Learning to Stay Present

I’m still adjusting to what has become of our life.

It feels obvious to say it, but time is no longer measured the way it once was. Forever forward, our family will speak in the language of before cancer and after. That dividing line is sharp and permanent.

And yet, as with all things that live in the future, it’s impossible to know what the after will actually look like.

So my daily battle (sometimes hourly, sometimes minute by minute) is to stay present to the present. To keep my feet planted in the moment God has given me. To focus on what is true, good, and beautiful right now, instead of letting my mind race ahead to places I can’t survive yet.

Presence has become an act of faith. Faith in a God who is with us. Emmanuel.

Of course, plans must still be made. Life doesn’t pause just because your heart is breaking. Right now, our plans revolve around a single date: January 5, the day EvanMarie is scheduled for surgery.

My fingers resist typing those words. That’s how badly I want to turn and run in the opposite direction of the reality they represent. Everything in me wants to protect her from pain, to shield her from suffering, to rewind time and choose a different path.

But there is no other path.

So I will move forward, toward my fear, toward her pain, toward suffering, with God as my strength. I am not alone on this path.

We met with her surgeon a couple of weeks ago. By every account, he is the absolute premier doctor for this kind of surgery. For that, we are profoundly grateful.

This is a man who will spend an entire day, and likely into the evening, working inside our daughter’s tiny body, carefully and painstakingly removing as much of the tumor as he safely can, while preserving precious organs in the area. Afterward, she will need at least a week of recovery in the hospital. About a week after that, she will begin her fifth cycle of chemotherapy.

To say that the weeks following surgery will be intense for our family feels like an understatement.

We are preparing for long days, for hard nights, for exhaustion layered on top of worry. We are preparing to love all nine of our children well while pouring every ounce of ourselves into caring for EvanMarie. Some days that really feels possible. Other days it feels utterly overwhelming. God come to our assistance.

As a mother, my instinct is to control, to manage, to anticipate every possible outcome. Cancer has undone that instinct entirely. It has left me with empty hands.

And maybe that is where God wants me. Us.

I am learning, slowly, imperfectly, to surrender not just the big things, but every small one too. To entrust my daughter’s body, my family’s well-being, and my own anxious heart to the mercy of our Heavenly Father.

Some days that surrender feels natural and peaceful.

Other days it feels like white-knuckled obedience.

I think both count.

Today, we are humbly asking for your continued prayers in the days ahead.

For the successful removal of every possible trace of cancer, or for the miraculous disappearance of all tumor.

For supernatural peace and comfort for EvanMarie, and for each member of our family as we walk through what’s coming.

For continued grace to surrender every aspect of our lives into God’s hands, trusting that He loves our daughter even more than we do.

If you feel called, we invite you to join us in fasting in any way you are willing and able. Small sacrifices offered in love matter more than we often realize.

We will also be praying the Surrender Novena beginning Sunday, December 28th, and ending on January 5th, the day of surgery. If you would like to pray with us, we would be deeply grateful.

Finally, we are inviting friends and family to commit to a half-hour block of prayer in Eucharistic Adoration during the surgery itself, so that every minute is covered in prayer. There is something incredibly comforting about knowing that at every moment, someone is lifting our daughter’s name to God. Please continue to beg the intercession of Blessed Stanley Rother for EvanMarie’s complete healing.

[Sign Up Here for a Block of Prayer]

I don’t know what the after will look like.

But today, I know this: God is here with us. He is present in this moment. And for now, that is enough.

Thank you for carrying us. Thank you for praying. Thank you for loving our daughter so well. To God be the Glory in all things.
​Cana

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