Home

We marched into the parking deck with bags in hand and boy in arms. After a few seconds of creative stuffing to make sure balloons the size of farm animals didn't block our view or simply become a nuisance, we strapped Andrew into his car seat, flopped down into the seats of our borrowed car, turned the key, and then wept. Two and a half months ago when we first drove into that parking deck our cheeks were streamed with tears and today, as we drove away from it they were likewise streamed though for different reasons. These tears were like the sudden bursting of a dam that had been holding back a torrent of hope and a deluge of fear. From the minute we were told that we were going home today there was always the question "this can't really be it can it?" But then, when the nurses were far behind, the car started, and our son playing in his car seat the dam broke and the flood began.

It wasn't a flood of pain, though there was pain present (I'm not sure anything associated with this will ever be completely devoid of pain). This was a flood of relief, a flood of thankfulness, a flood of joy mixed with the sorrow that this ever had to be in the first place. I think maybe there is more to that last one than I would have thought. This is been a journey that has seemed to travel at such a frantic pace that the cost of it is still several miles behind us trying to catch up. I had a friend who ran Cross Country in High School and he used to talk about how the last little bit he would speed up, cross the finish line, and throw up in the bushes.  I have little doubt that the analogy will hold with us... though hopefully with less physical trauma. You push yourself and push yourself to get through, to make it to the next treatment, to hold your breath till the next report. In the hospital all of your schedule is between doctor's visits or doses of medication. Finally, when you leave those doors, you look around wondering what exactly just happened.

In this case I'll tell you what just happened. My son entered the hospital with a very large tumor on the right side of his chest and a central line on the front. Today, 95% of that tumor is gone with only two small pieces remaining and the central line is gone as well. On the other hand, my son walked into the hospital... even ran at points, and had to be carried out. He is still in a good bit of pain and doesn't have a whole lot of desire to push through it. That seems to be the way of things here while the Lord tarries. Healing comes, but at a cost. It seems to be the ubiquitous sacrament of the fallen world that even in our triumphs we don't come through unscathed. That makes me long for something more, a day when our bodies don't rebel against us anymore, a day when our brokenness is replaced with a fullness that could never come from even the best of medicines. Until that day though, it is good and right to rejoice in the little victories; the little places where Jesus' victory over death suddenly bursts onto the scene and levies its power over the brokenness in our own bodies.

All that said I would ask you tonight to rejoice with us. Tomorrow, in your various churches (if you attend) would you remember us, and give thanks to the One who healed our boy. We are home.