The Sound of Life

Did you know that if you listen carefully, the naked human ear can actually hear the sound of blood pumping through another person’s heart?

Ka-thump, thump, swishhh. Ka-thump, thump, swishhh. Ka-thump, thump, swishhh. The sound was calming, like the waves washing gently ashore on a secluded beach or the quiet rustling of willow leaves as they moved in the wind.

I was lying sprawled on our bed with my ear pressed against Hazel’s tiny bare chest, my earlobe making a soundproof seal against her impossibly soft, white skin. Waves of tiny cells, the same kinds of which only months earlier threatened to snuff out her life, coursed through her veins. I looked down the length of her body, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her belly as she breathed in long and deep, sleeping the exhaustive sleep of summer. It’s a sleep that was brought on by campfires, firefly chasing, pool playing, parties, ice cream, bike riding, s’mores, and laughter. So much laughter.

It was still early, but the sun was beginning to shine through our bedroom window. As I looked along the length of Hazel’s legs, bright orange rays were poking through the spaces between her small toes, lighting up her feet like sunbursts. I took a deep breath and could smell her – she smelled so good. She smelled like LIFE. I picked up hints of soap and lavender from her bath, sunscreen and water from the pool, chocolate from the small smudge of dried syrup next to her lip, and a light wafting of the grass and leaves she had run through the night before.

She wriggled a bit under the weight of my head and softly giggled in her sleep, dreaming the contented dreams of a child, a far cry from the nightmares of the past couple years. I smiled as I quietly lifted myself off of the bed and snuck to the door. I turned one last time to stare back at the perfect frame of my daughter, buried in the sea of our thick comforter and surrounded by piles of pillows. It looked like she was sleeping on a cloud, and in her dream I am sure she was – surrounded by siblings, cousins, friends, and family as she floated along in what must now seem like a surreal happiness.

There was a time when I was not sure I would ever have mornings like that one again. A darkness of such stifling proportion had descended on our house that my family could not look beyond the next hours let alone to the following week, month, or year. But at the sharp, single clang of a golden bell in the middle of The Magic Forest, that all changed...symbolically anyway. Hazel rang her bell two weeks ago and our life has been a whirlwind of goodness since then.

We have celebrated, traveled, camped, loved, laughed, and cried. It has been a perfect storm of emotions as we finally took the time to reflect back on what we have all walked through together.  I am sorry to say that in the nearly three years this journey has taken, my children have all grown up – my sons are turning into young men, my middle daughter is eight going on 16, and Hazel is no longer that innocent baby that bravely walked through the sliding doors of the NCH ER in April of 2017. We are probably all worse for the wear – in fact I know we are – but we continue to heal, slowly, quietly, and in our own ways.

Hazel acts like she is making up for lost time. She works so hard at enjoying life from the minute her eyes open in the morning until she finally collapses in an exhausted heap at night. She constantly wants to do something – swim, play, camp, sleepover, eat, shop. You name it, she is in. She doesn’t nap and never slows down, as if she realizes this is her time now. It is the time to make the most of what she has. Her cheeks are sun-kissed, freckles exploding out in every direction from her cute, button-nose. Her once pasty-white skin is now a deep-set tan that sets off her sparkling blue eyes like tiny mountain lakes. She smiles incessantly, scrunching her tiny nose and squinting so hard that her eyes disappear. Her cacophonous laugh can be heard throughout the house all day long, typically in unison with her brothers’ and sister’s high-pitched squeals of glee.

Make no mistake, I have seen true evil. I have felt the dark waters of the lake of despair lapping at my feet day in and day out for nearly three years. I have witnessed things done to my child that will forever be etched in my memory – every poke, prod, and incision playing over and over in painstaking detail through my mind’s eye. I have done things that a father should never do to his child. I have held her as she screamed for mercy. I have looked into her terrified eyes and lied by telling her it was all going to be alright. I have inserted needles into her arm with my own hand, betraying her trust and threatening a relationship that will take the rest of my life to repair. 

My perception of what a good father is has been destroyed during this process. I don’t even know what “good” means anymore, because when we were in the midst of it, there was no choice between good and evil. There was only one choice; do this, or lose her. I chose her every time and if I had to, would do it all over again.

Our walk through this life is short and only allows so many opportunities to make a mark on a world that will continue spinning long after we are gone. Extreme heartache can be the refining fire that focuses our energy into the laser beam of intensity needed to affect change. I would never have wished this experience on our family, but it has made me better. I am a better man, better husband, better friend, and a better father because of it. I am more empathetic, more compassionate, and more understanding because of what I have seen over the past three years. I have witnessed God in people, felt a kinship with complete strangers, and watched the splendor of the human race come into crisp focus.

Cancer is ugly, it is hard, and its effects never leave your life completely. I wish cancer didn’t exist and that all those that are suffering in obscurity – heroes disguised as mere mortals – could experience the elation that Hazel has felt every day since she rang her bell. Hazel’s life is different than it used to be, but is a direct manifestation of God’s plan for her on earth, and that is a beautiful thing.

Ka-thump, thump, swishhh. Ka-thump, thump, swishhh. Ka-thump, thump, swishhh.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” – Romans 15:13

Beginnings and Endings

How do you fit three years into a few paragraphs? I have so much I want to say. I feel like there is so much that needs said. And yet, my heart is still, my mind is empty. I am a shell. I am a limping, stumbling, and beaten soldier walking through a crater-strewn battlefield. The evidence of chaos surrounds me – decimation existing as the memories of the carnage that played out on this vast landscape that swallows me whole. I am dirty. I am broken. I am done.

I have emerged from this experience with cancer not feeling like a victorious warrior, but a scarred, lost soul. For so long I have chanted this war cry of faith, talked about the strength that got me from one day to the next, and pointed to the day that I would be able to say Hazel was cancer-free. This Friday is that day…and yet I remain silent. I should be rejoicing. I should be dancing with joy, shouting from the rooftops, singing His praises…something. Right?

I AM happy of course. I am joyous. But most of all, I am tired. I feel like these three years have been a race that started abruptly and had us careening at break neck speeds into corners that spelled certain doom if not navigated properly, only to finish on a prolonged, slow-moving straightaway. I have spent three years on edge, three years worrying constantly, three years praying without ceasing. I have spent three years being angry. Three years in fear. Three years in anticipation. Three years with my mind somewhere else. So much was stolen from me, from us, and from Hazel. I know I will never be the same, WE will never be the same. I can deal with that. But what is hard to deal with is the time we lost and the innocence that was destroyed.

My life has been a warzone. I have watched my daughter fall asleep in a drug-induced slumber over 30 times so her spine could be punctured and injected with liquid poison. I have held her down and stared deeply into her eyes as countless needles were inserted into her arms; felt her muscles tense in pain and fear while she screamed “You’re hurting me” at the nurses trying to save her life. I have brushed her wiry, chemo-damaged hair off of her pillow each morning for months in a feigned hope that she wouldn’t notice her hair was falling out…again. I have watched her struggle to walk as the side effects from the chemo stole her balance and weakened her muscles. I have held her and cried quietly as she struggled through fitful nights’ sleep, dreaming nightmares of what had already and was yet to come. I have celebrated holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries in the hospital. And I would do it all again if that is what it took to save her.

I know I am damaged, I never assumed we would emerge from this experience unscathed. Hazel has a small, pink line that juts across her chest, a remnant of the port used to deliver her life-saving chemo for the past three years. She wears it like a badge, telling the entire world “Something came for me, I fought it, and I won.” My scars are not physical, but their cuts are no less deep.  I will never forget what I have been through, but – like Hazel – I am healing.  It may take the rest of my lifetime, but I will emerge whole again.

This Friday begins that process. As Hazel rings her bell, I know angels – some on earth and all those in heaven – will be rejoicing right along with her.  Our God is no less God in the shadows and no less faithful when the night leads us astray. Therefore, I will praise Him as much in the valleys as I do from the tops of the highest mountains.

"A Song of Ascents.  I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth." – Psalm 121:1-2

Under Fire

Another in the Fire

Hillsong United

There’s a grace when the heart is under fire

Another way when the walls are closing in

And when I look at the space between

Where I used to be and this reckoning

I know I will never be alone

There was another in the fire

Standing next to me

There was another in the waters

Holding back the seas

And should I ever need reminding

Of how I’ve been set free

There is a cross that bears the burden

Where another died for me

Today we are headed to an Easter egg hunt in the park. Hazel is beyond excited, having discussed it numerous times over the past week with us, her siblings, grandparents, and basically anyone that would listen. She is excited for the “Easter party” at Grammy’s, gathering chocolate stashed in tiny plastic eggs, and showing off her new Easter dress and white high heels. What a difference two years can make.

Two years ago on this day I was sitting awake next to Hazel’s hospital bed, having spent every second of my night worrying, crying, panicking, and praying that I would not lose my daughter. Easter weekend of 2017 will forever be painstakingly etched into my memory as the worst time of my life. Instead of getting our family photo taken in pastel clothing on our front lawn surrounded by blooming flowers, we sat across the table from a group of doctors that told us our baby’s blood was trying to kill her. The events of that weekend set in motion a years-long battle that none of us knew whether we would win. The outcome was unknown and the anguish was unimaginable, and it crushed us.

Since that day I have spent countless days walking the halls of Nationwide Children’s Hospital, which Hazel lovingly knows as “Her Butterfly Hospital”. I have witnessed immeasurable kindness by staff and strangers alike, watched families’ worlds fall apart, and witnessed the elated joy of several bell ringings. I know hospitals are not typically a place where you feel comfortable, but to be honest NCH has become sort of a second home to me, or at least a place of comfort. I know every square inch of H12 and H11. I have walked miles down the barren white halls, lost in my own thoughts and prayer. The relationship we have with NCH and its staff is special. It is intimate, built on a closeness you can only gain through continued proximity and emotionally-charged life events. Our world was shattered inside those walls, but it has slowly been put back together there as well.

Much time has passed since my last post. I would love to say that I haven’t been posting because life has been so great that no words were needed, that we have just been having too much fun for me to sit down and write our story…but that isn’t true either. The past few months have been hard, and while maybe not as hard as our first year and a half, we have constantly been reminded that our life is not normal. We still live with cancer under our roof, we still have to be concerned with fevers, germs, blood counts, and chemo.

Over the past month alone we have spent four days in the hospital, preceded by an ER trip, followed by more delayed chemo and orders to keep Hazel isolated. We have watched as Hazel’s hair – which had been returning to its thick, curly luster – once again thinned and fell out. My heart was broken anew as I watched her brush her hair and look upon the brush with a forlorn, knowing stare. Hazel is older now and she understands so much more of what her world looks like. She regulates herself better than almost anyone I know. She washes her hands numerous times throughout the day, uses hand sanitizer constantly without prodding, throws away food if it even barely touches the table, and constantly asks us what “the doctors say her counts are”.

The toughest part of the past few months has been realizing that Hazel knows she has cancer. No longer just a babe, she now truly understands that she is sick. Her new realization has torn me down all over again, as if reliving those first few days in the hospital. I’ve told Hazel’s story thousands of times, to family, friends, colleagues, and complete strangers. One of the worst experiences of my life was explaining to my children that their baby sister may not live to see her third birthday. I have watched the emotions and realizations sweep over countless faces as I relate our experiences to them. But even though I may have wept through the telling of those stories, I have had to watch as my now four-year-old daughter – the one I see as perfect in every way, a miracle, a fighter, a healer, an angel – realize that something is wrong with her. Hazel’s normal is well beyond anything that anyone should have to endure, especially a child. The physical and emotional turmoil that is brought on by a fight with cancer is destructive, it is grueling, it is soul-crushing, and joy-stealing. She will never be the same and neither will we.

I can say unequivocally that my family suffers from PTSD. From the outside looking in, we may seem like any other family on our street; happy, busy, content. But our fridge contains three or four types of chemicals that are deadly. My desk is filled with reams of medical reports and blood test information chronicling the last two years of Hazel’s life. We always have “Go Bags” packed, ready for an ever-imminent trip to the hospital. Throughout the house you could find sterile gloves, chemo gowns, bandages, and numbing cream – all stashed waiting for our next required dosing. We are anything but normal and won’t be for a very long time. But we are healing. God is holding us and walking us through this process, and I trust His will.

We are in the midst of Holy Week, a time Christian’s celebrate the pinnacle of our faith. The death, burial, and resurrection of our savior Jesus Chris is the single event that sums up our belief and God’s divine grace in a single weekend. We need no more explanation than that to understand God’s love and will for us.

I believe it is so poignant that we celebrate Easter in the Spring, a time of rebirth and growth. A time when new flowers are blooming, and the earth seems to come back to life after a long, bitter winter that is often filled with hardship. The Spring brings promises of happiness and abundance, it delivers a reprieve from the struggles of winter and allows us the opportunity to build up what was torn down. Spring brings hope.

Our God is powerful. He has power over everything in this world and the next, including death. We follow a savior who is ever-present, all knowing, and completely faithful to us – a flawed race of man. We serve a God who will never walk away from us and never forsake our pain. The past two years have been very tough, but Easter reminds me that a reprieve is coming, on this earth or in the next realm when I am able to sit at the right hand of Christ. Because sometimes, the best things can come from the worst things, and more importantly, the worst things are never the last things.

Hazel’s journey is not over yet and my God promises great things are to come. I believe that promise, not with blind faith, but with a knowing faith that has been built in a fire where I was not alone.

Happy and Blessed Easter.

“He answered and said, “But I see four men unbound, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods.” – Daniel 3:25

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you go through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, and the flames will not set you ablaze.” – Isaiah 43:2

“Be strong and courageous; do not be afraid or terrified of them, for it is the LORD your God who goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.” – Deuteronomy 31:6

A Year Like None Other

“Yet I will praise You

Yet I will sing of Your name

Here in the shadows

Here I will offer my praise

What's true in the light

Is still true in the dark

You're good and You're kind

And You care for this heart

Lord I believe

You weep with me”

- Weep with Me, Rend Collective

The short verse above is a snippet from a song that has been on repeat on my playlist ever since I heard it earlier this year. These words are powerful, an expression of love and admiration mixed with the desolation of grief that at some point we all feel in our walk with God. I have not posted for awhile, but that does not mean I have not been continuing to explore the emotional abyss that is dealing with childhood cancer. Never more poignant has this struggle been than the month of September as we not only observe Childhood Cancer Awareness month, but also prepare to celebrate Hazel’s birthday. My recent explorations and musings have been more internally focused, attempting to use my pen to make sense of life following April of 2017. I have studied loss and struggle throughout the Bible, learned the meaning and purpose of lament, and spent countless hours of reverent silence to allow God to rebuild that which was torn down over a year ago. I hope to someday reveal the results of this exploration in an actual published format, a memoir of our walk through this valley and an encouraging word for others as they trod the same path. For now, however, I will simply provide an update on Hazel’s progress thus far.

Hazel has had an amazing 2018. We were blessed to enter the Maintenance phase of her treatment earlier this year and she has been adapting amazingly well. Compared to last year’s bouts of sickness, hospital stays, and in-home quarantines, 2018 has been wholly different. Hazel’s cacophonous laughter can be heard throughout our home day in and day out. She runs, she jumps, she dances, and she sings constantly. In a matter of weeks she has fully potty trained herself, she does “homework” with the kids, and draws endless happy pictures, many of which are hung up in Daddy’s office. She is attending dance and tumbling classes this fall and starts soccer in October.

The Miller’s life has returned to a near normal state of affairs with a completely full schedule of activities and school. Unfortunately, Leukemia still exists in our house, never more evident than at night as Hazel uses her own tiny hands to push the liquid chemo out of a syringe and into her mouth or on clinic days when we all once again travel to Columbus. By all accounts Hazel is doing amazingly well, which means most days are filled more with rejoicing than with remorse.

Our year is much different than it was last year, but also much different than many others in our “community” of cancer friends. We have witnessed loss over the past year that has destroyed families, watched as lives were lost and hearts broken. We have done our best to comfort others, weeping with them as battles were lost, mourning the time foregone by an ugly, unrelenting disease. We are thankful for Hazel’s success, but saddened by the pain others must endure.

Hazel turns 4 this coming week, and though our life looks much different now than it did a year ago, we thank God each additional day we get to spend with her. I don’t know what our future holds, and I don’t need to, because our here and now is pretty great.

Thank you all for your kindness and support through this most difficult time in our life. God has shown us his love through loving people around the world and we praise him for it.

“Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.”                                                        - Isaiah 41:10

A Child’s Prayer

“Dear God, we thank you for this food, we thank you for our family, and thank you for not making Hazel die from cancer. We love you. Amen.” – Gideon Guthrie Miller

A newly established rule in our household is that each of our four children are given an evening in which they not only choose the menu for the evening, but they also help prepare and bless the food prior to our meal. Those two and half sentences were the prayer my middle son prayed tonight over dinner, a tiny soul speaking with heartfelt innocence and the untold wisdom of the meek. Gideon’s prayer is telling of this season of our life – it was uncoached, yet not unprovoked. Today was the funeral of yet another “tiny big fighter” – a small warrior stricken by pediatric cancer and stolen too soon from this world. Gideon and the rest of my tiny hoard had been to the funeral today, they had watched as a family mourned the loss of one of their own and said goodbye to a life full of potential and expectation. My children saw their mother hug another woman in sorrow, crying in pain of her own, and feeling the same devastating loss in her heart as the two wept in unison over the foregone memories that will never come. These women held on to one another, intertwined in an agony unknown by many, yet upheld by the untold strength of a few.

Cancer is ugly, it is unforgiving, and it is brutal. It tears people and lives apart, breaks spirits and casts shadows of doubt on all aspects of our faith. We are surrounded by the effects of cancer every day, often forgetting how insidious it can be until it is thrust in our path. Unbeknownst to Gideon, but completely present in his mother and I’s minds was the fact that several hundred miles away, another mother also wept for life lost. Gideon’s grandmother, my mom, had only hours before spent the final moments of her sister’s life clutching her hand and praying that God let her pass into his presence gently. Riddled with a cancer that had come on quickly and shut down many of her systems simultaneously, my aunt had bravely marched into an unknown battle with the odds stacked strongly against her. She remained a mother to the end, a matriarch determined to go out on her terms leaving behind children, a husband, her brothers and sister, and worst of all, her grandbabies. In her passing though, Aunt Lin knew what she was doing, rekindling long forlorn relationships and bringing family to the forefront of everyone’s minds once again.

I have witnessed some amazing things this past year as I have watched Hazel battle Leukemia, but I have also become innately aware of the harsh devastation that cancer leaves in its wake. We have joined the ranks of many whose lives will never be the same after experiencing the “emperor of all maladies” – and still we trudge on, arms locked, heads bowed, leaning in together to face the unknown.

Modest, unpretentious prayers are often the most beautiful and the most meaningful – they bear out our true selves, boiling down our emotion, worries, fears, and desires into a simple sentence or two that speak volumes about our character. It is humbling to hear the words of young ones speaking to our almighty Creator. Children pray simple prayers, not yet conscious of or able to convolute their meanings with complicated phrases or elaborate soliloquy. They commune with God in a relationship that is open, honest, and carefree.

Gideon’s prayer was not meant to cause a lump in my throat or cast a solemn tone over the remainder of our meal. It wasn’t meant to make me think of the loss of others or to point out how blessed our journey was compared to other possible outcomes. Quite simply, Gideon’s prayer wasn’t for me, it was for him and God. Gideon spoke truth that exuded the meaning of the Gospel in 26 words. His prayer displayed a faith of purity, integrity, and a depth of reality found only in a risen savior. Gideon’s simple words indicate that he understands some very complex truths: 1) Life is a precious gift and something to be celebrated no matter how long or how short, 2) Our God is bigger than cancer and has the power to move mountains, and 3) God’s plan is eternal. When my head hits the pillow tonight and every night hereafter, I hope I can keep my prayer as simple as: “Dear God, Thank you for this life and the life ever after. I love you. Amen.”

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment…We love Him because He first loved us.” – 1 John 4:18-19

Life on a Page

“You can't call it an adventure unless it's tinged with danger. The greatest danger in life, though, is not taking the adventure at all. To have the objective of a life of ease is death. I think we've all got to go after our own Everest.” – Brian Blessed

The rhythmic thump of the motor reverberated in my ears, drowning out all other sounds of the early morning and lulling me into a trance as the large red and white hull of the fiberglass boat bobbed along on our journey upriver. I was barefoot and could feel the large steel prop whirring at 1900 RPM as the blades chopped through the water, churning the black abyss of the river into a frothy white backwash that trailed behind us like slowly dissipating stars. I had the front windshield of the boat thrown wide open, letting the wet breeze from the morning mist soak my face and fill my nostrils with the smell of early Fall – leaves, dirt, river mud, and just a hint of the cold, impending rain.

The 35-year old boat lurched as a four-foot breaker cut across our path, slamming into the rounded nose of the boat and sloshing foam up onto the front deck. I grinned as my knees bent instinctively and I leaned into the roll. The silver captain’s wheel didn’t even buck in my hand as the well-worn keel kept us cutting through the waves, steadfast to our heading for the point of the far off island I had chosen about an hour ago as our next waypoint. The old boat wasn’t pretty, but she handled the river well. She had some rotting wood here and there, some peeling paint, and maybe a leak or two, but she was our first houseboat and we loved her – scars and all.

Elizabeth emerged from the lower bunk of the boat, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. She gave me one and curled up in the window seat, staring across the bow of the boat as the world woke up. “Think we will make it before the storm hits,” she asked. I said, “I hope so. The cloud to the right looks pretty nasty.” I squinted into the distance at an advancing wall of darkness, sharp explosions like veiled firecrackers telling of the violence shrouded in the clouds and rain that would soon be upon us. I bumped the throttle control with the palm of my hand a few times, easing the engine into a more urgent RPM range as I steered into a straighter approach for the island.

The wind was beginning to pick up and white caps now surrounded us, breaking the calm glass of the water’s surface and rippling it into the bottom of our boat. I heard stirring from below, and turned to see a tiny red head pop up above the top step of the approach ladder. Hazel clambered up onto the enclosed foredeck and toddled her way toward me, excited that she was the first of her siblings awake. She walked better on a tossing boat than most adults I had been out with, the concentration on her face apparent as she hustled to get to the front window. I scooped her up into my arms in a bear hug, burying my face into the nape of her neck to breathe in that beautiful, delicious baby smell that she still had. Steering the boat with one hand, I flipped her around and steadied her with my other hand on the top of my knee. Eyes wide, she thrust her head out the windshield and let the wake spray drench her face. She giggled as the boat tossed, heaving into the stiff wind at an angle and rolling up onto the lip of a wave that would have swamped a smaller boat.

Hazel loved every minute of this adventure, her bright blue eyes beamed with excitement as she took in the sights of the coming storm, the angry water, and the howling winds. She jumped from my lap and stood at the sliding glass door that accessed the starboard deck, face pressed against the glass to watch the world on the bank slip by as we headed further into the storm. Like a small sailor, she bobbed and weaved as the boat danced across the rough water, laughing as we climbed the small peaks and then plummeted into the troughs, blowing white spray out each side of the bow as we steamed forward. Not once was Hazel afraid, not once did she cry or whimper. On the water, her heart was at peace and her soul was free – she feared nothing.

We sold the boat a few weeks after that trip and our houseboat adventuring came to an abrupt halt. We plan on buying another boat at some point to replace The Little Nauti, but for now living boatless, away from the open water is the best way to keep Hazel safe. Hazel is no less adventurous than before, but her adventures are different now. It is hard to believe what she has endured a mere year and a half after that stormy day.

The past month has been a hard one for my family, not because of our journey, but because of the journeys of others. Our resolve has been tried as within a span of less than 20 days, two families that were close to our inner circle had members that lost their battles to cancer. These two warriors could not have been more different in physical appearance, and yet so similar in spirit. I read the obituaries of each warrior, learning about their families, sharing in their triumphs, walking in a short snapshot of their lives through words on a page, and felt heartbroken as I realized two stories – two lifetimes of adventure – had been snuffed out by the same silent, deadly killer that lives in my house today.

The first warrior lived a long and colorful life before cancer came knocking on his doorstep. He had seen and experienced much, completed many goals, built a life, loved and lost. The old warrior had spent decades walking his path in this world, touching many lives, and creating a legacy that overflowed onto his page in vibrant prose. His life was well spent, invested in those that were important to him and meaningful throughout.

The other warrior was young, having spent 1/40^th of the time on earth as that of the old warrior. His life had hardly begun. He didn’t have a career, didn’t have a family of his own, had not built a legacy yet. But he still had a page. His page may have looked different than the old warrior’s page, but it was no less important and he was no less loved.

At the end of each of our lives, we are given a single page with words that memorialize our lifetime. Last year I was afraid that I would be writing Hazel’s page before my own, telling the story of a life stolen too soon, pitted with sadness over time lost and opportunities missed. My prayer is that I will never write Hazel’s page and that I will have passed on long before that time comes, but my heart aches for those who have written their own warrior’s life stories or are writing them now.

Hazel’s love of life reminds me that all of our pages are the same length, and it is the quality of what fills those pages that makes a difference. Hazel’s life has been rich, it has been meaningful, and it has been beautiful. I am blessed to be a part of it. Hazel lives every day like an adventure. She cherishes every moment, loves hard, and fights harder. I believe all of our cancer warriors are arbiters of good, that they understand the profound power of love and family, and that they will forever live on in our hearts.

Thunder cracked in the distance as we turned at the island point and began our final approach into the harbor, about to narrowly escape what was sure to be a truly epic storm. Whereas the open river had been choppy and rough, the harbor was calm and almost serene. I throttled the motor back and began to coast into the chess board of docks that signaled safety. The sounds of moored boats – squeaking deck hinges, water against lapping hulls, and the soft, hollow thump of gunwales on dock edges – greeted us as I shut the motor off and glided silently toward the open section of dock that our boat called home.

As the nose of our boat bumped gently into the white dock fender, I turned around to see Hazel standing at the back door of the boat, wistfully staring back toward the open water we had just left. The look on her face was not sadness or fear, but a longing, a deep set need for something lost. I went over to her and slipped my arm around her shoulders. She sighed heavily, and then wrapped her tiny arms around my neck, squeezing gently. I picked her up and we stood staring as gumball-size raindrops began pelting the back glass and the storm rolled into the harbor. We were safely tied to the dock and our adventure was over for that day, but little did we realize what the future held for our family and Hazel’s page.

“You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever.” – Psalm 16:11

The Morning Light

The waves crashing to the beach thundered in my ears, a cacophony of the tremendous liquid power that stretched for miles in front of me. I stared at the far off horizon, lost in the endless darkness that stitched together the rolling black sea and gray sky. In the distance small flashes of light backlit the jagged edges of the receding storm clouds that had only hours before engulfed the beach on which I stood. The wet sea breeze blew against my face and condensed in my beard as a cool, salty mask, delivered by air that smelled fresh, crisp, and clean, but hinted of the recent rain. The cool, wet sand curled up between my toes, and the calls of gulls signaled the soft beginnings of the day.

I breathed deeply and allowed myself to bask in the glorious beauty of my surroundings, my momentary escape. As I closed my eyes, images of the past year played vividly in my mind like a cinema, forcing me to relive the drama, strife, and eventual triumph I had witnessed in a mere 12 months’ time. Warm, gentle tears streamed down my cheeks and leapt to the sand below just as a sliver of the sun began to crest the blue green waves to the east. Slowly, a bright orange fireball began to climb into the far off sky, scattering the lingering gray clouds and burning off the light mist that hid the waves. Birds floated effortlessly through the yellow layers of light as shadowy dots, disappearing on their journey to faraway lands and seas. White wave crests exploded as they collided, blowing clouds of watery diamonds high into the air and churning the green ocean into a frothy whirlpool as the water charged toward my feet.

Quietly I raised my face to the heavens, my mind clear, my heart light, and I prayed a single, simple prayer, “Thank you, Lord, for your goodness.”

I have found it hard over the past few months to completely express my thoughts and feelings since Hazel entered the maintenance phase of her treatment. We were always told that this phase of treatment was “easier”, that it was where you “wanted to be” in your treatment course because it meant lower doses of chemo, fewer hospital visits, and a lifestyle that would feel “semi-normal”. Given these statements, I made getting Hazel to maintenance phase my ultimate goal as soon as we entered induction phase in April of 2017. I saw each new phase of treatment as little more than a milestone on our journey toward maintenance, closer to her bell ringing, and closer to being cured. I created charts and tracked her progress, planned for the official first day of what would be her final and longest phase of treatment, and I daydreamed about what it would be like to return to a more “normal” life devoid of hospitals, fevers, and cancer concerns.

Like many Leukemia families, we experienced several setbacks over the transitional months between induction and maintenance, most of which seemed to involve hospital stays, additional medications, and even more side effects. Our journey to get to maintenance was smoother than most, but rockier than some, and as we approached the day when Hazel would transition to this new phase I found myself with a new, heightened anxiety that bordered on manic. I was so concerned with getting into maintenance that on the last few days of the transition I could barely sleep, waking at all hours of the night and letting my mind wander and worry about anything and everything associated with our journey. I would get up in the middle of the night and just watch Hazel sleep, nestled gently into the crook of Elizabeth’s arm and silently dreaming the sweet dreams of a 3-year old. I prayed over my family incessantly those nights, all asleep in their beds, all safe, but all under my watch.

The day finally came when the oncologists told us that Hazel would officially transition to maintenance and that 18 months from that day, would be ringing her bell. Sitting in the infusion room on the 11^th floor of NCH that day, my world changed. I had been on what seemed like an unending, ever-faster rollercoaster of emotions and anxiety, careening toward this major goal that seemed like it would never be realized, and then suddenly...all of that stopped. I felt like I needed to rejoice, dance, scream, done something to outwardly show how happy I should have been, but for some reason I just couldn’t. I was numb and felt somewhat emotionally lost. That five-minute conversation will be etched forever in my memory as one of the greatest moments of my life, and yet it was over in a flash and I was left sitting in the infusion room confused at what to do next.

We are now two months into maintenance phase and I can’t help but feel that while everything has changed, nothing is really different. We are able to do much more as a family now and we visit the hospital far less than in the early phases of treatment, but we still fear fevers, we still have chemo, we still sanitize EVERYTHING, and we still live with cancer. Most of all, I am still tired. I am tired of everything being hard. I am tired of the constant struggle of remembering medications, dosages, cell counts, and side effects. I am tired of bloodwork and chemo. I am tired of watching Hazel put on a brave face when we load up the van to head to the hospital. I am tired of telling her that she can’t play in water, that she can’t be in the sun, or that she can’t eat in a restaurant. I am tired of chemo holds, nagging questions, and the constant worry that Leukemia will once again rear its ugly head and shove its way back into our life. But even though I am tired and numb and lost, I remain thankful.

My family has experienced a tumultuous year of pain and tragedy. We were caught in the throes of despair as one of our own suffered tremendously, and had our hearts broken with each devastating setback. My children have lived with death on their doorstep, a dark cloud of anxiety surrounding our every waking moment. We have said goodbye to pets, family members, and longtime mentors. We have lived with heartache, fear, and frustration. My family has wept for months on end, with seemingly no end to the darkness laid out before us. We have watched helplessly as our peace has been shredded and stripped away at the hands of an ugly, faceless tormentor. My family has experienced loss in its truest sense, and yet, we are not lost.

Even in our darkest times, when we are brought to our knees in anguish, breathless from battle, my family has been protected by the hand of God, guided by his light and strengthened through his Word. This experience has brought each of us to the end of ourselves, pushed so far beyond our own limits that our only choice was to rely on Christ’s reckless mercy to hold us up. It has only been through losing myself that I have truly found God. I have seen His work, felt His presence, and experienced His love.

I am an insignificant being, an anonymous voice among the throngs that endlessly lift to Christ’s ears, and yet, I feel as if I have met him in person. Cancer is horrible, it is devastating, and it robs you of many things, but it also puts you in a place to receive indescribable compassion from the people that surround you. Christ’s love pours out on our family daily and I am continually amazed at its depths. My family has struggled, and we continue to struggle, but we are so blessed.

In late 2017, I received an email from an organization called Believe In Tomorrow Children’s Foundation, which provides respite housing for families of critically ill children. Our family was chosen to become part of the BIT program and they offered us a chance to visit Ocean City in the Spring/Summer of 2018. We were unable to take a family vacation last year as Hazel was far too sick to travel anywhere over a few hours from her main oncology department. We had many “staycations” where we enjoyed some time off of work and just being around the house and town, but we never departed for our typical Miller family exodus from Ohio to touch the Atlantic off the shores of Hatteras Village in the OBX. The BIT trip made a lasting impact on my family’s life, and helped shift my perspective back to where it should have been all along.   

On that brisk, early morning, I was not alone. I felt a small, warm hand slip into mine as the sun rays scattered onto the beach. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around me and snuggled into my sweatshirt. I look down to my left as Gideon buried his head into my hip, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Rora, golden blonde curls spilling out of the front of the hood of her bright pink sweatshirt, wriggled in between Elizabeth and I. Finally, Paul walked up alongside us, eyes focused forward in a far-off gaze and mouth open in awe. On Paul’s cocked hip, arms thrown recklessly around his neck and head leaning into his shoulder, sat Hazel. My little brood stood in silence, watching the world wake up, each lost in our own thoughts, managing our own waves of emotions as we communed with each other and with our God.

My mind wandered to a passage in scripture that had always brought me comfort:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.” – 2 Corinthians 4:7-12.

I had always used those verses as a mantra to describe how strong Christians were, to explain that even though life on earth can be hard, Jesus’ strength is what brought us through. And while that is still true, I now have a different understanding of that passage. Until now I made that passage about us, about Christians and our ability to lean on Christ to hold us up, to build our strength, to recover from our own tragedy and give glory to God through our triumph. But now I have a different interpretation of those verses, because now I understand that it is not through our eventual triumph that Jesus is glorified, but through how we handle ourselves while in the midst of the struggle.  

Standing on that beach early in the morning looking out over the Atlantic Ocean and surrounded by “my people” is as close to heaven as I will ever experience on earth. My family is battered and we are scarred. Our innocence is gone – we are shell-shocked from the battle that was waged over the past 12 months inside our own home. My kids have witnessed things I never wanted them to see. They have watched as my heart broke, saw me become a shell of who I once was. They saw worry and fear consume me, change me, destroy me. The devil declared war on my heart and after a year in the trenches trying to protect it, I am...tired. But I am not broken. I serve a living, loving God that is bigger than cancer. He is the Creator, Redeemer, and Healer. My God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-forgiving. My God is sovereign and divine. My God is eternal and so is my strength in Him.  

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” – 2 Corinthians 4:16-18