Regretfully, I didn’t get a post scheduled for this morning. I seem to yield to an unrealistic tendency to fill time slots without considering the emotional drain of current circumstances. A blank in my schedule does not mean I should fill it. I may just need to breathe.

Last week I told you we are walking through some health issues with our son David. Let me introduce him to you in case you don’t know him.

David is a young man of 44. He has mental deficiencies that render him nonverbal and have his intelligence locked on about the level of a 6-year old. In some ways he’s intellectually years ahead of that. Spiritually, he’s ahead of most of us.

He prays in earnest for everyone—that is not hyperbole. I don’t know of a waitress who has served us without the blessing of David’s prayers on our ride home. He prays for every flashing light we pass, every upsetting headline, every ball game, every surgery or sickness he hears about, every affliction or problem—everyone. Paul would have loved him because he pretty much prays without ceasing (1 Thes. 5:17).

He also worships wholeheartedly—without reserve, without question, without doubt that there is a God who sees, knows, and loves him. David praises as naturally as he breathes. He and the psalmist are like-minded: “Praise the Lord. Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever” (Psalm 106:1).  

David is sweet and without guile. David is a pray-er and a worshipper. And David has cancer.

The good news is, it is highly curable and his prognosis is good. The hard truth is the road to get there is undesirable. This week is his first of four 5-day weeks of chemo several weeks apart. He displays anxiety and is not happy about it, but his attitude is wonderful and he cooperates. He kisses all the nurses and today he asked one if she knows Jesus. (She does.)

Over the years I have prayed for many cancer patients, asking God for healing and grace. This week I learned how vapid my prayers have been. In my head I would check off the type of cancer and whether chemo or radiation, but I had no notion of what either meant. I could never imagine what it was like to sit for hours and watch bags of fluid drip so slowly, knowing that the chemicals fighting the cancer were sapping the body. The tentative adaptation to a new normal, the sluggishness of passing time, the air of resignation, the watching of the clock, never forgetting the end is months away (and for some much longer).

This is why I never got to my blog this week. It was simply not in my bandwidth, but I will take a page out of David’s playbook. I will pray for every concern, every need, and every person that comes our way. And I will worship the God who is always worthy, always in control, and always the lover of my soul.

Thank you for listening to my mother-heart. And thank you for praying—and worshipping—with us.

Finding Hope, 65 Meditations for a Broken Heart