Today I pondered about my cancer journeys, the first one in 2012 and the second in 2019. They’re not always on my mind, fortunately. But sometimes, memories pop up, kind of like Facebook or iPhone photo vignettes. Suddenly the awareness resurfaces uninvited.
So what do you do with the c-word when it pops up, and says, “Remember me?”
For me, this time the night was quiet. Tom was asleep, and I was up late, as usual. Admittedly, I am a night owl by natural rhythm, and I’ve learned to utilize it to my advantage. It’s a fertile time for reflection, extra prayer, and I love to discover new music, especially if it’s raw, honest, and real–the kind that throbs through all the muck and mire of an artist’s own brokenness to help lift us out of ours. The lyrics aren’t shallow, manipulative, or contrived primarily for dollar signs. It feels fresh, relevent, and alive.
As a creative myself, I understand the process. It takes courage to journey back and inward to the pain. People ask me all the time if my writing about cancer is therapeutic. I assure them and you that it is not. I need grace to do it, and the only way that I can possibly produce such writing is to see my writing as a gift, not to me, but to the brave patients behind me in the throes of treatment on their way to survivorship. It’s a deliberate leap out of self and into self, in that order and back out again.
A quick peruse of YouTube led me to a Christian album by “Sons of Sunday.” At first, I had no idea who they were, but immediately I readily recognized the six highly-respected Christian composers and worship artists who met at a small country church to create something beautiful for the glory of God. I have no doubt that they had to dig deeply through layers and layers of imaginations that would have been good enough and lucrative as well. But they obviously and characteristically, I might add, showed up for something more. That kind of writing bypasses rationalizations and safe templates that camouflage our human condition, failings, and the incongruities of life that devastate or nearly destroy us. And, that my friends, describes cancer to a T.
The result? One song in particular for me: One More Day. For copyright reasons, I can’t reprint all the lyrics, but here’s a taste of it:
Leeland Morisson: “I’m a fighter caught in a struggle, a survivor rising above it. I’m all of these things, but mostly I’m thankful ’cause You gave me one more day to say I love You.”
Then Chandler Moore: “You’re everything, everything, everything to me.”
I just released a deep sigh. God has given me another day to live and declare my love for Him. Why do we work so hard to complicate things?
In turn, the next morning I sent the YouTube link to a precious friend, also a beautiful worship leader, who has been battling colon cancer for almost two years. She has a strong, sweet husband and three young children. She responded, “That’s so beautiful. Thank you, Marianne.”
Then I sent the link to another friend whose beloved 14-year old dog seems very, very close to a last trip to the vet. I’ve been where she is a number of times. One more day has a different meaning for her, and the emotions are painfully hard and deep.
After that, last night I shared it with our Great Commission Artists’ blogging group, one of whom said he would surely send the link to his fellow composers in Minnesota.
And that’s how God works, isn’t it? Nobody multitasks better than God. Six of his sons (accompanied by sound and film technicians) humbled their time and talents to the Master’s creativity to make something beautiful for the rest of us. Then I seek, discover, and share the message with others, and on it goes.
Indeed, I, too, am many things, but mostly I’m grateful, and now I share with you that God has given you one more day to love, and He’s everything you need.
Pass it on, my friends.
© Marianne McDonough, 2025