Pictures of Redemption

When my dad found out that his cancer had returned this summer, he asked my brothers and me what any normal person would when they find out they have a terminal disease:

What can I do for you?

Ok, so, maybe that is not a normal (or completely sane) response at all. Not, "What can you do for me?" (which I think might be allowable when you are going through chemo and all its nasty side effects) but "What can I do for you?" My dad is a pretty incredible man.

My brothers have also learned my dad's spirit of generosity, and so naturally responded, "Absolutely nothing! What can we do for you?" My mom, who is one of the most giving people I know, repeated to my dad several times, "You don't need to do anything for us."

And I, being the selfless, caring, thoughtful young woman that I am, responded, "Thanks so much for asking, Dad. Let me think about it."

(I have never been known as the easy child in the family. Now you know why.)

In all seriousness, I'd like to hope I'd have the response of my dad if I am someday in his situation, but I am certainly not that redeemed yet. (Jesus did not save me because I was going to be an easy case. He's had to reassure me of that many times.) And I probably should have had the response of my mom and brothers. But I did really want to think of ways that I could spend time with my dad over the next however-long-we-have. I wanted (and want) this time we have to be special. I want it to matter. I want to look back and know that we loved each other well during this time, and I want to have ways to share him with others in the future.

So, as I brainstormed a list of potential requests, I thought of the idea of family photos. At the time, we did not have a single good family photo taken of us since before we kids hit puberty. Lest you think I'm exaggerating, please see Exhibit A below:


Andy swears he couldn't hold that sneeze in a second longer. I remain unconvinced.

So I proposed the idea of having a photographer over to take a nice, casual set of family photos. My incredibly photogenic family (again, see above) remained unconvinced, but as usual, were incredibly patient and willing to go along with my crazy idea. (Sometimes I think they do that just to get me to stop bothering them, but that's a discussion for another day.)

I contacted a photographer I knew in Charlottesville, who referred me to fellow UVA grad Grace Benson (http://gracebensonphotography.com/), who was wonderful and incredibly flexible with our family's special needs (both my dad's legitimate health concerns and the rest of our inexplicable inability to smile and look a the camera all at the same time). We also had the added blessing of having Liz join us as she is now engaged to Sam :), so we were able to get many beautiful pictures with our new, more complete (and, as a result of Liz, exponentially more attractive) family.

Grace commented that she enjoyed photographing us because we seemed so happy to be together. It was an incredibly flattering compliment (and I think at least one of us asked, "Are you sure she was talking about the right family?") but I was smiling as I reflected on the day. I am so, so thankful for my family. I am in awe of where God has brought us. We are far from perfect; we are not in ideal circumstances; but I can say with absolutely certainty that I can see Jesus at work in us, that we love one another better today than we did a year ago, or a year before that, and I can say with deep humility that it is only Jesus who has brought us here. (And as we all know from the beginning of this post, some of us have farther to go in the "consider others better than yourself" category than others.)

Cancer is a terrible, terrible thing; I will never let anyone tell me otherwise. It is a result of the brokenness that is in this world because of sin, and one day, when God wipes all tears from our eyes and there is no more suffering and death, its power will be destroyed. So I do not believe with any ounce of my being that my dad's suffering is good; I hate it. And I'm shaking a little as I write this--because it is so deeply personal. Because even as I read my own words I cringe at how they sound and all the ways my tone, my words, my emotions could be misunderstood. I have no deep wisdom. I do not claim to understand or to be coping with any or all of this well. But I have to write about it occasionally because I need to tell the story of who God is and what he is doing in us. I am so, so, so deeply certain, and so, so deeply thankful, that our God does not let his suffering, or our suffering, go unredeemed. I know that in the midst of sorrow, he has taught us to rejoice more. I can see that in the midst of this hateful disease, he has shown us his love and given us a greater ability to love one another. I look at these pictures and see a tiny glimpse of that grace and redemption, and while I am unsure of so much else, I am overwhelmingly grateful.








(Did I mention the redemption is not complete yet? God promises that it will be one day, but that day has not yet come. I think this picture proves it.)