I speak in pictures. Metaphors and similes litter my conversations like popcorn boxes filling a stadium after the game. They often overflow the banks of listeners’ understanding. To be honest, sometimes folks need a translator to understand my Southern pictograms. I need to take some time to paint a picture for you, something that needs to be put on the canvas of life. I hope you will indulge me.

I am a workhorse. I am not a thoroughbred racehorse bred for the accolades of the winner’s cirlce. I see myself as one built to pull the plow, to work from the earliest light until darkness drives us to the barn. I would rather stand on halting legs, exhausted, yet having survived to finish the service asked of me than to win the most glorious race of life with energy to spare. Perhaps (no, most likely), that withering drive had become a source of foolish pride, daring life to throw more and more at me. Do you know what happens when you dare life to throw things at you? It does! It throws things your way with the precision and power of a Nolan Ryan fastball (sorry for the 80’s reference).

I always assumed I would die of a stroke or heart attack or get hit by a bus as I distractedly hurried to the next appointment. I never wrote a story in my head where a doctor would tell me, “Noal, you have cancer.” In that moment, I stopped pulling the plow. I just stopped everthing. “Treatable,” “early,” “great prognosis,” “great doctor;” I’m sure all of those words were said. A diagnosis of cancer requires a response. All I could see was that lathered up workhorse realizing there was one more row to finish with no end in sight. My legs buckled. I was brought to my knees.

One of my favorite pictures and stories involves a sketch of a single soldier, kneeling, leaning on his weapon, the markings of battle all over his armor and his body. Satan, seeing the battered, solitary soldier, seizes upon the opportunity to put an end to his foe. But as he prepares to strike the warrior, he hears a soft “Amen” come from the bowed and beaten head. It is only then that Satan recognizes the solitary soldier is not alone or beaten. He is surrounded by a host of Heavenly warriors, weapons drawn to protect this beaten soul.

I’m not sure I can lay claim to being a warrior. I can 100% claim bruises on my knees and knowing what it is to feel battered and beaten. I can never thank everyone who has supported me and my family thourgh our journeys. Your prayers have sustained us.