When Lighting Strikes Twice: What Cancer Taught Me About Numbered Days
When facing death might be the most clarifying thing that could happen to us
Dearest little one,
Since my cancer diagnosis, I’ve been ruminating about death and experiencing bouts of anxious thoughts. I’m hypersensitive to subtle symptoms—the soreness in my ribcage, my back aches, the tingles in my leg—this could be nothing, but what if the cancer has metastasised? Should I wait and monitor, or see the doctor (again)? A news article about someone who died from cancer, especially if they are young, sends me down a rabbit hole. My mind latches onto a fleeting thought in the bathroom, and suddenly I’ve spent 30 minutes battling fear-driven impulses to dig up more research about my cancer.
My recent scans are most welcome news, but I have what they call ‘scanxiety’—the creeping and debilitating stress and dread before and during medical tests and an abiding fear of recurrence. Tim Keller, who passed into eternal glory from pancreatic cancer, when talking about his medical scans, said that “it doesn’t matter how good the last one was, this one could show that it’s out of control.”
I don’t think many of us think about death often. And why would we? It would be crippling. But I do. I look at people with such peaceful, uneventful lives, and I crave their normalcy. Yet, every time I hear devastating news of someone’s illness or passing, I tell myself that my prognosis could have been much worse. For now, God has spared me and given me more time with you.
At the same time, I resonated when Tim Keller said that God was preparing him for his pancreatic cancer with his thyroid cancer twenty years prior. So, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop—like something worse is coming for me, and why wouldn’t it? Lightning had already struck twice in close succession: my pregnancy complications nearly cost your life, then a cancer diagnosis within eight months of your arrival.
Choosing differently in light of death
“So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom.”— Psalm 90:12 (ESV)
Maybe God is preparing me for something, I’m just not sure what yet. But I know this: the reality of my death has led me down a different path that I hope aligns more with God’s heart. For one, I’ve set aside my career aspirations, embraced a slower life, and found joy and meaning in the ordinary-ness of homemaking and caretaking. This has also made me open to what else God might have in store for me—and so I’ve applied to study at a theological seminary. Most seminary students have in mind a path in formal ministry, but I view this season as an opportunity to explore and let God shape me in whatever way He chooses. I hope this path fills my cup (I’m excited about engaging in formal studies again) while offering some much-needed productive distraction from my anxiety when the nights are quiet.
I don’t prescribe these choices to everyone—your numbered days might call you toward entirely different priorities. But here's what I'm learning: death clarifies. When you truly grasp that your days are finite, the fog lifts on what actually matters. What would we change about our lives in light of our mortality? We think we have decades ahead of us, but things can change at any moment. The Apostle Paul knew this when he wrote about considering his former achievements as rubbish compared to knowing Christ (Philippians 3:8).
So, I’m trying to be more discerning about what I spend my time doing, to be more open to let God redirect my path, and to be more attuned to the eternal weight of ordinary moments. The question isn't whether our days are numbered—they are. The question is whether we’re living like we believe it.
The unbearable weight of death
“My soul is overwhelmed… to the point of death”
— Matthew 26:38 NIV
One of the hardest things about death is that no worldly comfort can be offered to someone who is grieving the loss of a child or the idea of leaving behind their little children. When I dare picture you, my little one, burying me, your mother, there is hardly anything anyone could say that would make this bearable. Sure, death comes for us all, but try saying that to a young mother fighting cancer, or a mother who has just buried her baby.
The stakes are higher when children are involved—the cruelty of death is amplified, and the pain magnified. It is impossible to deaden your heart to this. Life is meaningful because of the people we love and the people who love us, and to lose that would be like a thousand knives to the heart.
Even Christ, on the night he was betrayed, dreaded his death. In the Garden of Gesthsemane, his soul was “overwhelmed to the point of death” (Matthew 26:38). He sweated drops of blood and begged the Father three times to let the cup pass from him. This matters—because Christ’s dread validates our own. It tells us that horror at death (especially untimely death that tears us from those we love) isn’t a failure of faith. It is real and human. And God does not despise us for it.
So the only comfort that I’ve managed to find some rest in is that even though I cannot understand the tragedy of death and dread it, Christ understands and sympathises with me. Because of this, I can with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, and receive mercy and find grace to help me in my time of need (Hebrews 4:15-16).
The joy of seeing Christ must surpass the joys of my life
“Real courage is not the absence of fear; it’s the presence of joy.” — Timothy Keller
I realised that facing mortality has more to do with fighting my sin than my illness. I’ve had to face the truth: I cannot say that Jesus brings me more joy than the joys of my life, and that includes you, my child. At least that’s what God is using my cancer to reveal to me. But if the joy of knowing, pleasing, and seeing Christ surpasses everything this life has to offer, then surely this hope will sustain me in the midst of suffering too. To say this is far easier than to embody it. Sometimes, I often feel alone with my thoughts and anxiety. I can only pray that God gives me more of Jesus, who is the only One who can make the unbearable bearable.
This is the uncomfortable truth that my cancer has surfaced—I love God's gifts more than I love God. And I suspect I'm not alone in this. We build our lives around what we can see and touch—our children, our marriages, our work, our health—and we call it faithfulness. But what happens when those gifts are threatened? Do we cling to the Giver, or do we clutch at the gifts with white knuckles?
The key, as Tim Keller points out, is that Christ looked away from himself and toward the joy set before him (Hebrews 12:1-3), and that gave him courage. This joy does not depend on circumstances and offers hope that survives loss and tragedy.
“Therefore . . . let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”
— Hebrews 12:1-3 (NIV)
I’m not there yet, not even close. But I'm learning that the Christian life is less about achieving unwavering faith and more about repeatedly turning our gaze back to Christ when it wanders. It's about praying, as the father in Mark 9:24 did, "I believe; help my unbelief!" It's about being honest with God that right now, today, I love my son more than I love Him—and asking Him to change my heart.
This is the invitation for all of us: to let our trials reveal where our true treasure lies, and then to ask God to realign our loves. Not to diminish earthly joys, but to set them in their proper place beneath the joy of knowing Christ. Because only that joy can sustain us when everything else is stripped away.
To end
I’ll close with excerpts of the letter we penned to our friends and family, following the diagnosis of my cancer and decisions about my treatment options. I hope this anchors me when I waver.
Dear friends and family,
Thank you for carrying us in prayer at this terribly conflicting juncture.
God’s mercies in our trial
First, we thank God for His mercies. In our sorrows and grief, He has been near and spoken to us. In our weakness, He steadied us with peace that surpasses understanding (Phil 4:7).
We thank God for this cancer. Yes—as hard as it is to say, we do. To look death in the face and discover we are not afraid is a mercy beyond words. Such assurance belongs only to those in Christ.
Cancer has also revealed our idols. Time once taken for granted is now measured and treasured. Life’s pleasures and pursuits now fade in comparison to the holy calling of being husband, wife, and parent. We are learning anew what it means to live an embodied faith. As Christ took on flesh, so must we: to show up with our bodies, our time, our emotions, our whole selves—for each other and for our boy.
“You can’t teach love without embodying it.” — Justin W. Earley
Walking forward in faith
We are learning that to love our boy does not mean grasping for more time, but being faithfully present with him today. That presence is our gift; the future we entrust to God.
Liora will have regular scans with frequency slowly stretching over the years (God willing). While this can be anxiety-inducing, God spoke to us through Deuteronomy 31, where Moses reminded Joshua that Israel’s future battles would not be fought alone, for the Lord Himself would go before them into the Promised Land. That same Almighty God goes before us into every scan, every waiting room, and every tomorrow—what comfort this brings!
“It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” — Deuteronomy 31:8
This is the cross entrusted to us, and we hope you will walk alongside us as brothers and sisters in Christ. Please pray with us:
For peace to rest in God;
For trust that God reigns above statistics and prognosis;
For healing—that the cancer does not return, but if it does, that it will still be treatable as our doctors anticipate; and
That no matter how long or short the time God grants, she will spend it wisely to be a loving wife and devoted mother.
May our family experience the grace and love of God through our witness and presence.
“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” — Isaiah 26:3
Every day I pray that I’ll get to watch you grow up, my little one.
All my love,
Mama
Beautifully written, Liora. This reminds me of King Solomon in Ecclesiastes when he says wisdom is in the house of the mourning. The cross and gift you have been given is to go there decades before many of your peers. It's so heavy, and you're not wasting it. I truly believe it's a gift to consider these things earlier in life. Thank you for writing and sharing your faith.
I have tears in my eyes reading this Liora. It is so heartbreakingly honest and raw to read your inner thoughts, and to also allow this part of your story *also* point me back to Jesus. Thank you for sharing, not just the update of your health, but also the real and true experience you’ve had, with us. Continuing to pray with you for restored health and more time with your little one.