I am on some sort of fast-track to a different place and I don't know where you're taking me. All I know is that I am hanging on and I have more faith that you will take care of me than I had at the beginning of the year. I am not as wildly enthusiastic as I was a few months ago; more cautious. I am tired but I am not defeated; I am humbled and I have a better idea of the extent of the forgiveness that I have received. It's only a step forward - I have such a long way to go.
So all this time life goes on. We saw Katy's consultant the other day and he's talked to the other consultants involved in her treatment and they've decided that the best way to proceed now is to operate again to try and excise all of her bump. Since it's come back and they've finally made a diagnosis they've been talking about several possible treatment plans and every route to take has had potential problems. Long term drug therapy might result in damage to Kate's eyes or to her liver. Further surgery is problematic as her tumour is wrapped around one nerve and close to another two, but this is the preferred option.
So they've told us that her surgery might take 2-3 hours and to be prepared for a hospital stay of 3-4 days. It's more involved than last time. If it recurs I'm told that there's no option but to explore drug therapy with or without its side effects.
Lord, here I go again. My little girl is going to have another ride on a bed, another needle in her hand, another anaesthetic, more painkillers, more dressing changes. This time the consultant tells me that she won't need to have a wound packed as he'll close it with a line of sutures. He tells me that she won't need to have her stitches out as he'll use dissolvable ones. He tells me that it'll heal quickly because the bacterium will have gone. After all, her surgery was on 3 June and it's now the end of July and her last surgical wound hasn't healed yet because of the little bug that has beset us.
I can feel a knot in my stomach when I talk about it although her surgery date is still a couple of weeks away. I can feel myself start to get anxious and I remember the anguish of walking away from her as she slept in the anaesthetic room all over again. I'm not looking forward to it. Please take care of my Katy, Father God. I know that you will. I know that you will watch over her and over all of us. Any chance that you could do something miraculous before then so that surgery isn't necessary?
How do I find the faith that can move mountains, so that such faith might move her bump?
So life goes on. We're in London at the moment and tomorrow we're going to have a day in London; the children are so excited. Katy doesn't need her horrid medicines any more so that's a good thing. We're going to meet up with some family and go to see dinosaurs in the museums, and see where Daddy works and go to the park and maybe a ride on the river. The children just love being down here. It's almost worth the long drive down the M1 with the children asking, 'Are we nearly there yet?' every thirty seconds.
Are we nearly there yet, Lord? Am I nearly there? I can't tell because I don't know where you're taking me. I might have a long way to go or I might be nearly there; I guess there's a long way because every day I have a better idea of how far I am from the person you want me to be.
But I'm learning. I want to move on. I still want to be some use to you. It's joyful and painful and amazing. Every time you bring me through something, I understand a tiny bit more. Only a tiny bit. Another bit of the jigsaw is in place - but it's a big, big puzzle, isn't it? A lifetime's work.
I can't even begin to see the picture yet, I know that you can, and I know that if you've made it, then it's a beautiful, matchless, awe-inspiring picture.
It's a privilege to be part of it.
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