THE PLOT THICKENS

Life, if it is anything, is a series of unfolding dramas and unexpected twists.

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The stories that stay with us are never the predictable ones.
They are the ones that complicate. That turn. That ask more of us than we think we can give.

Some of us prefer routine. I have always been the opposite of this.
It occurs to me that the juicy novels are the ones that take us on a journey we couldn’t predict.

Enter Mexico.
For me, more familiar than foreign.
A harbinger of treatments not available in the U.S.
A refuge of protocols I am intimately familiar with.

I hadn’t planned on being here for Mother’s Day. And then the vision appeared—me on a hamster wheel with no real end in sight.

The word remission, or any other synonym, had stopped being spoken. Instead, words like “extended time” were whispered without looking me in the eye.

But then, without expectation, doors opened in ways that can only be described as miraculous. And those I love and trust the most began shoving me through. Only two days have passed from “what if” until writing in another place, another country—sharing with the vulnerability of a fighter with a new mindset, bathed in the necessary courage to see it through.

This is the part where the plot thickens.
Not because things become clear…
but because they are the very opposite.

This is where the story stops demanding certainty…
and gently asks for me to simply participate.

We are so certain of what we know and believe.
But hope makes room for the majesty of what we can’t see…yet.

Let’s jump straight from the part where judgement overtakes us to the part of our humanity most admired—an open mindedness that allows possibility to flow into our lives.

Possibility depends on our agreement that there is more of what we don’t know than what we do.

These past five years have been nothing if not a grand adventure of unpredictable twists, each one teaching and ministering to me in ways that allow me to minister to you.

This is what I can say with heaping measures of boldness:
The thing that keeps you locked in your opinions and position is not elusive but evidenced in the way you live—

In the consistency of critical conversation.
In the agreement to “settle in” to what is.
In the living of mundane realities with little expectancy.
In the lack of power in beliefs, dreams, even words.

To save myself, I must surrender.
The quieted mind allows the miraculous to move in.

More than once on this journey I have been overtaken by the power that manifests in letting go. Even the most sophisticated medical technology makes room for the majesty of what we do not know.

I have shamed myself into thinking it is my duty to have every answer too many times to count—

such chronic and prolific access to information tricks us into believing it is wisdom we absorb.

But I cling to a bigger purpose—not the lie of knowing everything, but the necessity of knowing me.

This is what the thickening of the plot requires of me:

There is no one to rescue me from what’s ahead.
This adventure was designed with the intention of teaching me to run to myself.

In this moment I am certain of the direction I must take.
You are wrong if you think I am rejoicing for leaving chemotherapy.
There was a time it saved my life and in that moment I was as certain of its imperative, as I am that this time it isn't right.

What we carry is the burden of being ultimately responsible for our own lives—
of listening to the inside voice—coaxing it to yell if it’s the only way to hear,
of looking hard at every option, letting go of what we think we know,
of reconciling there is an active part that often comes before the being still,
of being willing to do the thing that feels most right when others have a differing view.

Have you lived the disappointment of doing what’s expected of you rather than doing the best thing for you?

I have.

And maybe this is the point of it all—
not just to understand all the interesting bits of the story…
but to live differently inside of it.

The plot doesn’t thicken to confuse us.
It thickens to reveal who we are when we finally stop trying to control the end.

NOTES

Have you lived the disappointment of doing what’s expected of you rather than doing the best thing for you?

Stay here for a moment.

What would it feel like…

To make a big shift in your life—because it’s needed, because you can, because it’s right.

To ignore what the world says and listen to your own voice, to trust your own judgement and take your own advice.

To examine what you believe, to be willing to discard what isn’t serving you, unafraid of what remains, how “other” it may seem.

To say “I love you” without reservation, “I’m sorry” without hesitation, “I can do better” knowing you will.

To disconnect from the anxiety and recognize the hype—not as fuel or fascination but distraction from your real life.

To be fearful yet live full throttle anyway, to lean into possibility, speak the language of hope, ignite a fire, light the way.

To plan a future without casting doubt, to change the subject, alter the perspective, and agree that chronic negativity is something you can live without.

IMAGE: This won’t surprise you but the day after I arrived I ordered flowers for my room, “To Janene. From Janene, with love.” This is what the card would have said if there was one. A thank you to myself for saving my life. The real thanks belongs to Cindy Taylor and Natalie Taylor Merfalen, who [amid their own hard moment] said, “Come.” I am in awe of our Savior, how he prompts us to join him in his healing work no matter what we are going through. It’s never about us, after all. Which brings me to this Journal…and why I write. Because I love you.

P.S. A special Happy Mother’s Day to the women I treasure who love with abandon and are breathtaking examples of Beauty in the hard moment.

And, I invite you to pray for Natalie’s healing. She is remarkable in every way.