Letter to M.L. – "Finding Light in Chemo. "

To M.L., from Diane R. Bennett

M.L.,

I don’t know how to start this without crying a little.

I keep thinking about the way you signed that comment last week. “Still here, still bald, still His.” I read it twice. Then I went and sat down at my kitchen table and just... wept a bit. You always sign off that way — like it’s nothing. Like hope is just something you keep in your back pocket like a tissue or a mint.

But I know it’s not nothing.

I’ve never seen your face, not really. Just your little comment bubble in the blog — the one that always says something kind, even when you’re hurting.

But I know you.

And I want to write you a real letter. Like a pen-and-paper, take-a-deep-breath kind of letter. You don’t have to write back. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me sit with you a minute. That’s all.

I imagine you in a chair right now. Probably that big vinyl one at the clinic... the one that tries so hard to be soft, but still smells like plastic and Lysol and sorrow. I imagine the IV in your arm, the beep of the machine, the tired nurse trying to smile behind her mask.

I imagine the scarf on your head. Red, maybe. Or blue. Or maybe you’re bare-headed and brave, because honestly, sometimes the energy it takes to wear a scarf is more than the energy to be seen.

I imagine your hands in your lap... still.

And your thoughts, not so still.

You know, when my husband was sick — it wasn’t cancer, but it was long and slow and cruel — I used to sit on the bathroom floor and beg God to show up in a way I could actually see.

Not a verse. Not a quote on a calendar. Not some stranger telling me everything happens for a reason.

I wanted Him to walk into that bathroom and sit down on the rug and just... say something. Anything.

He didn’t. Not like that.

But I’ll tell you what happened instead.

A neighbor dropped off bread. The good kind, with that golden crust and the soft middle. I hadn’t told her anything. She just said, “I thought of you today.”

And that bread?

It felt like God.

I guess what I’m trying to say, M.L., is that maybe this letter is my loaf of bread for you. Maybe it won’t fix anything, but maybe it’ll be a little weight in your hands that says, “You’re not alone.”

I know the days are long right now. I know you’ve probably cried in your closet so no one would hear. I know you’ve googled side effects at 2 a.m. and then regretted it. I know your body has betrayed you in ways you don’t even know how to talk about.

And I know... that sometimes you wonder if God even sees you anymore.

He does.

He sees the hair that used to be there, and the bravery it takes to go without it. He sees the way you showed up for treatment even though you were too nauseous to eat. He sees the smile you give your nurse. The one you don’t even feel.

He sees you.

And He’s not standing on the outside, watching.

He’s right there. In the chair next to yours. In the hand that steadies your arm when the nurse tries to find the vein. In the friend who texts without needing a reply. In the moment of laughter that sneaks in between rounds.

He’s not waiting for you to be strong again. He’s not disappointed in your questions. He’s not measuring your faith by how upbeat you are.

He’s just there.

Holding space. Holding you.

I wish I could make soup and bring it to your doorstep. I wish I could sit with you during chemo and play old hymns softly on my phone. I wish I could make this easier.

But instead... I’m here. Writing this.

And praying... not for perfect peace, but for just enough peace. For the kind that shows up in odd places — like a blog comment, or a warm blanket, or a crust of bread.

And when your light feels dim? Borrow mine.

I’ll keep the flame lit for you.

Still here, still yours, still His,
Diane R. Bennett