Read this week’s email newsletter HERE.

In this week’s issue, Rev. Jen Crow writes:

I recently attended a conversation led by a grief counselor and cancer therapist that included a panel of women living with treatable but incurable cancer. The women living with cancer described the way that their hope changed in each phase of their experience. First they hoped for a cure, or for the diagnosis to be wrong. Then, when it was clear that this was the cancer they had, and that a cure was impossible, they hoped that the treatment would work and the side effects wouldn’t be too bad. Then, when that treatment eventually stopped working, they hoped that the next treatment would work, and that these side effects wouldn’t be too bad. And they knew that when all the treatments stopped working, their hopes would shift again. They’d hope for loved ones around them and meaningful time and experiences when they had energy. They’d hope that their pain was manageable, and for peace in knowing that they’d prepared themselves and their loved ones as best as they could for their death. They’d hope for joy in every moment they could find it – from birds out their window and sun on their face, to a bite of their favorite ice cream and the sound of a dear one’s voice. They’d hope to live until they died.

The grief counselor and therapist asked these women repeatedly, “How do you find hope when things feel hopeless?,” and the women were unanimous in their reply. “We talk to our people. You know, the people you can tell everything to. The ones where you can swear and cry and they won’t try to cheer you up too fast. The ones who can be with you in the suffering, and then help you laugh about it later and find the absurdity in the difficult moments. You have to have your people, and you have to tell them the truth.”

I listened hard to these wise women that night, listening in on a conversation that was at once mine and not mine. I am not living with incurable cancer, as so many people are. But I, and everyone else in the world, live with my own experiences of suffering and I, like many of you, accompany others through the ups and downs of life. We have to have our people. We have to tell the truth. And we have to let our hopes shift and change as our experiences and our possibilities change, claiming joy and hope in things large and small, in each moment.

May this be a place where we find our people and tell our truth whether we are suffering or not. May this be a place that reminds us to live this life we have as fully as we can, right here and now.

In gratitude,
Jen