Grace that overjoys

July 05, 2016

Grace that overjoys

A dear family friend, Dan, passed away two weeks ago from cancer. He was diagnosed two weeks after Ryan at the end of 2013. Dan and Ryan went through chemotherapy treatments at the same time and we never felt alone in our journey with these dear friends by our side. This was a struggle we all wanted to walk with real faith, abundant hope, and integrity. This was a journey we rarely needed words for to know what we should be praying for one another. To be partners in this great suffering was a privilege.

While Dan was still in a stable enough physical state to attend church, he approached me alone in the pew every Sunday and pointedly asked me, "Are you finding joy?" Every time he asked me this I was caught off guard. There were times I wanted to melt into a puddle and times I wanted to blurt out, "Of course not! Not today, not even this week." As I looked at the grand scheme of our life, everything that was broken, all the dreams that were lost, and all the plans that came to a halt, I felt a lot of things. I would be lying if I didn't say that those things rarely translated to joy at the time.

Each time Ryan relapsed and declined I always pondered Dan's words. "Am I finding joy? Am I looking in the right places? What am I missing?" One day last year everything changed. Me and Ryan's point of relating shifted. Joy was there waiting. It was in the days Ryan felt well enough, despite his chemo induced nausea, to endure a winding drive to the mountains for a day away. It was in the days the boys were at peace and grasping the realities of God's truth despite the lack of stability in their lives. It was in the days we took videos of us sharing a happy moment. It was in the days Ryan could sit by my side in church. It was in the days I conquered my crippling anxiety to remain present and focused. It was in the days I could extend grace and understanding towards Ryan in the ugliest moments of his suffering. It was in the days Ryan could extend grace and understanding towards me in the ugliest moments of my suffering. This was all worthy of celebration. The day to day successes were really giant victories, even when they didn't feel sustaining.

Dan was not asking me if I was finding joy in spite of what cancer stole from us. He was challenging me to find joy in what cancer can't steal. What cancer can't steal is God's ever-moving, ever-present hand in the big details and in the small ones. Cancer can't steal God's assignment for our lives. Cancer can't steal God's trustworthy love that has held us tightly and carried us completely. Cancer can't steal the profound moments God breaks through the haze of medication and mental fog to communicate exactly what we need to hear.

I'm amazed at the beautiful tapestry He is weaving in our hearts. The journey through this tapestry has required a high tuition and every bit of deliberate confidence in His character. That deliberate confidence is something I saw Dan strive for each time his cancer returned. Each day has a purpose for our future and for deeper growth into His image, and that growth does not come without strife.

Great strength and endurance is found in joy and joy cannot be experienced at full capacity without gratitude. Dan was a man full of gratitude and an oak of righteousness. I wanted to tell him that I finally found my joy. It was right in front of me and it was what we had left to savor. I wanted to tell him that it was my joy to share in his suffering and to grieve well alongside him and his family. I regret that I never got the chance to communicate that to him here on earth, but I'm at peace with the fact that he knows now.

I hope Dan's life awakens a deep passion and responsibility in us to be the moving hands and feet of God's word in the lives of those around us, just as Dan left those special footprints in our lives.