dancing in winter

I feel like I'm a broken record. Truly, over the last 2 months, the places my thoughts take me and the things that I share with friends and family about how I'm doing, have remained largely the same:

This is hard. It's not going away. 

God knew this would happen and He's got this. 

Cancer sucks. I hate it. 

I'm so proud of Ethan; he is so stinkin brave and sweet and such a delight. 

How can this be our life? 

I couldn't do this without Jesus. I couldn't do this without our whole big Team Ethan army.

And on it goes, round and round. The days pass, some light and free, others hard and sad. A lot of things are easier than they were at the beginning, but at the same time, it's all still hard. There are reminders of cancer at almost every turn - from the books I'm reading to the medicine in our cabinet to it's presence in almost every thought and thing we do.

And yet at the same time, there is still joy. And peace. Peace unexplainable in my own heart and joy radiating from my sweet boy's contagious smile. Like tonight, at the end of probably our 300th viewing of Toy Story 3, when Ethan jumped up and shouted "Let's dance Mommy!" And so we had a spontaneous dance party in our living room with Woody and Buzz Lightyear with Ethan giggling, and laughing as we twirled and spun around.

Such a joy-filled moment brought me immediately back to the night before Ethan's diagnosis at the end of January. Our visit to the doctor that morning had only happened after some deliberation over his symptoms - no fever, but pale; lots of energy still but a snotty nose that had lasted two weeks.  I thought that he perhaps had a sinus infection. But then the nurse practitioner recommended that we have his bloodwork checked to get a baseline and see what might be going on. She wasn't overly concerned and yet we had to go get bloodwork. I remember feeling unnerved as we left the office, with a twinge of anxiety staying with me throughout the day.

We got his bloodwork done and then went to dinner as a family that night. And when we left the restaurant there was music playing from the speakers outside. I can't remember the song now, but immediately from my sweet son - "Let's dance Mommy!" And so dance, we did, in the parking lot outside McAlister's Deli.

And while we danced that Friday night in the parking lot on January 24th, in my heart, a quiet, unspoken nagging thought: would this be our last night before our lives changed forever? For whatever reason, it felt like we were on the precipice of something. I wanted to remember the dancing and the freedom and fun of that moment.

And then the next morning, phone calls from the doctor to go to the ER and more blood tests and x-rays, and a diagnosis of leukemia by the evening of January 25th. We had in fact, been on the edge and were abruptly thrust into a new season of life that was defined by cancer and chemo and hospitals and blood counts and so much unknown.

And two months later, this season remains. Even though the calendar has turned to April now, for us it still feels like January. Everything that we were a part of - community group and school boards and volunteering and daily life - was put on hold as our story took a drastic change in direction.

And yet even in this winter season, "Let's Dance, Mommy!" Moments of joy that can still feel light - what grace that is from God that can bring life to my weary heart. God is with us. He is sustaining us. And He still brings joy.

Thank you God for dancing. For joy-filled, twirling, spinning dancing in the midst of a dreary, bleak filled winter season.