Today I am writing as I travel to and from a quarterly check-up with my oncologist. For those who may be newer to my history, I was diagnosed with breast cancer in September 2013 and six weeks later opted for a bilateral mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. The journey was unquestionably among the most breath-taking experiences of God’s love and grace in my entire life.

The surgery was successful. The lymph nodes were clear. The cancer was caught early. All subsequent blood work has been good. And somewhere in the last six to ten months, my children stopped asking me if I was going to die.

It is a valid question.

For all, the answer is yes.

Last night after dinner, we read the story of Lazarus’ resurrection together and shared what stood out to us. Several around the table mentioned Jesus’ description of Lazarus “sleeping” when he was already dead. Sleeping. When people die we say that they “passed” or are “gone.” Jesus reframes death as rest, as sweet gift, as a grace.

“Are you going to die, Mommy?” Well, yes. Living and dying are concurrent experiences both physically and spiritually. We live in Christ and die to self and each tick of the clock brings us one breath closer to seeing the Author of our faith.

What then is strength? Is it the health to delay the last breath another day? Is it the might to muscle through obstacles and trials?

Strength. How does heaven define it?

Is strength the ability to run a marathon?

Is strength the agility to avoid pain?

Strength. How does heaven measure it?

Is strength measured in the abundance of years?

Is strength measured in the absence of tears?

Strength.

Over the last two years, strength has been redefined in my soul. Its definition is now shorter and simpler and lighter and leaner.

My journals are really conversations with Jesus, but I feel the freedom to share one with you.

“May I love You in such a way that, in Oswald Chamber’s words, ‘quenches Your royal thirst.’ May I love. Approaching 50, it feels wonderfully full and freeing to have all my hopes in life for myself expressed in a three-word prayer: May I love. In contrast to the strength, vividness, and prominence of this one prayer, even personal prayers of the last few years pale. This one prayer is all.” (March 2, 2015)

May I love is my heart-prayer. It covers every situation and circumstance. It is sufficiently weighty for home and for work. It is equally applicable for family and for strangers. This pursuit is my personal definition of strength.

And on that day when Jesus’ clear voice does call me home, my hope is that children will describe me as strong and when asked why they will say with full hearts, “Mommy loved.”