A LITTLE SUFFERING, A LOT OF JOY

My mom didn’t light candles in the house just because. They were the cherry on top of a clean space. The scent of Pine-Sol, Clorox, or Pledge would linger quietly behind the smell of cinnamon candles or fresh laundry detergent. Cleaning the house, folding clothes, making my dad’s lunches—it was her thing. She never said, “Cleaning is part of your duty as a wife,” but I never saw my dad lighting candles, making dinner, or folding his own clothes. It was mostly my mom, separating whites from darks, making sure his work clothes were washed so he didn’t have to think about it, never leaving him to fend for himself. He was a part of the things she kept in order—just like the house, me, and my siblings. Appointments and scheduling, scraped knees and bruised feelings, homework (except for math—because my mom is terrible at it), and arts and crafts at home were all part of her routine. Sometimes those things came right after brushing her teeth or waking up from a migraine, but she wove us into her entire day. And on some days, we were her entire day.

She never said, “When you become a mother, your life stops,” but I watched her life move around the needs of her husband and children. When Daniel was sick, she held the trash can for him. When I had nightmares, she sat in the living room with me, reciting scripture. When Jessica had anything going on, she was there. She was present—not just physically, but emotionally, too. It isn’t to say my dad wasn’t, but he showed up differently. He worked third shift, then second, then first—all to be more available to the family he created. My dad is talented and intelligent, hardworking, and an asset to anyone who knows him. He could’ve been promoted many times, but more money at the expense of relationship wasn’t something he was willing to pay. He played flag football, softball, and recreational basketball, and went to the gym—until he didn’t. He let those things go because he wanted to spend more time with us.

I didn’t grow up in a career-driven family. My parents weren’t lazy or lacking ambition—they simply measured success differently. They celebrated effort, scolded laziness, and moved around each other with an unspoken rhythm. Sometimes, my mom was the sun and my dad was the moon. Other times, he was the rain and she was the soil—being plowed, turned over, stretched—so that something within her could grow. They were each committed to our family and to one another, in the same way, but differently too.

Before I got married, my dad told me to marry someone who would be okay with me staying home with the kids. He never said I should be home—my mom spoke that truth on his behalf—but he showed me, through both his words and actions, that becoming a wife and mother meant my life was no longer entirely my own. It wasn’t a loss, but a shift. A surrender.

In other conversations, my mom made her message clear. She’d say that my husband should be excited to come home, to food kept warm and a body that still welcomed him. She didn’t say it in so many words—no need—but y’all know the vibes: warm meals, warm touch, and the kind of intimacy that’s more than just turning over out of obligation.

So, when I got married, making Credo’s life at home a bit easier seemed like what I was supposed to do. It was just what I wanted to do.

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” Ephesians 4:2 [niv]

It didn’t happen all at once. And, to be clear, it wasn’t his fault. Still, somehow, I found myself buried under the pressure—to be a good wife, a fun wife, a sexy wife, a peaceful wife. Do this. Don’t forget that. Did you do the other thing? What once came naturally was now becoming performative, fearful, obligatory. There was an undercurrent forming beneath me, subtle but steady, just waiting for the right moment to drag me under. And when I started chemo last week… it almost did.

Credo, as sweet and loving as he is, stepped in without hesitation. He cleaned. He cooked. No complaints. He funneled tea and water down my throat and brought home my favorite things. You’d think I would’ve relaxed into that kind of love—but instead, I felt useless. Exposed.

If I can’t be who he’s known me to be… will he still like me?
If I’m crying when he walks in instead of laughing… will he still want to be around me?

Then came the mental spiral:
You need to get up and move on—life isn’t stopping just because it sucks for you right now.
You’re not being a good wife anymore.
You’re getting too difficult, too needy.

Credo told me not to give the devil too much screen time. He said that my worst days don’t scare him and my best days aren’t the reason he loves me.

I wish I could say his words helped me relax, but they didn’t. They just made me feel like I was letting down the team. When I told my therapist that I felt like I was becoming difficult—that I needed to bring some sunshine back into the house—she said, “Just because you’re intolerant of yourself when you’re not bopping around and smiling, doesn’t mean the rest of the world is.” One of us laughed, maybe both. Then she looked at me and said, “You’re a whole person.”

She reminded me that no one stays in the same season forever. That the sun didn’t fall out of my sky just because it’s a little cloudy right now. She told me chemo is hard. Loss is hard. Vulnerability is hard. And that this season of my life has just… been hard.

It was nice to hear, honestly. Not in a way that brought relief, but in a way that revealed something deeper:
You still think that if you’re not adding value to the relationship, people won’t love you.

“Let us acknowledge the lord, let us press on to acknowledge him. as surely as the sun rises, he will appear…” hosea 6:3 [niv]

I thought people-pleasing was behind me. I thought I had been delivered and set free. But God, in His sovereignty and kindness, used an awful situation to reveal something I hadn’t seen clearly: I don’t really know love. I don’t fully know community. I don’t know acceptance—not in the way I need to for what’s coming next.

Because, truthfully, it’s not just with Credo. It’s with everybody. And, if I’m being honest, it’s with Him more than anybody else.

If everything flows from my relationship with God, then this desire to be perfect—to be “good”—isn’t just a personality quirk. It’s something that’s keeping me from truly loving Him. From communing with Him. From experiencing the full, healing weight of His acceptance.

It wasn’t obvious to me anymore, this belief... this lie I still carry. I didn’t realize there was something blocking me from knowing God more deeply until all of this happened.

Not seeing the baby on the ultrasound.
Not hearing a heartbeat.
Asking for healing and not getting it.
Having complications.
And now… chemo.

Each moment—every wave of loss, disappointment, and discomfort—has squeezed, pulled, or stretched something in me that wasn’t like God. Something that was quietly keeping me from Him. Keeping me from the very closeness, the very knowing, the very wholeness I’ve been praying for.

This past year He has been making me live what I profess:

James 1:2-3 says, “Consider it nothing but joy, my [a]brothers and sisters, whenever you fall into various trials. Be assured that the testing of your faith [through experience] produces endurance [leading to spiritual maturity, and inner peace].”

What does this mean for the believer?

• We can be joyful and expectant that the awful thing, no matter how gruesomely painful, will prune and perfect us into who we have always desired to be.

2 Timothy 2:11-12 says, “If we died with Him, we will also live with Him; if we endure, we will also reign with Him; if we deny Him, He will also deny us; if we are faithless, He remains faithful for He cannot deny Himself.

• We have to die to live. We have to endure to reign.

• When we lose heart and our faith wavers, His promises don’t.

Romans 8:28 “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

• If it ain’t good, He ain’t done!

weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning psalms 30:5 [niv]

I wanted my baby to live so badly. I don’t think I’ve ever hoped or prayed more—for anyone or anything—than I did for him. But even though his life was brief, it changed my entire life.

I used to say that my son—because I would bet everything I have that he was a boy, if we’d made it far enough to know—would be the reason I’d stop and praise God over and over again. That through his life, I would come to know God’s heart for me more deeply.

And somehow… God has made that true.

He’s taken this awful, devastating thing—something that had every intention of destroying me—and helped me see it the way He does. Heartbreakingly joyful. Painful. Sacred.

He turned death into life for me.
The first time with Jesus.
The second time with my boy.
And now again—with this treatment.

I’m still in the middle of it, so I can’t fully say how He’s turning it into life just yet...
But just know: He is.

I was trying to end this cute, but... God is good.
I can’t say it much better than that.