At 6:30am this morning, a stretch limo (yes, CTCA really does transport their patients in limos) picked me up from the hospital lobby to carry me and five other patients to the airport.

It was dark at first. I suppose all stories start that way. Seated facing backwards, I watched the scenery zipping by as I listened to the stories in the car and remembered the stories from souls I’ve met here.

“Stage 4 colon cancer,” said a beautiful Italian powerhouse. “I’m going to write my Christmas cards this afternoon, in case I’m not here to write them in December,” she proclaimed with a strong smile.

“My doctors gave me two weeks to live and then I came here. That was two years ago,” said another mom in a long, jean skirt. Her husband sat in the car with moist eyes—silent, ever near.

“I feel the chemo mostly in my feet,” offered the suddenly white-haired man besides me. “The care here is unbelievable,” he whispered with a grateful nod.

As the car grew quiet, I snuggled down into my warm seat and continued looking out the window. The blur soon revealed itself as trees on the horizon: bare, dark sticks poking white clouds. (I love how trees were designed to reach for the heavens.)

Then the sun began to rise and a reddish-orange glow washed through the clouds. “Ah,” I thought silently, “marshmallows on branches being roasted by the rising sun. I’ve never seen it that way before.”

And that is what the unknown offers: new vantage points, new horizons, new invitations…and even new love.

So my blog this morning began in the dark. I’ll place my comma here in the light as I prepare to board my plane.

And I’ll remember in prayer the faces I’ve seen these past few days.

Faces—of hope, pain, the celebration of life, the preparation for death.

Faces—each known and loved by my Savior.