After a prayer of gratitude, Lori and I clinked our water glasses together to celebrate. We were eating at one of our favorite Italian restaurants. “Here’s to a cancer-free life and no more tamoxifen,” I said.
It had been almost four years since her initial diagnosis and surgery. Then she began taking tamoxifen, a drug that essentially blocks estrogen from fueling cancer growth. The oncologist’s decision for Lori to stop taking the drug was a healing marker for us, for although regular follow-ups are still necessary, the discontinuance of the drug was a major milestone.
From the beginning, I detected Lori had mixed emotions about publicly, as on social media, letting people know about her breast cancer. Other than her close friends, she hasn’t openly communicated it. Part of the reason is that she has felt blessed that her doctors diagnosed it early. Besides the surgery and the radiation treatments that followed, tamoxifen seemed like a mild regimen to battle her cancer. She has been grateful she didn’t have chemotherapy, and prayerful for those patients who did. But it has not been easy, for as one of our doctors said, her surgery, radiation, followed by subsequent tamoxifen medication, produces an effect that’s like “menopause on steroids.”
And so we celebrated with a feast, even indulging in a delicious chocolate dessert.
It’s okay to celebrate, to take time for ourselves to enjoy the victories the Lord has provided. It is right and good to give ourselves permission for that.
It’s even biblical.
When King Hezekiah lay gravely ill, the prophet Isaiah delivered a sobering message: set your house in order, for you will die. Yet Hezekiah turned his face to the wall and wept before the Lord, pleading for mercy. God heard his prayer and miraculously extended his life by fifteen years. Scripture does not record a quiet, private moment of relief. Hezekiah wrote a song celebrating God’s healing. There was acknowledgment, thanksgiving, and the kind of joy that spills over into worship. That’s because healing calls for a response.
Psalms 30 and 116 speak of the psalmists’ recovery from deep illnesses; one praising the God who turned “wailing into dancing” (Psalm 30:11), and the other vowing to “lift the cup of salvation” (Psalm 116:13) in public worship.
Luke tells the story (Luke 10) of Jesus healing ten men of leprosy. Only one returned to give thanks, throwing himself at Jesus’ feet in joyful gratitude. Jesus noticed. “Were not all ten cleansed?” He asked. Jesus commended the one who returned to celebrate his healing.
It was the leper’s way of clinking the water glasses, a celebration, offered back to God, his act of worship.
Perhaps no image of celebratory healing is more vivid than the father’s response in the parable of the Prodigal Son. It reminds us that not all healings are physical.
When his lost boy came stumbling home, the father did not offer a subdued, cautious welcome. He called for the finest robe, a ring, sandals for his son’s feet, and then — a feast. “Let us eat and be merry,” he declared, “for this my son was dead, and is alive again.” That father, whom many theologians read as a portrait of God himself, knew that some moments simply demand a table, food, and celebration.
For Lori and me, our table was a corner booth at an Italian restaurant. The feast was pasta and a chocolate dessert, both entirely worth it.
If you are walking through illness, treatment, or the long and winding road of recovery, take heart. Mark the milestones. Thank God that through it, perhaps in that secret place in your heart, you can acknowledge that you know Him better, even if you can’t express it in words. God is faithful. Tell someone who loves you. Offer a prayer of thanks, even over a water glass. And when healing comes — whether sudden or slow, dramatic or quiet — let yourself celebrate it fully.
The God of Scripture celebrates with you.