I have a testimony 'bout Jesus

"I have a testimony 'bout Jesus. He carries me through the worst storms! I only call on Jesus. I'm leanin' on His everlasting arms..." 
-Jon Thurlow (worship set that you should seriously take a minute to watch before reading on!)

Someone recently taught me the difference between a testimony and biography. A biography is the story about my life. A testimony is the story of Jesus' life intersecting with mine. Both stories can inspire, challenge, and change us but the biography ultimately points people to our glory. A testimony allures worshiping hearts to the only one truly worthy of our worship. I want to be that one.

And THEN, I read in Revelation (12:11) about how God is basically planning to fix this whole broken mess-of-a-world with the "blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony." Sign me up for that, too, please.


David Guzik explains:  "They overcame him . . . by the word of their testimony: The word of their testimony overcomes Satan’s deception. Knowing and remembering the work of God in their life protects them against Satan’s deceptions. As faithful witnesses, they have a testimony to bear - and because they know what they have seen and heard and experienced from God, they cannot be deceived by Satan’s lies telling them it isn’t true (as the testimony of the man born blind in John 9:25)."

Since the blood of the Lamb has given me a testimony, I thought I should keep writing about it. Which means I have to remember to remember it! So if you will bear with me, I'd like to dedicate this post (three weeks after my final treatment #12!) to remembering a little testimony about a great big God.

I have a testimony about Jesus...

I remember March 2011, shaky knees on top of a mountain in Colorado, trying my best to ski but utterly confused as to why I was so terribly exhausted.
I remember feeling ashamed as I struggled to hike up a moderate hill in May when my Mom (granted, she's a rock-star) had no trouble at all.
I remember feeling annoyed in June, waking up drenched in sweat and plagued by a persistent little cough.
I remember family and friends getting concerned when my finger nails became flaky and weird.
I remember sleeping ten hours or more a night, a non-negotiable nap around noon.
I remember feeling disappointed when, in September, Jonathan and I were no closer to calling ourselves "parents" than we were eleven months earlier.
I remember feeling hopeful when that led us to make a doctor's appointment, which led us to do blood work, which led to an answer: anemia, which might just lead to a speedy solution!
I remember having fun finding and eating as much iron as I could, joking about needing an iron skillet, and (to my delight!) getting one for Christmas.
I remember the iron pills and skillets not working. As my red blood cell count decreased, so did my hope.
I remember taking several breaks to climb the stairs to my apartment, needing the elevator to get me to the second floor at work, and pausing quite often to slow my racing heart.
I remember feeling nauseous and achy most days, three bites of oatmeal seeming like a feast.
I remember powerful prayers of others fighting for me when I had no strength to fight for myself.
I remember my doctor telling me I would need a blood transfusion (twice), which made me quite squidgidy, and feeling grateful to those who endured the pain of a donation needle so that I could have the blood to live.
I remember the strange experience of feeling crushed and crumpled on the inside when Dr. Visconti broke the news that the IV of Infed was just as ineffective as everything else in raising my blood count.

I remember what it felt like to have cancer winning it's war against my body.

...He carried me through the worst storm...

I fondly remember a week at the Mayo clinic, believe it or not, because it meant a vacation with Jonathan who cheerfully insisted on pushing me around the entire complex in a wheelchair.
I remember feeling joy and peace on Monday, as I listened to hymns being played by in the hospital lobby.
I remember feeling guilty for being so weak and needy on Tuesday.
I remember feeling terrified and small on Wednesday, when my very qualified Mayo doctor said the bone marrow biopsy was fine, which really meant he didn't know what was wrong with me.
I remember feeling comforted when he said this was now his problem, and I wouldn't leave that place without answers.
I remember the Holy Spirit clearly telling me to wait, when all logic told us to go, leading to an expedited diagnosis.
And I certainly remember getting that diagnosis on Thursday, time standing still, my mind unable to comprehend the pairing of a doctor's optimistic smile forming the words "good news" followed shortly with "just lymphoma, only six months of chemo."

...I only call on Jesus...

I remember the reality slowly sinking in as we walked down a hallway full of people, squeezing Jonathan's hand in an effort to hold back the tears.
I remember them starting to fall anyway.
I remember sitting on a bed in our hotel room, trying to decide what to say to my mom and dad and brother.
I remember listening to Jonathan tell his mom and dad and brothers.
I remember putting a positive spin on it all, focusing on the good statistics, all the while desperately trying to keep an avalanche of panic from starting to crash in around me.
I remember Friday, after the chest biopsy, when reality could not be denied.
I remember lying exhausted but peaceful in another hotel room, after finally pouring out my heart to Jesus while Jonathan sat quietly on a couch in the corner, feet up, one arm laying across his head, covering his eyes.
I remember thinking that he seemed to be in worse shape than me. Maybe he just didn't how to let it out.
 I'll never forget the song he began to sing, which, if it wasn't so sad, would have been sort of funny:
"Noooooobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow, NOOObody knows the trouble we've seen.....on and on and on and on and on and on until....
"Jeeeesus knows the trouble I've seen, and Jesus loves my Ashley. Jesus knows the trouble we've seen, and Jesus loves us, so...."

I remember six months of healing, where my symptoms melted away with the cancer.
I remember celebrating.
I remember intimacy with family, friends, and God.
I remember the victory of Jesus; a victory over more than just cancer, a victory over fear.

...I'm leaning on His everlasting arms. 

Celebrating my second clean scan with Dr. Visconti! 

Celebrating the end of chemo in South Carolina! 

I am having an end-of-chemo party this Saturday and will share the pics once the party is over. Expectations: a cut-throat guitar hero tournament, highly competitive donut-eating contest, ruggedly dangerous three-legged race, and a devastated pig piñata. Warning: this party is not for the faint of heart!