If God collects each of our tears, then we have been filling up a lot of heavenly jars the past few days.
Ian had a bone marrow biopsy Tuesday. Full results will take another week or two, but the preliminary results do not look good. He was scheduled to start a new round of mild chemo Monday, but the "new normal" of low dose chemo at home is no longer an option. It just isn't working. The leukemia blasts in his marrow have nearly tripled in the last few months since his last treatment in the hospital. We will find out Monday what his doctor decides the next steps should be, but we already know it will begin with heavy inpatient chemo. He may need a second bone marrow transplant from an unrelated donor. I can't even think about this, though. We are only given grace for today.
I'm taking a lot of deep breaths. I'm crying my heart out a lot, too. Prayers for healing are rising continually from the flame of my heart. Ian has thrown out little hints the past couple days, but last night he sat Asha down and shared the heavy news. We cried and prayed and held each other and cried and prayed some more. It was heart breaking and honest and beautiful.
Fiona didn't want anything to do with our conversation. She played with the kitty, built with her legos, and rattled and plucked instruments to keep herself distracted. She broke into tears at bedtime though, afraid of everyone dying and leaving her all alone. "Why do we have to die? What does it mean to die? I don't want to die!" These were the questions and fears she wailed over and over in the midst of grieving tears and sobs. Deep breath. I gently rubbed her back, holding her close in my arms. We talked of our great, great, great Nana and Grandpa, Adam and Eve. We talked of Jesus and the hope of heaven. We talked about her Grandpa, my daddy, who is with Jesus now and has a new and better body that won't ever get sick or hurt or die. We talked of the peace of heaven available for us right here, right now, on earth in these bodies. I spoke prayers over her for divine comfort and peace and presence and protection. Oh this is not easy, and I don't see it getting any easier in the season ahead.
Please pray for us.
There has been much grace in the midst of our grief, however. I somehow knew a week ago that this was coming. I could see in the color of his face and his cough and his energy level that something was not right. I didn't dwell on these things, which is a miracle in itself, but they definitely helped prepare me for the news. They prodded me to prioritize time with him over the girls and pursue some deep, difficult, much needed conversations.
I recently read something about the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow having a seed of truth in it. When our tears and the storms of life meet intentioned surrender to the Loving Light of God, this is where that pot of gold is made. This is where the metals of our souls are melted and refined to be used in the beautiful and mysterious artwork of God. We believe His hand is upon us, we feel it deeply. He loves us, He wants the best for us. We don't understand, but we are taking refuge in Him. We are walking through this together, with Jesus, one day at a time. We are finding Divine grace for every moment. There are tears and there is very real grief, but there is also an amazing outpouring of peace and joy and gratitude and comfort as well.
Please pray for us as we navigate the road ahead. Ian will be in the hospital at least another month away from the girls, and I will be commuting back and forth. My mom is planning to move in with us during this season to help out.
Please pray for the girls as they process all of this - and wisdom for us to know how to answer their big questions and how to comfort their hurting hearts.
Please pray for Divine wisdom as Ian's doctor decides the next steps. It is more art than science at this point. As I have mentioned before, there aren't a lot of studies because very few high risk AML patients survive as long as Ian has. At diagnosis, he had a 5% chance of surviving 2 years. This thanksgiving he will have made it 3 years! We are so thankful for each of these precious years given to us.
Please pray for Ian to totally make it through this against the odds, for all of this to end in a glorious miracle and for our whole family to walk out of these flames more strong and sweet and alive than ever.
Ian had a bone marrow biopsy Tuesday. Full results will take another week or two, but the preliminary results do not look good. He was scheduled to start a new round of mild chemo Monday, but the "new normal" of low dose chemo at home is no longer an option. It just isn't working. The leukemia blasts in his marrow have nearly tripled in the last few months since his last treatment in the hospital. We will find out Monday what his doctor decides the next steps should be, but we already know it will begin with heavy inpatient chemo. He may need a second bone marrow transplant from an unrelated donor. I can't even think about this, though. We are only given grace for today.
I'm taking a lot of deep breaths. I'm crying my heart out a lot, too. Prayers for healing are rising continually from the flame of my heart. Ian has thrown out little hints the past couple days, but last night he sat Asha down and shared the heavy news. We cried and prayed and held each other and cried and prayed some more. It was heart breaking and honest and beautiful.
Fiona didn't want anything to do with our conversation. She played with the kitty, built with her legos, and rattled and plucked instruments to keep herself distracted. She broke into tears at bedtime though, afraid of everyone dying and leaving her all alone. "Why do we have to die? What does it mean to die? I don't want to die!" These were the questions and fears she wailed over and over in the midst of grieving tears and sobs. Deep breath. I gently rubbed her back, holding her close in my arms. We talked of our great, great, great Nana and Grandpa, Adam and Eve. We talked of Jesus and the hope of heaven. We talked about her Grandpa, my daddy, who is with Jesus now and has a new and better body that won't ever get sick or hurt or die. We talked of the peace of heaven available for us right here, right now, on earth in these bodies. I spoke prayers over her for divine comfort and peace and presence and protection. Oh this is not easy, and I don't see it getting any easier in the season ahead.
Please pray for us.
There has been much grace in the midst of our grief, however. I somehow knew a week ago that this was coming. I could see in the color of his face and his cough and his energy level that something was not right. I didn't dwell on these things, which is a miracle in itself, but they definitely helped prepare me for the news. They prodded me to prioritize time with him over the girls and pursue some deep, difficult, much needed conversations.
I recently read something about the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow having a seed of truth in it. When our tears and the storms of life meet intentioned surrender to the Loving Light of God, this is where that pot of gold is made. This is where the metals of our souls are melted and refined to be used in the beautiful and mysterious artwork of God. We believe His hand is upon us, we feel it deeply. He loves us, He wants the best for us. We don't understand, but we are taking refuge in Him. We are walking through this together, with Jesus, one day at a time. We are finding Divine grace for every moment. There are tears and there is very real grief, but there is also an amazing outpouring of peace and joy and gratitude and comfort as well.
Please pray for us as we navigate the road ahead. Ian will be in the hospital at least another month away from the girls, and I will be commuting back and forth. My mom is planning to move in with us during this season to help out.
Please pray for the girls as they process all of this - and wisdom for us to know how to answer their big questions and how to comfort their hurting hearts.
Please pray for Divine wisdom as Ian's doctor decides the next steps. It is more art than science at this point. As I have mentioned before, there aren't a lot of studies because very few high risk AML patients survive as long as Ian has. At diagnosis, he had a 5% chance of surviving 2 years. This thanksgiving he will have made it 3 years! We are so thankful for each of these precious years given to us.
Please pray for Ian to totally make it through this against the odds, for all of this to end in a glorious miracle and for our whole family to walk out of these flames more strong and sweet and alive than ever.


















