieter. Some wear their emotions on their sleeves, while others reveal their hearts through actions instead of words. As their mother, I've learned to appreciate those differences because they make our family richer.

My oldest child, my son Dave, has always had a quiet, reserved nature. He's not someone who seeks the spotlight or tries to be the funniest person in the room. If you met him for the first time, you might think he's serious. But those of us who know him best have discovered a side of him that appears when you least expect it. Every once in a while, he'll do something so clever and unexpected that it catches me completely by surprise and leaves me laughing long after the moment has passed.

Not long ago, Dave came to visit. Like most visits, we enjoyed spending time together, catching up on life, and making new memories. At some point while he was here, he wandered into my art room. It's one of my favorite places in the house, filled with paintbrushes, projects waiting to be finished, and little treasures that bring back happy memories.

One of those treasures is a troll doll that my youngest daughter, Jamie, gave me as a gift. She knows how much I enjoy nostalgic reminders of my childhood, and that little troll immediately transported me back to simpler days. It has sat on a shelf in my art room ever since, faithfully sporting the same wild, colorful hair that troll dolls have been famous for over the years.

A day or two after Dave had gone home, I walked into my art room and immediately noticed something was different. At first, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then I looked closer.

The troll's hair had been neatly parted straight down the middle.

I stood there for a second before it dawned on me exactly what had happened.

Dave.

Without saying a single word, he had quietly given my troll doll a new hairstyle. I could almost picture him standing there, carefully smoothing that outrageous hair into a perfect middle part, grinning to himself as he imagined how long it might take me to notice.

I laughed out loud.

He never mentioned it before he left. There wasn't a note beside the troll explaining his handiwork. He simply trusted that sooner or later I'd discover his little surprise. Knowing me as well as he does, he probably knew it wouldn't take very long.

The more I thought about it, the sweeter it became. It wasn't simply a practical joke. It was one of those small, thoughtful gestures that quietly says, "I know you." He knew I would laugh. He knew that every time I looked at that troll doll afterward, I'd think about him. Even now, every time I walk into my art room and see that perfectly parted hair, I smile all over again.

It reminded me that love doesn't always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it's tucked inside little moments that could easily be overlooked. Sometimes it's a phone call just to check in. Sometimes it's showing up when you're needed. And sometimes it's giving your mother's troll doll a haircut because you know she'll eventually find it and laugh until she can't help herself.

As parents, we spend years trying to teach our children about kindness, compassion, and bringing joy to others. Then one day we realize they've been teaching us all along. They've shown us that love has many languages, and each person speaks it a little differently.

I'm grateful for all four of my children and the unique ways they've enriched my life. They each reflect a different facet of God's creativity, and I wouldn't change a single thing about who they are. Their personalities may be vastly different, but together they have filled my life with laughter, lessons, unforgettable memories, and countless reminders of God's goodness.

And thanks to my quiet, reserved son with the wonderfully unexpected sense of humor, I'll probably never look at another troll doll quite the same way again.

The summer from hell

This summer has bothered me more than any other. I don't know if it's because I'm older and I'm less heat tolerant, or if it's due to our current location, or if it's due to the massive heatwave that has hovered over the southeast. It's probably a combination of all three! In any event, I hate it. 

I wonder if the horrible heat is a byproduct of the cloud seeding that the government has been doing for some time. Messing with the ozone layer is not a good thing. 

When I think about how hot it is, I can't help but imagine what hell would feel like. Can you imagine having scorching heat 24 hours a day 365 days a year for eternity? I can't! 

Finding ways to stay cool is a challenge. We get up early and get our walking in before 10:00 a.m. Between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m., we stay indoors. I've never been so thankful for air conditioning in my entire life. 

I grew up with no air conditioning. We had an attic fan, and windows. As a child, I didn't notice it that much. But as I grew older, I realized how unfortunate we were. Yes, we had a roof over our heads, but it would have been so much nicer to have air conditioning like all of my friends did. We couldn't afford it number one and number two, our house had no insulation so if we had been able to afford air conditioning, the coolness would not have stayed inside our home. 

I keep thinking I need to move to a cooler climate, perhaps one of the Carolinas or Tennessee. Who knows, maybe in another year or two, we'll make the decision to pull up roots and start again somewhere. 

For now, I'm doing the best I can to stay cool. I wear lightweight clothing, pull my hair up, stay indoors when I need to, and enjoy the early morning hours and late evening hours when possible. 

I feel terrible complaining about the heat when there are so many around the world who are worse off than we are. I guess you could say we've gotten spoiled. I like the cooler weather, I love air conditioning, and I like to be comfortable. I guess I am a little spoiled.

The photo below is of St Mark's lighthouse. It's one of the places we enjoy visiting when we go to Florida. Speaking of Florida, that's another hot place, but being near the ocean is always enjoyable especially when we can feel a nice ocean breeze.

Twelve Years After Cancer

Twelve years ago, I heard the words no one ever wants to hear: You have cancer. In that moment, life split into two distinct chapters—before cancer and after cancer. Nothing has ever looked quite the same since that horrible day. Every year since my diagnosis, I've celebrated life.

Celebrating the Early Years of Survival

In those early years, the celebrations were big. I wasn't sure I would make it to the next anniversary, so each one felt monumental. My family gathered around tables filled with laughter and gratitude. Many photos were taken. Cakes were decorated. Hugs lingered a little longer. We celebrated not just survival, but possibility.

I remember reaching the five-year mark, a milestone often viewed as the gold standard in the cancer world. People cheered, doctors smiled, and friends breathed easier. It was as though I had crossed an invisible finish line, but something interesting happened after that.

As the years passed, the celebrations became smaller. Family members, relieved that I had done well, naturally shifted their focus back to everyday life. The urgency faded for them; after all, I was okay—or at least, I looked okay. My cancerversary didn't take the same prominence in their lives, and often I'd have to remind them it had come again.

The Hidden Reality of Cancer Survivorship

What many people don't understand is that survivorship doesn't erase the experience of cancer. Even years later, there is often a quiet awareness tucked into the corners of our minds. A strange ache can trigger questions. A routine scan can stir anxiety. A doctor's appointment can awaken memories we'd rather leave behind. The fear of recurrence never completely disappears.

I don't dwell on it. I don't allow it to steal today's joy, but I acknowledge that it's there. That's one of the reasons I continue to celebrate every cancer-free anniversary—because I know what it means.

I know what it is to sit in waiting rooms holding my breath. I know what it feels like to hear medical terminology become part of everyday conversation. I know what it means to face uncertainty and keep moving forward anyway. Surviving cancer changes you.

Learning to Treasure Ordinary Days

It teaches you that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. It strips away the illusion of unlimited time. It causes you to notice ordinary miracles—the warmth of sunlight on your face, the sound of your grandchildren laughing, a meal shared with people you love, or another birthday candle to blow out.

Twelve years is a long time to live after cancer, and I am profoundly grateful for every single one of those years. So when should a cancer survivor stop celebrating? My answer is simple: never. Not because we're living in fear, but because we're living with appreciation.

Celebration isn't denial. It isn't pretending that the difficult parts never happened. It is acknowledging that they did happen and that somehow, through treatment, tears, setbacks, prayers, determination, and grace, we are still here.

Why Some People Don't Understand Cancerversaries

Some people may not understand that, especially when you share each milestone on social media. I've had both positive and negative reactions there. Old friends from high school have wondered why I still mark the date. They've commented with things like, "Haven't you moved on by now?"

The truth is, I have moved on. I've built a life beyond cancer. I've embraced joy, pursued new dreams, and created beautiful memories. But moving on doesn't mean forgetting.

Cancer became part of my story, but it did not become the end of it. And if one day the disease returns, as it sadly does for some survivors, I will face that challenge when and if it comes. I pray it never does. I do my best to trust God with the unknowns that remain beyond my control.

Every Anniversary Is Worth Celebrating

In the meantime, I refuse to postpone joy. I will celebrate the clear scans and anniversaries. I will celebrate ordinary days that once felt so uncertain because surviving a battle we never chose to fight takes courage. It takes determination. It takes resilience. It requires getting up on days when fear whispers loudly and hope feels fragile.

Cancer survivors understand that life itself is worth commemorating. Perhaps that's what survivorship really means. It isn't simply counting the years since diagnosis. It's learning to live fully within those years. It's choosing gratitude over bitterness. It's finding reasons to laugh again. It's recognizing that every new season, every milestone, every ordinary Tuesday is a gift.

So this year, I will celebrate twelve years of being cancer-free. I will probably take more pictures than necessary. I'll gather with the people I love. I'll reflect on how far I've come and offer prayers of thanksgiving for the journey. I'll more than likely have a big slice of cake. I'll do all these things not because I am afraid, not because I am stuck in the past, but because I understand something cancer taught me long ago: life is precious, and milestones matter.

There Is No Expiration Date on Gratitude

If you're a fellow survivor wondering whether it's still acceptable to celebrate five years, ten years, twenty years, or beyond, let me assure you that there is no expiration date on gratitude.

You don't need permission to honor the road you've traveled or the strength it took to get here. Celebrate in whatever way feels meaningful to you. Celebrate loudly or quietly. Celebrate with a party or with a whispered prayer. Put it all over social media—but celebrate, because every anniversary represents another year of hope, another year of memories made, another year of choosing life despite knowing how fragile it can be.

As for me, if God grants me another year to celebrate, I intend to do exactly that—with no apologies.

250 Years of Freedom

Today, America celebrates 250 years of freedom.

As I sit here reflecting on what that means, I realize that the word "freedom" is something many of us use so often that we sometimes forget just how precious it really is.

I am thankful that I live in a country where I can open my Bible without fear. I can bow my head in prayer at a restaurant, attend church every Sunday, speak openly about my faith, and share God's Word with others. I can travel where I choose, voice my opinions, cast my vote, and enjoy countless liberties that generations before me fought to preserve.

Those freedoms became even more meaningful to me in 2009 when I traveled to China on a mission trip.

It was a beautiful country filled with wonderful people, but it was also a sobering reminder of what life is like without the freedoms we often take for granted. As we walked through the airport, soldiers carrying machine guns seemed to be everywhere we looked. Their presence was impossible to ignore. I remember thinking how different it felt from home.

We were careful about where and when we talked about our faith. Something as simple as openly reading my Bible or praying in a public place could have brought unwanted attention and potentially serious consequences. It made me appreciate, in a way I never had before, the incredible blessing of religious freedom here in America.

That experience forever changed my perspective.

Today, I also find myself thinking about the men and women who have worn our nation's uniform. My own family has a rich heritage of military service, and I have always been proud of that legacy. Today, my grandson continues that tradition as he serves in the United States Army. Knowing he is willing to stand in harm's way to help protect the freedoms that so many of us enjoy fills my heart with both gratitude and pride.

Freedom has never been free. Every liberty we enjoy has come at a tremendous cost paid by brave men and women and by the families who stood behind them.

This Independence Day also brings sweet memories of my daddy.

Daddy was born on July 2, and he loved to tell everyone he was "almost a firecracker." Every year, the Fourth of July was one of his favorite holidays. He couldn't wait for the fireworks. M-80s, Black Cats, bottle rockets, you name it, he loved them all. His excitement was contagious, and some of my happiest childhood memories are wrapped up in family gatherings, cookouts, laughter, and watching him enjoy every loud boom and brilliant burst of color lighting up the summer sky.

Every Fourth of July, those memories come rushing back, and I can't help but smile. I can almost hear his laughter and imagine him grinning from ear to ear as another firecracker exploded.

As we celebrate America's 250th birthday today, with family gathered around the table, hamburgers on the grill, homemade ice cream, flags waving proudly, children laughing, and fireworks filling the night sky, I hope we will pause for just a moment to remember why we celebrate.

May we never take our freedoms for granted.

May we remember those who sacrificed to secure them.

May we pray for our nation, for our military, for our leaders, and for future generations.

And may we always thank God for the incredible blessing of living in a land where we are still free to worship Him openly.

Happy 250th Birthday, America.

God bless America, and may God continue to bless the land that I am proud to call home.

Busted in the Backyard

Before I married my first husband, David and I spent a lot of time visiting his cousin Pat and her husband Ron. They were fun people, and their backyard featured what seemed like the greatest luxury imaginable on a sweltering Georgia summer night, an above-ground swimming pool.

One particular evening, after the four of us had spent hours talking and laughing, Pat and Ron announced they were heading to bed. David and I exchanged a glance. The night air was thick with humidity, and the pool water looked inviting beneath the moonlight. Somewhere between youthful courage and questionable judgment, David suggested we go for a late-night swim. Then he added two words that nearly stopped my heart: "skinny dipping."

I had never done such a thing in my life. The very idea made me nervous. But David was persuasive, and eventually I agreed. We waited until we were absolutely certain Pat and Ron were asleep. Like a pair of amateur spies, we tiptoed across the backyard, trying not to make a sound. We slipped into the cool water and congratulated ourselves on our successful mission. There we were, floating beneath the stars, feeling quite clever and certain we'd gotten away with our little adventure.

For about twenty minutes, everything went according to plan.

Then suddenly, without warning, the backyard security light blazed to life.

One second we were hidden in darkness. The next, we were illuminated like the grand opening of a new department store. Every ounce of confidence instantly evaporated. I froze. David froze. We stared toward the house, and there stood Pat, who had apparently heard enough suspicious splashing to investigate.

I have never moved so fast in my entire life.

To this day, I don't remember exactly how I got out of that pool, gathered my dignity, and found my clothes. I only remember being absolutely mortified while Pat laughed so hard she could barely stand up. As for David, he thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years have passed since that summer night, and thankfully my embarrassment has faded. What remains is a memory that still makes me smile. It's funny how life works. The moments we wish would disappear forever often become the stories we laugh about the longest. And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend skinny dipping in your relatives' swimming pool, I can testify that nothing creates a lasting family story quite like getting caught red-handed, or in our case, caught completely uncovered.  

(Graphic created with AI)

The tattoo that carried me through cancer

Certain images stay with us throughout our lives, quietly shaping the way we see ourselves and the way we endure hardships. For me, that image was the phoenix, a mythical bird said to rise from its own ashes, reborn stronger than before.

I first learned about the legend of the phoenix when I was in elementary school. Even as a child, I was fascinated by the idea of a creature that could survive destruction and emerge renewed. There was something powerful and comforting in the symbolism, although at the time I could not have known how deeply that image would one day matter to me.

As the years passed, life carried me through adulthood with all its joys, responsibilities, disappointments, and uncertainties. Like most people, I experienced moments that tested my strength. Some trials were small and fleeting, while others left lasting scars. Yet somehow, the image of the phoenix always lingered quietly in the back of my mind.

Years later, while trying to decide on a meaningful tattoo design, I remembered that legendary bird from my childhood. I wanted something personal, something symbolic, something that represented resilience and hope. After much thought, I decided to have a phoenix tattooed on my chest just above my left breast.

At the time, I saw it as a reminder that no matter what hardships life brought my way, I would always rise above them. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw that tattoo, I felt encouraged. It became more than artwork on my skin. It became a declaration of strength, perseverance, and survival.

What I did not know then was how profoundly that symbol would one day speak into my life.

In 2014, breast cancer entered my world.

No one is ever truly prepared to hear the word “cancer.” It changes the atmosphere in the room instantly. One moment, life feels predictable, and the next, everything becomes uncertain. Fear arrives quickly, often before you even have time to process what is happening. Questions flood your mind. What happens next? How bad is it? Am I going to survive this?

I remember the emotional whirlwind that followed my diagnosis. There were doctor appointments, tests, scans, consultations, and difficult conversations. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion. Cancer does not just attack the body. It attacks the mind and spirit as well. It can make even the strongest person feel vulnerable.

But during that season of my life, something remarkable happened.

That phoenix tattoo, the one I had chosen years before, simply because its story inspired me, suddenly took on an entirely new meaning. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded that the phoenix survived the fire. It rises from devastation. It does not stay buried in ashes.

Some people might see a tattoo as merely decorative, but for me, it became deeply personal during my cancer journey. It was no longer just a symbol I admired. It became a visible reminder that I was stronger than my fear. It reminded me daily that hardship does not have to define the outcome of a person’s life.

There were difficult days, of course. Cancer treatment is not glamorous, no matter how positively someone tries to face it. There is physical pain, emotional fatigue, uncertainty, and moments of discouragement that can creep in unexpectedly. There are days when your body no longer feels like your own. There are moments when you look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at you.

Breast cancer can especially affect the way a woman sees herself. It touches something deeply connected to identity, femininity, and confidence. There are emotional wounds that accompany the physical battle, and many women quietly carry those burdens while trying to remain strong for everyone around them.

Yet through all of it, that image of the phoenix remained close to my heart, literally and figuratively.

I began to realize that surviving cancer is not only about enduring treatments or making it through surgery. It is also about learning how to rise emotionally and spiritually through the experience. It is about refusing to surrender your hope. It is about choosing courage even when fear feels overwhelming.

The phoenix reminded me that fire does not always destroy. Sometimes it transforms.

That perspective changed the way I approached my battle with cancer. Instead of seeing myself solely as a victim of circumstances, I began to see myself as someone capable of rising through adversity. The tattoo on my chest became a quiet source of determination during some of the hardest days of my life.

There is something incredibly powerful about symbols. Sometimes a simple image can anchor us when everything else feels unstable. It can become a source of comfort, motivation, and identity. For me, the phoenix represented survival long before cancer entered my life, but afterward, it represented something even greater. It represented victory.

Now, almost twelve years later, I am still here.

Those words carry more weight than many people realize. Cancer has a way of making you appreciate time differently. The ordinary moments become extraordinary. You learn not to take simple blessings for granted. A peaceful morning, laughter with loved ones, a quiet sunset, or even an uneventful day can suddenly feel precious.

Surviving cancer also changes your understanding of strength. Before my diagnosis, I thought strength meant never being afraid. But cancer taught me that real strength often exists alongside fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is continuing to move forward despite it.

Looking back now, I realize the most important lesson I learned was not merely how to fight, but how to rise.

Anyone can face hardship because hardship eventually comes to all of us in one form or another. Some battles are physical, some emotional, and some spiritual. What matters most is not the existence of the trial itself, but the way we respond to it. We may not always control what enters our lives, but we do have the power to decide whether we will remain buried beneath the ashes or rise from them.

That is what the phoenix ultimately came to mean to me.

Today, when I see that tattoo, I no longer just think about mythology or artistic symbolism. I think about survival. I think about resilience. I think about every difficult moment I endured, and every prayer whispered during sleepless nights. I think about the grace that carried me through fear and uncertainty. Most of all, I think about the blessing of still being here to tell my story.

Cancer changed my life forever, but it did not destroy me. In many ways, it revealed strengths I never knew I possessed. Like the phoenix I admired as a child, I learned that sometimes life’s fiercest fires do not consume us. Sometimes they teach us how to rise.

Remembering 12 years ago

Looking back to June 22, 2014- 

I've been through a gamut of emotions since receiving my Breast Cancer diagnosis. I've been sad, I've been angry, I've been depressed. I've been confused, I've been bewildered, I've been numb. I'm sure if I Googled "range of emotions related to Breast Cancer diagnosis" I'd receive a long list of psychological reports and studies that have been created but, I don't have to do that. I've lived through them over the past weeks. Yesterday, I dealt with anger and defeat. Today, I am adopting determination! What, you don't think determination is an emotion? Maybe not. Perhaps determination is just anger with a goal in mind, in any event, I'm headed in that direction.

Determination runs in my family. My mother always said I was very determined. If there were cookies in the jar and I wanted one, even if I'd been told not to touch them, I would figure out a way to reach that jar and grab a cookie. As a child, if you told me I couldn't do something, I went about proving that I could. As an adult, if I was told I couldn't do something, I took on the challenge and found a way to prove the naysayers wrong. I guess you could say the characteristics of determination have been part of my character from the very beginning. I know my strengths and weaknesses. I know how to set goals and achieve them.

I see determination in my children, too. When Laura, my middle daughter, was a child, she portrayed her determination in what Dr. James Dobson liked to call a "strong willed child." From the time she was an infant, we knew she was different. Some said she had a big temper and used it to get what she wanted, but I knew she was just determined. She knew exactly what she wanted and she was going to find a way to get it. We used to laugh when she'd kick and scream and cry in frustration at not being able to do what she wanted to do. But her determination has taken her through challenges in life and she's turned out just fine.

This morning, I watched my granddaughter, Heather, as she tried to get the child lock off of my kitchen cabinet door. She shook it and pulled on it, trying her best to figure out a way to make it let go. I could see the determination in her face as her little lip was pulled back and held tight by tiny baby teeth.  Laura looked down at her and said "she's determined to get that thing off!" I smiled knowing that determination indeed has passed from one generation to another. Determination isn't a bad character trait to have, is it?

Like a horse with blinders on, determination has caused me to see the finish line. I see myself headed toward the gate. Today, I'm going to "pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again!" I am determined to get through this Cancer journey and do it well.

My life has suddenly gone from black and white to hi-res color. Instead of focusing on the entire journey ahead, I've decided to live in the moment. A dear friend told me recently that wherever I am, that's where I'll be. She said I need to take a look at my feet and realize that at that very moment in time, I am in that place and nothing but that time and place matter. I have never thought of living life that way before. I've always been a long range planner, a goal setter, a mover and a shaker. Can I learn to live in the moment? I think I can.

As I look down at my feet right now, I see that I am in my office. My feet are firmly planted in the lush carpet of my home. Underneath the carpet is a solid foundation of cement, the slab of my home. Underneath the slab is the beautiful grass covered earth that God created and underneath all of that, is the solid rock of Jesus Christ. He is the only foundation that is unmoveable and unshakeable. No amount of determination can ever change the fact that He holds me firmly in the palm of His mighty hands.

The dog days are over! It's time to move full steam ahead. Determination is going to carry me forward, over, around, under, and through the next stage of my journey. Cancer you may think you've won. You may think you're going to run rampant through my body but I say no! I am going to fight you with everything that is within me. You have no idea what kind of fight I'm going to give you! Radiation, bring it on. Hormone therapy...got that. And if, and when, I'm told I have to have Chemo, well...I'll push through it too.

We are a family of fighters. We are determined. We find a way. I'm not going down without a fight and I'm not going to allow myself to feel defeated again.

"I press on toward the goal to win the [supreme and heavenly] prize to which God in Christ Jesus is calling us upward." Philippians 3:14

"But the firm foundation of (laid by) God stands, sure and unshaken, bearing this seal (inscription): The Lord knows those who are His, and, Let everyone who names [himself by] the name of the Lord give up all iniquity and stand aloof from it." 2 Timothy 2:19

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9-10

Epilogue

Looking back now, I smile when I read these words. At the time, I had no idea what the journey ahead would require of me. There would be surgeries, treatments, exhaustion, tears, and victories I couldn't yet imagine. There would be days when determination carried me and days when only God's strength was enough.

But the woman who wrote these words on June 22, 2014, was right about one thing—she wasn't going down without a fight.

Cancer didn't have the final word.

God did.

Today, I live with gratitude that only a survivor can fully understand. Every ordinary morning, every family gathering, every devotional I write, every photograph I take, and every grandchild's laugh reminds me that life is a gift. The determination that carried me through treatment has become something even stronger: quiet confidence in the faithfulness of God.

He never left me. Not once.

The Gift of an Unhurried Season

"They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green." — Psalm 92:14 (NIV)

When I was younger, I never imagined this season of life.

Back then, my days were full. There were children to raise, jobs to work, meals to cook, appointments to keep, and endless responsibilities demanding my attention. I often longed for a slower pace, certain that one day I would appreciate having fewer obligations.

Then that day arrived.

Now, retired and nearing seventy, I sometimes look around and wonder, Is this all there is? The housework gets done. A book is read. Perhaps a trip is planned now and then. Family and dear friends live miles away. The calendar that once overflowed with commitments now contains wide stretches of quiet.

To be honest, this season can feel strange.

What am I supposed to do now?

But perhaps I'm asking the wrong question.

Maybe this season isn't about doing more. Maybe it's about being more aware of God's presence in the ordinary moments. Perhaps this quieter chapter is not an indication that my usefulness has ended, but an invitation to rest in ways I never allowed myself to before.

God never intended our value to be measured by busyness. The psalmist reminds us that we can still bear fruit in old age. Fruit doesn't always look like activity. Sometimes it looks like wisdom shared over coffee, prayers whispered for those we love, encouragement offered through a handwritten note, hospitality extended to a lonely neighbor, or simply cultivating gratitude in the everyday rhythms of life.

I wonder if this season is, in part, God's gracious reward after years of faithful labor. Not retirement from purpose, but retirement from striving. A chance to breathe deeply. To notice the lightning bugs at dusk. To linger over morning devotions. To watch the changing seasons and recognize that God is present in every one of them.

The truth is, I may not run at the pace I once did, but I can still walk closely with the Lord.

And perhaps that has been His invitation all along.

If you find yourself in a quieter season, don't mistake stillness for insignificance. God wastes nothing—not even the slower chapters. There is beauty to be found here, purpose yet to be discovered, and fruit still to bear.

The God who guided us through the busy years will also teach us how to live faithfully in the unhurried ones.

Heavenly Father, thank You for being present in every season of life. When I struggle to understand this quieter chapter, remind me that my worth has never depended on how busy I am. Teach me to embrace the gifts You have placed before me today—the gift of rest, the gift of reflection, and the gift of time spent in Your presence. Show me the ways I can continue to bear fruit and encourage others, even if it looks different than it once did. Help me to trust that You still have purpose for my days and joy waiting to be discovered in the ordinary moments. May I walk into this season with gratitude, hope, and confidence that You are not finished writing my story. In Jesus' name, Amen.

It's been a while

My goodness! I didn't realize it been so long since I had written a blog post. But life has a way of happening and moving recently is my valid excuse. Hopefully, things are starting to slow down a little and I can start posting more. 

I can't even begin to tell you all the things that we've been doing but I'll try to focus on the most recent trip. This one wasn't a long way away, but it was still fun. 

We went to a local peach orchard and enjoyed watching the sorting and washing process. It's amazing that they can make machines to do just about anything these days. After we visited the market part of the farm, we drove to the orchard and of course I took a good bit of pictures. 

Peaches always remind me of my daddy. He loved peaches and especially loved peach ice cream. I remember as a child, we would take turns with our neighbors making homemade ice cream. They had an old wooden crank machine. Our little arms would get so tired turning and turning that crank, but we love the end result. 

I can still visualize the salt and ice packed around the edges of the center container of the ice cream machine. Watching that ice slowly melt as the salt press down on it was amazing. 

What was even more fun was when we all got to sit down and chairs and enjoy the fruit of our labor. That peach ice cream was delicious! 

I can almost hear the laughter from my brother and sister and our neighbors - Charles Jesse, Lee and Ray. Those summer nights were so special. 

I love how smelling or tasting something can instantly transport me back to the past. I hope I never forget any of those sweet memories, especially the nights when we turned peach ice cream.

Lesson From a Robotic Vacuum

This past Mother’s Day, my daughter gave me one of those little robotic vacuum cleaners. You know the kind, small, round, and determined. At first, I found myself watching it like a child watches a remote-controlled car. It bumped into furniture, turned around, adjusted its course, and kept going. But before long, I noticed something else, it was actually doing a pretty good job cleaning my floors.

As I sat there watching that little machine quietly do its work, I couldn’t help but think about the Holy Spirit.

Much like that robotic vacuum, the Holy Spirit has a way of moving through the hidden spaces of our lives. He goes places we often overlook—those dusty corners of old wounds, hidden attitudes, secret pride, unforgiveness, fear, and habits we’ve learned to live with. We may think everything looks clean on the surface, but God sees what settles in the corners.

King David understood this when he prayed:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts.”
— The Bible Psalm 139:23

The Holy Spirit doesn’t clean with condemnation, He cleans with conviction, love, and purpose. Sometimes He bumps into areas of our lives we’d rather keep untouched. Sometimes He circles back to something we thought had already been dealt with. But He never does it to shame us. He does it to make us holy.

Jesus said:

“But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost… he shall teach you all things.”
— The Bible John 14:26

Just like my little robotic vacuum keeps moving until the dirt is gone, the Holy Spirit continues His work in us until we begin to reflect Christ more clearly. He’s not interested in surface cleaning, He’s after transformation.

Paul reminded believers of this truth:

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”
— The Bible Philippians 1:6

So now, every time I hear that little vacuum humming across my floors, I smile. Because I’m reminded that while my vacuum is cleaning my house, the Holy Spirit is still cleaning me.

And honestly? I’m grateful He never stops!

The Power of Forgiveness : Unlocking the Key to Freedom for the Forgiver and the Forgivee

Forgiveness isn’t always easy, is it?

 

Sometimes the hurt runs deep. Sometimes the words spoken or the actions taken leave wounds that don’t heal overnight. And if we’re honest, there are moments when holding on to that hurt feels almost justified.

 

But here’s the truth we gently learn, often the hard way:

forgiveness is not about saying what happened was okay, it’s about setting your heart free.

 

When we choose to forgive, we’re not excusing the offense. We’re releasing its hold on us. We’re choosing not to let yesterday’s pain dictate today’s peace.

 

Unforgiveness is heavy. It lingers in our thoughts, weighs on our spirit, and quietly builds walls around our hearts. But forgiveness, real, intentional forgiveness, is like unlocking a door we didn’t realize we were standing behind.

 

And the beautiful part?

 

That freedom doesn’t just touch us, it reaches the one we forgive, too.

 

Forgiveness opens the door for healing on both sides. It creates space for

 grace, for restoration, and for God to move in ways we could never orchestrate on our own.

 

Now, that doesn’t mean everything is instantly repaired. It doesn’t mean trust is automatically restored. But it does mean the chains are broken.

 

It means you can breathe again.

 

It means your heart is no longer carrying something God never intended for you to hold onto.

 

If there’s someone you’ve been struggling to forgive, take that first step today. You don’t have to feel it fully yet. Just choose it. Place it in God’s hands and trust Him with the outcome.

 

Because forgiveness isn’t weakness, it’s freedom.

 

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

Ephesians 4:32 (NLT)

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of forgiveness. You have forgiven me more than I could ever deserve, and yet I struggle at times to extend that same grace to others. Help me to release every hurt, every offense, and every burden into Your hands.

 

Give me the strength to forgive, even when it’s hard. Heal the places in my heart that still ache, and replace bitterness with peace. Teach me to trust You with what I cannot fix.

 

I lift up those who have hurt me, and I ask that You work in their lives as only You can. Bring restoration where it is possible, and peace where it is needed.

 

Thank You for the freedom that forgiveness brings.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Woe is me

There’s something humbling about knee replacement surgery that no one really prepares you for. You go into it thinking, “I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” and then reality gently (or not so gently) reminds you that healing has its own timeline. As I inch closer to 70, I’m learning that my body doesn’t always cooperate the way it used to. Some days it feels like my knee and I are in negotiations… and let’s just say, I’m not always winning.

It’s a strange realization, this awareness that our bodies are, little by little, wearing out. Scripture tells us this earthly tent won’t last forever, and now I’m feeling that truth in very real ways. Getting up takes a little more effort, walking requires a bit more thought, and don’t even get me started on stairs. Whoever invented stairs clearly never had a knee replacement!

But here’s what I’m holding onto: while the body may slow down, the spirit doesn’t have to. So in the meantime, I’m choosing to live the best I can, one day at a time. I’m learning to rest when I need to, laugh when I can, and manage the aches with a little more grace (and maybe a heating pad or two). There’s still so much life to live, even if I move through it a bit slower these days.

And through it all, I’m thankful. Thankful that I can still get up, still move, still embrace each new day God gives me. It may not look like it used to, but it’s still a gift. So I’ll keep going, one careful step at a time, with a grateful heart and maybe a slightly dramatic sigh every now and then. After all, if we can’t laugh a little along the way, we might just cry… and I’d rather save my energy for walking. 

Learning the New

There’s something both exhilarating and unsettling about starting over in a new city. Every street is unfamiliar, every turn requires a second guess, and even the simplest errands can feel like small adventures. Some days it feels exciting, like we’re explorers charting new territory. Other days, if I’m honest, it’s just plain overwhelming.

We haven’t found our rhythm yet, and one of the hardest parts has been not having “our people.” Back home, friendships were woven into our daily lives, easy, comfortable, and deeply rooted. Here, we’re starting from scratch. No familiar faces at the grocery store, no spontaneous coffee dates, no one who just “knows” us yet. That absence can feel heavy.

But in the middle of all this newness, there are small mercies, and I’m learning to notice them. For one, I’m incredibly thankful for GPS. What did we ever do without it? It’s been our constant companion, guiding us through winding roads and unknown neighborhoods, helping us feel just a little less lost. It’s funny how something so simple can bring such comfort.

We’re slowly checking things off our list. Next up: finding new doctors. It’s one of those necessary steps that makes a place start to feel more like home, even if the process itself feels daunting. Piece by piece, we’re building a new life here, even if it doesn’t quite feel like “ours” yet.

This past weekend brought a much-needed dose of familiarity and joy. Having my son visit, along with my youngest daughter and her husband, filled our home with laughter and love. For a little while, everything felt normal again. It reminded me that no matter where we are, home isn’t just a place, it’s the people we hold close.

So here we are, somewhere between lost and found. Learning new roads, hoping for new friendships, and trusting that in time, this unfamiliar place will become something more. Maybe even home.

Survivorship and Suitcases: Stepping Into the Unknown Twice

My sweet oncologist

The month after my oncologist transitioned me into the survivorship program, my husband and I signed papers on a house in a new city. I didn’t expect that leaving the safety of my cancer team and leaving the familiarity of my hometown would stir up the very same question in my heart: Who am I now?

When my oncologist told me I was being moved into the survivorship program, I smiled politely. I knew this was good news. Survivorship is the place every cancer patient hopes to land. It means active treatment is behind you. It means scans are less frequent. It means life is supposed to return to something resembling normal.

But as I walked to my car that day, keys clutched tightly in my hand, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

I felt untethered.

For months, years really, my cancer treatment center had been my anchor. The waiting room chairs, the familiar faces at the front desk, the quiet efficiency of the infusion nurses, and most of all, my oncologist. She knew my case inside and out. She knew my fears before I spoke them. When something felt off in my body, I could call and know someone who understood my history would respond.

Being transitioned into survivorship felt like someone gently, but firmly, removing the training wheels.

“You’re doing great,” they said. “We’ll see you in six months.”

Six months.

In cancer time, that feels like an eternity.

At almost the same moment this shift was happening, my husband and I were in the middle of buying a house in another city. Boxes were appearing in the corners of our home. Paperwork was piling up on the kitchen table. We were researching new grocery stores, new pharmacies, new doctors.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

In one season, I was leaving behind not just a house, but the place that had carried me through one of the hardest chapters of my life.

Cancer changes the geography of your heart. Certain streets hold memories of radiation appointments. Certain parking spaces feel sacred because you prayed there before walking inside for biopsy results. The walls of my treatment center had witnessed my tears, my flat chest, and my whispered pleas to God in sterile exam rooms.

And now I was being told: You’re okay. You can go.

At the same time, I was packing up my life.

Moving to a new city is unsettling under the best of circumstances. You leave behind your favorite cashier at the grocery store who always asks about your family. You leave the pharmacist who knows your medication history by heart. You leave the shortcuts you’ve memorized and the restaurants where they know your order.

You trade familiarity for uncertainty.

But for a cancer survivor, it’s more layered than that.

In my current city, people know my story. They saw me during treatment. They watched carefully as my body changed. They brought meals. They prayed. They know why I look the way I look.

In this new city, no one will know.

And strangely, that both thrills and terrifies me.

There’s something undeniably appealing about walking into a room where no one knows your medical history. In a new neighborhood, I won’t automatically be “the woman who had breast cancer.” I’ll just be the new neighbor. The lady down the street. The one unpacking boxes.

That anonymity feels like freedom.

But it also feels like hiding.

Because here’s the truth: I am flat-chested. I chose not to reconstruct after my mastectomy. Some days I wear my prostheses. Some days I don’t. In my current town, that choice doesn’t require explanation. People understand.

In a new city, if I choose not to wear them, I may get stares. I may get whispers. Someone may wonder if I’m transgender. And then I’m faced with another decision: Do I share my story all over again?

Do I open the door to the most vulnerable chapter of my life for the sake of clarity?

Or do I wear my prostheses every day, ward off questions, and blend in as “normal”?

It’s a conundrum I didn’t anticipate when we started house hunting.

Because this move isn’t just about real estate.

It’s about identity.

Cancer has already rewritten my reflection in the mirror. It has reshaped my body and, in many ways, my soul. Survivorship is supposed to be the chapter where you reclaim yourself. But what if you’re still figuring out who that self is?

Am I the “before cancer” version of me, trying to reassemble what was lost?

Am I the “cancer warrior,” defined by scars and survival?

Or am I someone entirely new?

Standing at the intersection of survivorship and relocation, I’ve realized something profound: both experiences are invitations.

Being moved into the survivorship program is an invitation to trust my body again. To trust that the treatment did what it was meant to do. To live without the constant hum of weekly appointments.

Moving to a new city is an invitation to step into unfamiliar spaces and discover who I am when no one already knows my backstory.

Both feel risky.

Both feel hopeful.

There’s grief in leaving the safety net of my oncology team. Even if I can still call them, it won’t be the same. The rhythm of regular check-ins is changing. The intensity of oversight is softening. I have to learn to carry more of the responsibility for my health awareness.

And yet, there’s dignity in that, too.

Survivorship says, “You are strong enough to walk forward.”

Likewise, moving says, “You are brave enough to begin again.”

I’ve started to see that the real question isn’t whether I’ll be the new me or the old me with baggage.

The truth is, there is no old me to return to.

Cancer ensured that.

But there also isn’t a completely new me untethered from the past.

The woman packing boxes carries scars, visible and invisible. She carries a fear of recurrence. She carries gratitude for life. She carries wisdom she didn’t ask for but now treasures.

The choice isn’t between baggage and freedom.

The choice is how I carry what I’ve been given.

Maybe some days in the new city I’ll wear my prostheses. Maybe some days I won’t. Maybe I’ll share my story with a neighbor over coffee. Maybe I’ll keep it tucked close to my heart until trust is built.

Maybe survivorship isn’t about pretending cancer never happened.

Maybe it’s about deciding that cancer doesn’t get to script every introduction.

As we prepare to load the moving truck, I find myself whispering prayers like the ones I prayed before scans: Lord, go before us. Steady my heart. Remind me that You are my true safety net.

Because the truth is, my security was never fully in a building with an oncology wing.

It wasn’t in a zip code.

It wasn’t even in the frequency of appointments.

It was in the steady faithfulness of God through every diagnosis, every treatment, every sleepless night.

That same faithfulness will meet me in a new city. It will meet me in survivorship. It will meet me in awkward introductions and in quiet evenings when fear creeps in.

This season feels like standing on a threshold.

Behind me: scans, surgical scars, therapies, familiar streets.

Before me: unpacked boxes, new doctors, unknown neighbors, longer stretches between checkups.

In both directions, there is evidence of grace.

I don’t know exactly who I will be in this new city. I don’t know how often I’ll tell my story or how often I’ll choose silence. I don’t know if I’ll feel untethered or unexpectedly free.

But I do know this:

Survivorship is not the absence of fear. It’s the decision to live anyway.

And moving forward, whether into a new home or a new medical chapter, is an act of courage in itself.

So here I am, keys in one hand and medical discharge papers in the other, stepping into a future that feels both fragile and full of possibility.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a clean slate.

But a brave next step.

If you are still in the thick of treatment, still counting infusions, still waiting on scan results, still gripping the hand of your oncologist a little tighter than you admit, I want you to hear this: the day may come when they move you into survivorship, and it will feel both victorious and unsettling. You may miss the rhythm of appointments that once exhausted you. You may long for the safety net you can’t wait to outgrow right now. That’s normal. Healing is layered. Courage is layered. And you are stronger than you know, even on the days you feel anything but strong.

For now, stay where your feet are. Let the nurses care for you. Let your body rest. Let others carry what feels too heavy. One day you will look back at this chapter, not because it was easy, but because you walked through it. And when that next season comes, whether it’s survivorship, a new home, or simply a new kind of normal, you will not step into it empty-handed. You will carry resilience. You will carry wisdom. You will carry proof that you can do hard things.

And that will be enough.

 

The Last Walk Down the Hall

After more than a decade of appointments, scans and whispered prayers in hospital hallways, I’m preparing for something I once only dreamed about: my final visit to the cancer treatment center. What I didn’t expect was how emotional, complicated and deeply spiritual this goodbye would feel.

Next week, I will walk through those familiar glass doors for what will likely be the very last time. I’ve been walking into that building for 11 years. Eleven years of appointment cards tucked into my purse. Eleven years of blood work, scans and long waits in vinyl chairs under fluorescent lights. Eleven years of holding my breath until someone in scrubs smiled and said the words, “Everything looks good.”

Somehow, a place I never wanted to visit became familiar — almost safe. I know exactly where to park. I know which entrance is quickest. I know how the elevator sounds when it dings on my floor. I even recognize the scent of the hallway, a mixture of antiseptic, coffee and something uniquely “hospital.”

For more than a decade, this place has been my lifeline. It’s where I cried, where I prayed and where I learned to trust God in ways I never had before. So why does walking away feel so complicated?

At my appointment last year, my provider casually mentioned, “Next time we see you, we’ll move you into the survivorship program.”

Survivorship. The word caught me off guard. I remember thinking, “Haven’t I already survived?”

Most patients with breast cancer are considered in remission at five years. My scans have been clear. My blood work has shown no evidence of disease for a long time. Yet here I was, still tethered to oncology, still returning year after year.

Part of me wondered whether they were staying on guard, watching for cancer to sneak back up on me. But if I’m honest, I was the one still on guard. Cancer may leave your body, but it lingers in your mind. For years, every ache made me nervous. Every headache, every sore muscle, every unfamiliar twinge sent my thoughts racing.

Is it back? Lord, please, not again.

It’s a terrible way to live, constantly bracing for bad news. It steals joy from perfectly healthy days. It keeps you from fully resting.

Learning to trust my body again took time. Learning to trust God with my future took even longer. There were nights I lay awake bargaining with Him. Mornings I opened my Bible with trembling hands. Days when the only prayer I could manage was, “Lord, just help me make it through today.” And He did. Over and over again, He did.

Now here I am, finally standing at the edge of what feels like freedom, and instead of pure celebration, I feel something more complicated. Excitement, yes, but also tenderness, hesitation and even a little grief. Because this last visit feels like more than an appointment. It feels like a goodbye to a chapter where God met me in some of the deepest valleys of my life.

When I walk down that long hallway next week, I’ll pass the waiting room filled with people still in the thick of their fight. I’ll see tired eyes, headscarves and worried spouses holding hands. I remember being one of them.

So part of me wonders, how do I walk in as a survivor without seeming insensitive? How do I smile without feeling like I’m celebrating something others are still praying for? I want to hold my head high with an “I beat cancer” smile, but I don’t want my joy to feel like someone else’s heartbreak. That’s the strange thing about survivorship; it comes wrapped in gratitude and sometimes a touch of survivor’s guilt.

Is it OK to feel overjoyed when the nurse practitioner says, “You’re doing great. We’re moving you into survivorship now”? After everything I’ve endured, is it OK to celebrate? I think it is — not proudly, not loudly, but gratefully. Because hope walks those hallways, too.

Maybe someone sitting there will look up, see a woman 11 years out, healthy, steady and smiling, and think, “If God did it for her, maybe He’ll do it for me too.” Maybe my quiet joy could be someone else’s encouragement.

From what I understand, a survivorship program isn’t a dismissal or a “get out of jail free” card. It’s simply a transition: fewer oncology visits, more routine care, a long-term wellness plan, a gentle shift from constant monitoring to intentional living. It’s the medical world’s way of saying, “Go live your life.” And maybe it’s God’s way of saying the same thing.

For 11 years, cancer has helped set my calendar. Now it doesn’t get to anymore. There’s something beautifully freeing about that, and something scary, too, like taking the training wheels off after you’ve grown used to their support. But maybe this isn’t an ending at all. Maybe it’s a graduation. I can’t help but smile at the thought that after all this time, there won’t be a trophy waiting for me. No badge. No certificate of accomplishment. Just a simple sentence: “You’re doing great.” And honestly? That’s enough. Because a healthy, ordinary, beautifully boring life is the greatest gift I could receive.

So next week, I’ll walk in quietly. I’ll register. I’ll roll up my sleeve for blood work. I’ll sit in that waiting room with compassion and prayer for those still fighting. And when they tell me it’s time to move forward, I’ll smile. Not because I escaped something others didn’t, but because God carried me through every single step.

As I walk out those doors one last time, I won’t just be leaving a treatment center — I’ll be stepping into a new season of trust. The same God who held me through diagnosis, treatment and fear will walk beside me in freedom, too, and that assurance is the greatest survivorship of all.

The Dangers of Witchcraft

As I continue my studies in the book of first Samuel, I wanted to share some vital information with you. I've tried to compare this chapter with a popular TV series from my generation. I hope it blesses you and reminds you of the danger of dabbling in all forms of witchcraft.

There’s something about the supernatural that has always fascinated people. From ancient times to modern television, the idea of hidden power, secret knowledge, and a little “harmless” magic can feel intriguing, even comforting. But Scripture gives us a very clear warning about where that curiosity can lead.

In 1 Samuel 28 (CEV), we find King Saul at one of the lowest points of his life. God is silent. Samuel is dead. The Philistines are closing in. In desperation, Saul does the very thing he once outlawed, he seeks out a medium.

The Bible tells us Saul asked his servants to find “a woman who talks to spirits” (1 Samuel 28:7, CEV). He goes in disguise, under cover of darkness, knowing full well this is forbidden by God. Saul doesn’t turn to witchcraft because it’s entertaining—he turns to it because he’s afraid and wants answers God hasn’t given him.

And that’s the danger.

Witchcraft often presents itself as a shortcut when faith feels hard. Instead of waiting, trusting, or repenting, Saul looks for control. But what he finds is judgment, not guidance. The encounter leaves him terrified, physically drained, and spiritually undone. By the end of the chapter, Saul is face-down on the floor, empty, hopeless, and condemned. Witchcraft did not bring clarity; it sealed his downfall.

Now contrast that with how witchcraft was presented in American culture just a few decades ago.

From 1964 to 1972, the popular TV series Bewitched brought witches into living rooms across the country. Samantha was charming, kind, and beautiful. Her magic solved household problems with a twitch of her nose. Witchcraft wasn’t dark or dangerous, it was funny, fashionable, and harmless.

And then there was Endora, Samantha’s mother.

Endora was powerful, outspoken, and often meddled in mortal affairs. She wasn’t portrayed as evil, just misunderstood, witty, and superior. What’s fascinating (and sobering) is that the name Endora closely mirrors Endor, the very town where Saul consulted the medium in 1 Samuel 28. Whether intentional or not, the connection is striking: a fictional witch named after a real place of spiritual rebellion.

The show subtly reshaped the narrative. Witches weren’t people God warned against, they were lovable characters you rooted for. Over time, that subtle shift matters. What Scripture treats as spiritually dangerous, entertainment reframes as amusing and safe.

But God’s Word doesn’t change with culture.

The Bible consistently warns that involvement with mediums, spirits, and witchcraft separates us from God, not because He wants to withhold joy, but because He wants to protect us. Saul’s story reminds us that when we seek power apart from God, we don’t find freedom, we find bondage.

What looks harmless on a screen can still be harmful to a soul.

God calls His people to trust Him fully, even in silence, even in fear. When answers don’t come quickly, faith waits. Witchcraft rushes ahead and pays a price.

Heavenly Father,

We come before You acknowledging that our world often makes dangerous things look harmless. Help us to see clearly through the lens of Your truth. Guard our hearts and minds from curiosity that pulls us away from You. When we feel afraid, uncertain, or impatient, teach us to wait on You rather than seek answers in places You have warned us against. Forgive us for the times we’ve entertained what You have clearly spoken against. Draw us closer to You, strengthen our faith, and remind us that true power, peace, and wisdom come from You alone. In Jesus’ name, Amen.