House on the Rock

The word “trigger” is a bit of a buzzword among Gen Z-ers like myself, but triggers have become a harrowing reality of our walk through the valley. So many sights, sounds, and songs from that season now serve as brutal flashbacks that can bring me to tears in an instant. One of them, unfortunately, is Freddy’s Steakburgers. 

It was a Friday night. Mom was still in the hospital, recovering from a stroke, multiple seizures, and the aftermath of having so much cancer on her brain. “All over her brain,” the doctors kept saying. Nonetheless, she was awake. Alert. Feeling good, all things considered. She had very little pain. Mom was beaming her beautiful smile to every nurse that walked in the room. Her voice had started to recover and we were able to have full conversations with her. 

We knew she wasn’t going to live forever, but I certainly thought she had a while. Six months, maybe. Eight if we were lucky. She had been healthy. We could start chemo, fight this thing, get her out of here and home to prepare for her son’s wedding, now just one week away. 

Because reports from Indianapolis had been so good, Joe and I opted to stay home one night. We were, after all, exhausted. We put on sweatpants, threw a movie on, and DoorDashed some good ol’ Freddy’s — hence the trigger. As we devoured the greasy meal, my phone rang. It was Dad. Checking in, saying Mom was feeling good and lively and wanted to say hi. As soon as he held the phone to her mouth, she said, “Cali Alexis! Why aren’t you here?” 

She was joking, of course, with her typical winsome wit, but that was all it took. We scarfed the final bites of our food and were out the door, booking it to Indianapolis to be right back by her side. It was such a fun evening — doing puzzles, telling stories, singing, praying, helping her eat, and celebrating the progress she was making. We were so excited for her to be able to go home! As we bid her farewell that night, I thought it was only a matter of time until she was home and stable and ready to fight off this cancer — at least for the next few months.

So you can imagine my shock when Dad followed us into the hallway on our way out the door. His eyes filled with tears and he struggled to get the words out. “Um,” he started. “The doctors gave her a week.” 

The Freddy’s turned to a rock in my gut. “Like…a week until she gets to go home?” I asked. 

“A week to live.”

And up it started to come — Freddy’s. Thick and heavy and miserable. Gut-wrenching. I wanted to hurl. I couldn’t decide whether I was going to puke or scream. Luckily I did neither, but collapsed into my dad and husband’s arms. We held each other and wept. 

As we finally collected ourselves, I said, “Well in that case, we’ll be back first thing tomorrow.” 

My siblings hadn’t been there that night, so our plan was to come back the next day all together. Dad would tell the news to everyone then. I barely slept as sobs and sweats soaked my pillow. I was dreading that conversation. 

A new day slowly dawned and we loaded up the car, meeting Cam and Christen for the carpool. I couldn’t talk the whole ride there. There was a nausea I had never felt before. A weakness, a shortness of breath beyond what could be attributed to the prior night’s steakburger. I was begging God to help me take every step, all the way up to the 6th floor. 

We had a joyful reunion, mingling and small-talking and trying to pretend like a thousand-pound dark cloud wasn’t looming over our heads. Eventually, mom drifted off to sleep, and Dad pulled us all aside. 

He didn’t waste time. He focused his attention on Cam, my little brother, scheduled to get married exactly one week from that day. 

“Doctors gave her one week to live… you do that math.”

Cam paused, calculating. “Yep,” he said with a sigh. “That’s our wedding day.” 

There’s no beautiful metaphor here. No tidy reckoning or joyful deliverance. There’s an episode of The Office where Dwight tells Ryan, “Not everything’s a lesson, Ryan. Sometimes you just fail.” 

And in the same sense, I come to the end of this post thinking, “Not everything’s a metaphor, Cali. Sometimes life just sucks.”

But I think you’ll see, if you continue reading the journey of this valley walk, that God was present in every moment. His grace and compassion covered every conversation. His peace sustained each second. And little by little, He provided good and perfect gifts. Mini-mercies. Moments where we knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God really loves us. 

My mom was going to die. I would never be able to eat Freddy’s again, as the memories of those traumatic conversations are stained with the greasy aftertaste of fry-sauce steakburgers. We were heading into wedding week while losing our mother. Yet God was not going to leave us. He’s a father to the fatherless, but the motherless too.

Not for a moment were we going to be forsaken. 

I struggle with not knowing how to end this post. Mom didn’t miraculously get up and start walking. There wasn’t a rainbow that suddenly appeared in the storm. It was a dark night beneath dark clouds day after day after day. But as I think about the books and blogs I loved reading while we were being ravaged by bad news, they weren’t happy-sappy songs of healing or deliverance. They were stories of wreckage. Sad endings. Worlds turned upside down. Not because I’m glad suffering happened to other people, but I was glad to know we weren’t alone.

I wrote this blurb in the About section of my blog:

(During that time,) [s]ocial media was no consolation — I couldn’t bear to see the highlight reels of everyone else’s life while mine seemed to crumble more each day. Instead, I was drawn to the writings of other sufferers. Authors Elisabeth Elliott and Pastor Mark Vroegop became almost like companions as I buried myself in their writings about lament.

If nothing else, I hope that our untidy trek through a wilderness of sorrow lets you see that you are not alone in suffering. I would love to be one of those companions for you — a place where you find solidarity and sympathy as you join with the valley walkers. More than that, Jesus would love to be that companion for you — a man of sorrows who knew suffering on a deeper level than we can fathom. No matter the storm you are in, His peace can sustain every second. He’ll provide good and perfect gifts, mini-mercies, and moments when you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God really loves you.

Not for a moment will you be forsaken.