When it all began, I didn’t feel sick. One morning, I woke up feeling fine, went to the bathroom, and saw blood. That moment changed everything for me. It started what has now been over thirteen years of living with cancer.

Since that day, I’ve gone through immunotherapy, two major surgeries, tumor-inhibiting drugs, and endless scans, MRIs, and blood tests. I’ve lost a kidney, a testicle, and both adrenal glands. And now, the cancer has made its way to my lungs.

After all these years, I know what it’s like when fear settles in. There were nights I sat in the dark, too tired to pray or cry, wondering what tomorrow would bring or if there would even be a tomorrow.

During those dark days, the Holy Spirit brought Psalm 23 to my mind. It wasn’t just a verse to recite, but a quiet message from heaven.

"The Lord is my shepherd."

Not was. Not will be. Is.

Those words became more than just comfort. They became real to me. The Shepherd wasn’t far away, asking me to keep going. He was right there with me, through every dark and sleepless night.

And then one day, I reached the final line:

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

I had read those words before, but I never truly listened to them.

All the days, not just the good ones, but also the hard ones. Not just the days I felt healthy, but also the days in the hospital. The days I could walk without pain, and the days I could hardly get out of bed. Goodness and mercy don’t leave when life is tough. They come with us into the hardest moments.

That verse changed everything.

At some point, I began to think of mercy as something I had to chase, something that would come once life improved. But God showed me that mercy was already with me, every step and every breath.

The Shepherd wasn’t far ahead, calling out instructions. He was inside me, giving me the strength to keep going.

When I understood this, I stopped asking, "Why me?" and started asking, "What now, Lord?" I realized that Christ, who faced death and overcame it, was living through me, even in my weakness.

I didn’t need to be strong on my own. He was strong for me. I didn’t have to find courage by myself. His Spirit gave it to me.

That changed how I felt inside.

Pain has a way of clearing away distractions. It brings you face-to-face with what matters. I once thought pain meant God was far away, but now I see it’s often when I hear Him most clearly.

During long, “quiet” (as if there were such a thing) hospital nights, I realized the silence wasn’t empty. It was filled with Him. When doctors had no answers and friends were silent, I found that the Shepherd was already speaking. Not loudly, but with a quiet assurance that I wasn’t alone.

That’s what mercy is. It’s not just a feeling, it’s a presence, a person. It’s Christ living in you when you have no strength left for yourself.

Cancer taught me that my thoughts matter. I had to learn to guide them, like a shepherd guides sheep, gently but firmly back to the truth.

When fear said, "You’re not going to make it," I had to answer,

"Surely goodness and mercy are following me."

When exhaustion whispered, "You can’t keep going," I’d remind myself,

"He restoreth my soul."

Focusing my thoughts didn’t mean acting like everything was okay. It meant not letting fear have the last word. It meant trusting that mercy was always closer than I realized.

Turning my mind toward mercy became part of my healing. Even now, it helps me when scans are uncertain or pain returns without warning. Mercy still follows me, and it always will.

Over time, I’ve learned that Psalm 23 isn’t only about God leading us, it’s about God living in us. The Shepherd doesn’t just walk next to us. He is within us. His peace calms our fear. His strength fills our weakness. His life becomes part of ours.

That’s the miracle I’ve seen many times. Cancer has taken things from me, but it has never taken Him. The tumor may press on my lungs, but His Spirit still fills me. My body may be tired, but His life never runs out.

The Shepherd’s presence doesn’t make the valley go away, but it means I’m not alone in it.

I once thought healing meant just getting better. Now I see it means being made whole. God has healed me in ways no scan can show, healing my anger, my fear, and my need to control everything. He’s taught me that even when I can’t see what He’s doing, I can trust Him.

There is a strange kind of mercy in suffering. It shows us what has always been true: we are held, we are loved, and our lives are safe in Him.

Cancer can leave scars on my body, but not on my soul. It can make me weak, but it can’t touch Christ living in me. It can change how long I live, but not the goodness that stays with me.

If you’ve just heard the diagnosis, your heart races and your thoughts spin. You can’t think about anything else, but no one seems to want to talk about the C word except to tell you it will be alright. You can’t figure everything out immediately. You don’t understand. But knowing that mercy is following you, too, will greatly help.

Mercy is there:

You are not forgotten. You are not alone in this valley.

The same Shepherd who found me will find you. His goodness will go with you to every appointment, every treatment, and every uncertain day.

One day, you’ll look back and see that mercy wasn’t just behind you, it was carrying you.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

Even now. Especially now.