For 5 years I’ve spent my afternoons in this same spot. In a creaky rocking chair , feet on the windowsill, making heart shapes with my feet against the glass, watching my children live the memories they will carry with them forever in our yard. Their shouts and squeals muffled but the joy on their faces bright against the blankets of snow. Little red noses and cheeks, trees dancing as they’re tickled by the feet of a child in their branches, sticks vanquishing enemies, spinning round and falling back to look at the sky. I want to live right here forever. And yet every three months I find myself in the same spot. Living in the week ahead. Unable to swallow past the lump in my throat. Tears that fall without reason but are anchored in a place of great love. Eight days. Eight days between now and forever. As everyone on the internet posts their word of the year my only thought is please don’t let ours be cancer. I don’t need a word to define my coming year. It seems a gross extravagance for a family that is currently living in 12 week intervals. I want to speed up time and get the MRI over with and at the same time desperately wish I could slow it down and live in this most blessed place with my feet pressed against this window forever. I’m unable to do either. Life continues at the same speed no matter how hard we dig our feet in. Please join us in praying for our sweet boy over these next few days. Pray for peace in the waiting. Pray anesthesia goes smoothly. Pray that the phone ringing brings the word stable. Stable.