Perspective.

Down our street and around the corner there lives a family of six.

Their oldest daughter is 7 and the youngest is 2, with two little boys in between.

I've had roughly a dozen conversations with the mom and the dad. None of our kids are the exact same age, and while their oldest goes to the same school as M, I'm not sure how much their paths have ever crossed.

For the last year this family has been on a journey. A journey to the depths of their souls where no family ever wants to go, but many have to.

Last fall, Mike, the dad, who'd been laid off, hired back and laid off again, was diagnosed with cancer in his throat.

It was shocking and serious and right from the get-go, the community rallied around.

Meals, and offers of babysitting, a benefit and auction to raise money. Donations from family, a trip to Disney world. Memories, memories, memories.

They've struggled, not just with his health, but financially too.

And he fought, and they prayed and he fought some more.

They say that God has been good.

On Friday morning, the family posted, what was most likely one of their hardest updates to post on their CaringBridge site saying that they have decided that they will not fight anymore.

They're not giving up. They're not losing hope. But much like we encountered with my mom's own journey, there gets to be a point when the risks and consequences of treatment, chemo in this case, outweighs the benefit.

As I read the words on my screen and as I have dwelled on them since Friday, tears have rushed to my eyes.

I am sad for those children.

All four of them. Who've already gone through the ringer watching their daddy go through this. Learning more than they should know about this ugly, icky disease.

And knowing, that short of a miracle, their daddy won't be here on earth with them much longer.
I am sad for him.

This is most certainly not the life he imagined. Not the ending he had envisioned in his short, healthy life. He knows what he will miss and reading his words on his online journal bring to life his raw, true feelings.

And I am sad for his wife.

I have no idea how they are handling it. I expect, much like they've done this last year, they are rallying together, getting help for the kids and anyone else who's offering it. But I have no idea.

And knowing that there is nothing we can do but pray for this family is devastating. We are praying with them for a miracle and peace.

It is easy to look at what we don't have personally in our own lives, isn't it?

It is easy to focus on the little things, get upset with J about being late, or one of the kids for not listening or making a mess. Taking for granted the house we live in, the things we are able to do.

J is healthy and alive and has a job that keeps him busier than busy. Our family is healthy. We've got insurance and family and friends nearby.

We've got everything we need and more, don't we?

Something like this puts all my complaints in perspective.

Perspective enough to thank God for all the blessings we have in our life, most of all our health.

And each other.

I am beating the cancer. If miracle, I beat it. If death, I beat it.
It can't follow me to heaven!! Either way I win!! -Michael Talley