Dare to hope

In December 2024, my husband Don was diagnosed with terminal cancer. His prognosis was “a few months to a few years”. I was determined that he should remain at home as long as possible, but it was a grim Christmas marked by draconian changes to our routines. Somewhere in my fog of anxiety and exhaustion, I registered the start of the Jubilee Year of Hope. I decided then and there that I could either sink into despair or cling to hope. I actually did both, embracing both sorrow and consolation, like the pilgrims on the Jubilee logo who clutch a cross while dragging an anchor. 2025 became a year of unexpected spiritual growth. I discovered there are dozens of people in similar circumstances to ours - adrift following some drastic event, trying to adapt whilst grieving. This is my story, but it is also our story, all of us pilgrims of hope, still journeying beyond the end of the Jubilee Year.

Weary time for God
Before Don’s illness, I never seemed to have time to rest quietly with God. My prayers would be hasty thanks and distracted petitions. Now, having dropped all extraneous commitments, there was time to sit down, whilst Don was sleeping. Unfortunately, my brain felt too numb to pray, so I just listened to the quiet house or the sounds of wind filtering in from outside. I allowed the Holy Spirit to communicate for me “with sighs too deep for words”. Into this silence peace would creep. I became aware of God’s nearness. Those moments of connection, however fleeting, refreshed me. I realized I was being sustained by my Creator.

Jesus suffered too
For every peaceful interlude, there seemed to be ten when I felt guilty or resentful. But God was there too. Once when seething about perceived ingratitude, I recalled the story of nine lepers racing away from Jesus without a word of thanks. I understood there was nothing I might feel which Jesus hadn’t also felt. Jesus being fully human finally resonated with me.
 
Unexpected blessings
In normal life, there are blessings like health and wealth. Blessings don’t disappear in troubled times but they do hide in hard-to-find places. For example, intimate caregiving can be unglamorous and embarrassing. But it can also be like cracking open a geode to find gemstones within. Something about vulnerability stirs the human heart to compassion, it bonds the carer and the cared-for together more tightly. Love continues to grow in sickness as in health.

A different future
A calamity can crystallize our life goals. When Don became too unsteady to leave the house, all my plans for the future dissolved. The pain of lost dreams was acute, the suffocation of self-pity even worse. But once I was done wallowing, I realized the smallness of my dreams. I had not thought beyond the grave to the eternity we are all offered. On days when I couldn’t quite see Heaven, I could least believe in things unseen.

A year later, Don is still around (thank you, God), but new challenges arise every week. I am tired but grateful for small mercies and for the support networks we have. I have learned that extreme circumstances are paradoxical - I am angry but also accepting, worried but optimistic. I fear, but I continue to hope.                       ​

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Written by Alice Matisz (All Saints, Lethbridge) for Faithfully.