"...a wise man in time of peace, shall make the necessary preparations for war." - Horace

Why don't we say goodbye right now
in the fallacy of perfect health
before whatever is going to happen
happens. We could perfect our parting,
like those characters in On the Beach
who said farewell in the shadow
of the bomb as we sat watching,
young and holding hands at the movies.
We could use the loving words
we otherwise might not have our time to say.
We could hold each other for hours
in a quintessential dress rehearsal.

Then we could just continue
for however many years were left.
The ragged things that are coming next-
arteries closing like rivers silting over,
or rampant cells stampeding us to the exit-
would be like postscripts to our lives
and wouldn't matter. And we could bask
in an early afterlife of ordinary days,
impervious to the inclement weather
already in our long-range forecast.
Nothing could touch us. We'd never
have to say goodbye again.

-Linda Pastan

All I can say is that God is all over our family. We are stunned at how He's moving on our behalf. Yesterday my father said he feels like his heart is about to burst from all the prayer. He doesn't even know most of the people who are are asking God to be with him in that hospital room. My father's cancer is still there - in fact, yesterday we found out that it is possibly stage 3 but most likely stage 4 which is the most advanced stage. It's hard to think about life without him but we're all feeling more and more peace about just deciding to make the most of our days together while he's lucid.

What God and my dad have taught me is to celebrate the moments. Not days. Moments. These past two weeks, despite the heartaches and disappointments, I've had beautiful moments with my parents, R., siblings, and friends.

Like my dad, my heart is overflowing with the peace, comfort, and strength that you are sending our way.

Those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy Ps. 126:5
I'm barely holding on to this promise, but I hope that in the coming days I will trust enough to embrace it.

My father told us that He has met God several times these past few days. He's met Him in the people who come into his room to care for him. Dad might just be the most popular patient on the oncology floor and if not, he's been made to feel that way. Yesterday, I was grateful for the kindness of strangers and for the sight of my dad sitting up in a chair.
Today, with the guidance of his PT, my father will attempt to walk down the hall; I plan to be there with him to celebrate.