“You ready?” I ask Murphy, my 85-pound Goldendoodle, as we stand in the backyard. He stares intently at the ball in my hand.
As soon as he sees me wind up—well, that’s a generous description—as soon as he sees me flail my arm back, he takes off, barreling down the yard at full speed toward absolutely nothing. Then the ball whizzes by somewhere in his general direction. At that moment, his effort pays off, and he excitedly chases it down.
His faith inspires me. Don’t laugh. His commitment to the process speaks to me. Actually, that *is* pretty silly and worth a laugh. But go with me here.
Life requires effort without complete control of the results. Giving effort and energy in relationships, in career, in sickness, in circumstances where we don’t have total control of the outcome, is not easy. It can feel heavy, tiring, and isolating.
I vividly remember dark, low moments in the middle of cancer treatment—a circumstance requiring significant effort and energy with no control of the outcome. For me, seeing the ball drop into sight—the reward—is captured in a very specific memory: a photo taken 16 months after my initial diagnosis. In the photo, I am rocking some type of medieval pageboy mullet (bless), cheesing as if they just called my lottery ticket number, holding a nameless puppy, and standing beside a mailbox anchoring a dozen balloons.
I share that memory for two reasons:
1. To paint a picture of hope for someone going through breast cancer treatment. My heart is full for you, even though we don’t know each other. I don’t know your specific circumstances, your diagnosis, or the survival odds you’ve been given. But I do know it will require your best effort, hope, and faith in good things unseen. You also need a big hug.
2. To remind my current self that the effort is worth it. Effort in relationships. Effort in work. Effort in purpose. Find the small wins, and have faith that bigger wins are still to come.
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