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June 5, 2008 – I leave the hospital with “You are cancer-free” ringing in my ears.

July 5, 2008 – Exactly one month later, I pick up the phone in South Carolina to hear a kind and gentle doctor tell me I have breast cancer.  I mouth “It’s cancer” to my mom, asked a couple more questions of the soft-spoken physician and hang up the phone.

…thus begins another journey.

This was supposed to be a celebratory trip: taking my new scar (my “cancer-free” badge) to my favorite small town in South Carolina, reuniting with old friends and former students along the way.  I never suspected when I arrived in South Carolina how my life’s course would change in the days ahead. 

About a week before I headed South, I wrote to a dear friend at my Florence church to ask if there was any way he could set up an appointment for me with a doctor there.  After so much medical work in the past weeks, it seemed almost redundant, but I had a strong urge to make sure that there was nothing else wrong with me before heading back to Germany.

Miraculously, Greg got me an appointment during the July 4th holiday week with one of the most prominent and respected physicians in the area.  I had the physical, he said I seemed to be in great health, told me to stop picking at the suture sticking out of my cheek’s scar (I know, I know), and sent me off to the nearest hospital for a routine mammogram.

The hospital tracked me down the next morning and told me to come in immediately for further tests. Things snowballed from there and the life I had thought was about to settle down suddenly turned inside out again.  More mammograms, an ultrasound and a painful biopsy later, I went home to my friends’ house to wait for results.  They came yesterday, on a Saturday when most of the hospital’s staff was gone, but my wonderful doctor arranged for rush analysis and called in the results from his vacation home.

…………I’m not sure how to describe the hours since that phone call.  One month—one month since my last surgery, and here I am neck-deep (chest-deep?) in cancer again.  Only this is a far cry from MAC.  This feels more lethal and more destructive.  And too soon.  I was just beginning to recover from the last brush with this disease.

Driving today…an apt illustration of the future from this vantage point.

My first thoughts were for my students.  Some of their faiths are fragile, and I don’t want this to make them question, to cause the kind of cynicism that is more maiming than cancer.  I thought of my niece and nephews and the impact this would have on them.  I thought of my poor mom who will, sadly, be onboard for yet another journey into the medical unknown.

I thought of the relief I felt six months ago when I’d learned that MAC did not respond to chemo—and of the vow I’ve made all my life that I would rather risk recurrence than endure the torture of that therapy.

I thought of losing my hair.

I thought of the disfigurement usually caused by this form of cancer, of the scars, of the long-term effects of radiation, of the potential for other hot spots, for other metastases…

And then I thought of the lyrics I wrote for the song I’ve been singing all summer, intended as a tribute to my last journey through cancer:

When peace like a river drifts away
And the sea billows roll, overwhelming my soul

Peace hasn’t drifted, but it has been rattled.  It’s a little weak around the edges, a little less solid than I want it to be.

From the shadow of the valley, this I will say:
There is Joy in the pain, every loss can be gain.

I’ve clung to that truth since December 31, date of my first diagnosis.  And I’ve seen it revealed in more ways than I can count.  There has been Joy.  There will be Joy.  And I’ve seen my first battle bear eternal fruit, not only in my life, but in the lives of those I love most dearly.

The enemy may harm me and try to deceive…

He’s been hard at work trying to do just that—but the name of Jesus is powerful, even when uttered in the middle of the night, lying awake with stomach churning and limbs quaking in shock.  “Jesus.”  And the world seems to settle a bit.  The arms aren’t tangible, but their comfort is real.

…but nothing can disarm me if I believe:

This journey I follow, with its joy and its sorrow,
Is a gift I embrace, for it flows from your grace.

He hasn’t failed me yet.  My body has.  My health has.  He hasn’t.

I will trust in your goodness in my season of weakness
‘Cause it is what it is…

There’s no changing the facts.  I have breast cancer.  I have breast cancer…  The words still startle and appall.  It is what it is. 

…but I now that You are who You are.

And therein lies the courage and the comfort this new journey will require.  The only way through it is forward—resting on His strength.

Though my courage may desert me, you will dwell near
Lending faith to my doubt and hope to my fear.

The lyrics I wrote after MAC became a premonitory prayer.  They’re my mantra when the myriad unknowns clamor so loudly that I lose my footing a little.  He will dwell near.  He will guide and appease.  He will go before me, just as He has all along.

Remember the “Journey Penda
nt” to which I referred a couple blog entries back?  I didn’t expect it to sprout a second string!  But I choose–right now–to focus on the diamonds of this journey, the blessings embedded in the gold of His sustenance:

  • A doctor’s appointment that shouldn’t have been scheduled—not with the odds stacked against it.
  • The kindness of nurses and technicians.
  • The southern venue in which “honeys” and “sweeties” uttered by strangers were truly a balm.
  • The presence of my mother by my side and the comfort-words of friends on two continents when I told them the news.
  • Staying with some of my dearest friends, and being able to come out of the back bedroom after the dreaded call and sit on the couch with Pastor Bob to receive the first of many prayers that will accompany me on this journey.
With our dear friend, Anne, three days before I got the news…

God is good.  I haven’t doubted it for a moment since December 31st, and I’m not about to start doubting it now.  He is the infallible, gentle, powerful and compassionate chain on which this new journey pendant hangs.

I write this while sitting in my mom’s bright red PT Cruiser, cruising (how appropriate) up I-77 from South Carolina toward Canada.  I’ve already contacted the University of Michigan, hoping my doctor there can refer me to a breast cancer specialist.  I don’t know what the next step will be.  Surgery will happen soon.  Followed by whatever the doctor suggests.  I’m praying it’s not chemo…  So much cannot be determined yet, and the control freak in me (who me?  really?) wants to know it all NOW.  Maybe one of those diamonds on my life’s pendant will be patience.  Snowballs in hell might see a resurgence too! 

But I’ve taken the most important step already:  I’ve notified burger joints across the state of Michigan that they’d better stock up.

I’ll end with a quote I received from Sandee Shuman earlier this week:  “Prayer is the slender nerve that moves the mighty hand of God.”  If Corrie ten Boom could believe it, so will I.  I’m counting on yours, whenever you’re moved to pray.  For sleep, for peace, for guidance, for miracles…

With determined Joy in this unanticipated journey,




  1. Michele, we are so sad for your news, but so amazed at the spirit God has given you.  We know His grace is sufficient, and you clearly express that.  We will continue to pray.  We can see God’s hand in this, as He arranged all the details for you to discover this while you are here.  He will continue to work out all the details.  Our prayer will be for your strength and God’s peace for you and your family.  We love you!

  2. praying for you my dear. my heart breaks at this newest piece of news because i’m sure its not what you expected on the next step of the journey. Praise God that things fell into place for your doctor’s apptmt to work out and that they could find this new accurance early.

  3. Leave it to you to be thinking of OTHERS when you received this news. You amaze me.

    I was up at 3 a.m. praying for you…(not by my choice, obviously!!)

    I love you.

  4. Hi Michele–
    I’m sad as I read this post, but my heart is encouraged as you cling to Jesus. This story is sounding all too familiar (cancer, the unwelcome returning guest). One of my dear friends who I’ve known since childhood has been battling with breast cancer since December, and in May they unexpectedly found out that the cancer had spread. The doctors only gave her a few weeks to live, but by God’s grace she has been responding positively to chemo and her tumour shrunk 80%. Needless to say, praying for their family & Nancy’s healing has become a regular part of my prayers, and now I’m going to pray for you when I pray for her.
    Let me know if you’re ever passing through Philly and I will throw some burgers on the grill.
    Much love–

  5. ps: Oh right, I was also thinking that you might be encouraged to read about Dan and Nancy’s story and their fight to believe in the midst of suffering. Here is the link to their blog. It’s honest & good.

  6. i’ll add my prayers too.

  7. I love you and PAGA is continual. my thoughts and expressions of grief and hope are in a long email to you, beloved sister.  hugs and tears.

  8. Michelle,
    Thank you for keeping me on your e-mail list although I don’t think we have ever met other than at the CAS (Florence). I will certainly be praying for you. Your faith is uplifting, and I know your “Kids” will see this, too., I will be praying for them too. Remember, you have the greatest “doctor” ever. He will sustain you and see you through this. I will be praying for your mom also, and all that you will both go through.
    Linda Cannon, Florence

  9. We’ve followed your roller coaster of emotions with prayer and ask that the Lord will uphold, surround and infuse His love and promises into your heart and soul.

  10. My heart truly breaks for you during this time. Words seem to fail me in expressing my deep sorrow for you in this recent news. I feel as though anything I would say will sound trite or cliche, but I’ll attempt to say a few words. Michele, you have left a tremendous imprint on my heart and I am so thankful that for a short time our paths crossed while I was at BFA. Your heart and love for your students is unlike what I have ever seen before. Your talent and beauty shine through in everything that you do. You are a precious person with a heart of gold, and my wish is that you wouldn’t have to carry such a heavy burden. But for whatever reason He has seen fit that you bear it, but not alone. What an incredible truth that we are never alone in our deepest and darkest pains! Your courage and faith are inspiring.  Please be assured of my thoughts and prayers for you, your family and the many doctors you come into contact with during this time. May He give you the strength, peace and love of many as you make your way through this journey! All my love, Rebekah (Moyer) Gregory    

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