The last time David started a new job on the day after Easter was the day my oncologist said, “it’s back.”
That was 14 years ago, April 24, 2011. My firstborn was five weeks old. I remember watching all the moms push their babies in strollers past our cute duplex in Platte Park, a sweet little neighborhood in Denver. We lived on the main street, so there were a lot of moms. Our lilac bloomed right as they began the onco-fertility protocol.
“You won’t be able to have any more children, so we need to harvest your eggs asap. Then you’ll begin chemo.”
Cool.
That was fourteen years and four babies ago. We never needed the embryos, babies just kept coming. Depending on who you ask, the fact that we disposed of the fertilized eggs may mean I’ve had thirteen abortions?
The lilacs bloomed this year, like they always do. Like they always will. The six of us—David, the four miracles, and myself—illegally light up the fire pit at night under our apple tree, we can’t believe how sweetly the air smells. Even the teenagers submit to the miracle.
Today he starts a new job after a year of perfect destruction. We’ve been taken to the studs. Record lows. Did you know 99% of tech start-ups fail? We do! Did you know the job market is gnarly and even highly qualified engineers with brilliant minds and bright hearts are struggling to find work? We do!
“Wanna ride them to school this morning? Before you start?” I ask while sipping on the perfectly constructed cup of coffee he hand delivered.
“Sounds like a plan,” he nods.
We ride the younger two miracles 0.4 miles east to their elementary school. We head north, another half mile, until the dazzling ripples of the City Park lake become visible through the large trees lining the street.
Can you smell the lilacs?
“This wasn’t earned.” I remark. “It was entrusted.”
In my shadowy moments I try to attribute this glory to something I have done. When in reality, the glory is directly proportional to how little I try to do, to how human I allow myself to become. I am here, under this apple tree, cancer-free, and financially secure because I trusted the whispers of Love to lead me home. That is all. I believed that God is who God says God is—Good, Hard, and Good again.
Nothing is earned. All is entrusted.
I haven’t announced it publicly yet, but I am writing a book. Good Hard Good is due spring of 2026. Today is the perfect bookend on the shelf of the Old Story, the story of suffering, grief, death, and pain.
Don’t tell the kiddos this, but we got them all e-bikes. David and I don’t push many strollers these days, but we do a lot of bike riding. Can you see the four of them swirling around City Park? Can you see David and me trailing behind, teary? Because finally, it feels like a life we want to be living.
I promise you, we’re all gonna make it. You don’t want an easy life, you want a full one. And a full life is a Goodhardgood life.
I want to look everyone in the eye and say: Keep going. Keep trusting. Keep dying, keep living. Keep listening to Love. Keep close to whatever makes your tail wag. This is not the end. Keep saying Thank You even though it feels fake, gratitude will save us every time. And, second chances are God’s primary source of income, I promise you haven’t fucked a single thing up. (Neither have they, but we can discuss that over a meal sometime later.)
“Can you make me another coffee before you head down?”
“Yep.”
