Nobody prepares you for the silence that follows those two words: "It's cancer." The world doesn't stop. Nurses still shuffle past in the hallway, phones ring at distant desks, but something fundamental shifts. Suddenly, life gets measured in scan results and treatment cycles, in good days and hard ones.

The advice comes quickly. Everybody loves to tell you to "stay positive" and "keep fighting." So you try to put on your optimism armor, as if the right attitude could negotiate with rogue cells or earn extra time. I thought maybe God was keeping score, tallying up my faith, my gratitude, my spiritual grit. Well, you know better, but you wonder.

Here's the lesson: my attitude doesn't cure cancer, but it reveals what I genuinely believe about who holds my life. And increasingly, I'm learning that faith isn't about mustering spiritual strength, it's about releasing the need to be strong enough.

There's a peculiar grace that arrives when your reserves run empty. Some mornings, all I can manage is a whispered "Help me." And I'm finding my weakness doesn't disappoint God. He doesn't step back when I question or when I can't summon cheerfulness on command.

David's raw honesty, fears, complaints, and wrestling with God fill the Psalms. "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?" This isn't faithlessness; it's intimacy. Genuine faith shows up in the mess, admits the fear, and trusts that love remains even when answers don't come.

We often act as though we need to protect God's reputation by appearing unshaken. But that's performance, not faith. The Lord, who "healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds, "isn't looking for our pretense. He's offering His presence.

Research suggests that what common sense tells us is true: positive thinking doesn't eliminate tumors, and grief doesn't speed them up. The Shepherd's love isn't contingent on my emotional management. What my attitude does shape is how I walk this path, whether I make room for bitterness or gratitude, how I treat the people who love me, and whether I can still recognize goodness in an ordinary Tuesday.

Releasing resentment isn't simple. There are days when abandonment feels more real than presence, when anger seems like the only honest response. However, I've learned that carrying bitterness only adds to the burden. It doesn't change the diagnosis; it just makes the journey harder.

Goodness and mercy are still pursuing me. You see it in the early mornings in the light of my aquarium, hugging our grandchildren, and knowing that God is still at work in the smallest areas of my life.

Cancer, well, the Lord, my Shepherd, is teaching me with my cancer that all I have is now. Can't change anything about yesterday. Nothing to do tomorrow because it never comes. But today, at this moment, I'm not alone. The Shepherd walks here with me, not because I've earned it or handled things well, but because that's simply who He is.

I'm learning to let that be enough. To quit the exhausting work of trying to secure tomorrow through today's performance. Christ's finished work means I don't need to add my suffering to His sacrifice or prove my worth through my endurance.

I won't pretend I've stopped asking why. Why me? Why now? Why do some stories end in healing and others in goodbye? I don't have answers, and more every day, I'm finding peace in not needing them. My questions don't threaten or offend God. God, my Shepherd, is here always meeting every need.

If you're walking a similar path, know this: you don't have to maintain spiritual composure. You don't owe God or anyone else your optimism. God's love, which doesn't waver with your moods, can still hold you, even if you're honest about your fear, anger, and bewilderment.

Today, I'm practicing the art of now, not because I've mastered it, but because grace meets me here. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know the Shepherd is with me at this moment. And that's not just enough, it's everything.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Psalm 23:4