The Whale Came Back

A few days ago, I was reminded of a blog post I wrote called “When the Whale Becomes a Blessing”.

I hadn't read it since the day I wrote it, but as I sat there reading, I found myself crying.

Not because I thought it was particularly profound.

Not because I was proud of what I had wrote.

But because it felt like I was reading about a woman who had no idea what was coming.

In that post, I reflected on the story of Jonah. Most of us think of the whale (giant fish) as being sent for punishment. We picture Jonah being swallowed because he was running from God. But the older I get, the more I see the whale differently. The whale wasn't what destroyed Jonah—it was what saved him.

God could have left Jonah in the storm. He could have left him drowning in the sea. Instead, Scripture tells us that God appointed a great fish. The whale interrupted Jonah's plans, slowed him down, removed every distraction, and created a space where Jonah could finally stop long enough to listen.

Years ago, I found myself relating to that story when our youngest daughter unexpectedly entered our lives through foster care. Everything changed overnight. Life became smaller, slower, and more focused. I knew God was asking me to lay certain things down, including my business.

At the time, I obeyed.

Then life settled.

And little by little, I picked things back up again.

Including the business.

The funny thing is that I knew I wasn't entirely at peace about it. In fact, when I wrote that post, I talked openly about feeling called to close the shop again. I announced it publicly. I believed it.

And then I slowly talked myself out of it.

Not dramatically. Not rebelliously. Just gradually and reasonably—the way many of us do.

After all, there were practical concerns. Five children. Private school tuition. A family budget. The business was easy for me. It generated income. It made sense.

So in March, I reopened it.

One week later, I was diagnosed with Stage 3 nodular melanoma.

Even writing those words still feels surreal.

The story actually began months earlier.

After moving to South Carolina, I noticed a small bump on my scalp. It was tiny, perfectly round, and soft to the touch. If you had asked me what I thought it was, I would have confidently said a cyst. Cancer never crossed my mind.

By November, it had grown a little, but it still didn't fit any picture I had of melanoma. It wasn't dark. It wasn't irregular. It wasn't alarming. Life was busy, the holidays arrived, and I kept meaning to deal with it.

In January, I finally scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist. The day before the appointment, I cancelled it. After looking up the doctor's reviews, I felt completely uncomfortable moving forward. So I started over and found someone else.

The problem was that the new appointment was six weeks away.

And while I waited, things began to change.

The bump grew more rapidly. Three lymph nodes in my neck became enlarged. A quiet uneasiness settled over me. I kept trying to explain it away. Maybe I was fighting a virus. Maybe it was nothing. But deep down, I knew something wasn't right.

When I finally walked into the dermatologist's office in March, that feeling only intensified.

I asked him what he thought it was.

Instead of answering directly, he kept repeating the same phrase.

"Don't worry. We'll make a plan."

Looking back, I think part of me knew. Somewhere beneath the surface, I knew he didn't like what he was seeing.

A week later, I was sitting at my kitchen table when my phone rang.

The dermatologist's office.

The woman on the other end didn't ease into the conversation.

"You have melanoma."

Just like that.

No introduction. No warning. No soft landing.

Then she told me they had already scheduled an appointment with an oncologist and instructed me to get a pen and paper.

I remember feeling stunned.

Then terrified.

I didn't know much about melanoma, but I knew enough. I knew it was highly treatable when caught early. I also knew it could be deadly if it spread.

Immediately, my mind went to the swollen lymph nodes in my neck.

I hung up the phone and sobbed in my husband's arms.

A few days later, I sat across from an oncologist who looked me in the eye and told me he wasn't going to sugarcoat things. He was extremely concerned. The melanoma was very thick—so thick that he believed there was a strong possibility it had already spread beyond the original tumor.

He ordered a PET scan immediately.

Those days waiting for results felt endless. Every ache seemed suspicious. Every headache seemed significant. My imagination filled every unanswered question with worst-case scenarios.

When the PET scan results finally came back, I received devastating news and miraculous news at the same time. The cancer had not been found in my organs. For that, I will forever be grateful. But it had spread to my lymph nodes. A later biopsy confirmed it.

Stage 3 nodular melanoma.

And just like that, I found myself in another season of interruption.

I want to be careful here. I am not saying God gave me cancer. I don't believe suffering is handed out as punishment, nor do I believe every hardship arrives with a simple explanation attached to it. But I do believe God wastes nothing. And I believe He has been meeting me here.

One of the questions I keep bringing before Him is this: What am I supposed to glean from this?

Every time I ask, I sense the same answer.

Use your voice.

Not build something.

Not produce more.

Not perform.

Simply use your voice.

I've spent years telling myself I'll get back to writing when life settles down. When the kids are older. When I have more time. When I have more clarity. When I feel more confident.

But cancer has a way of exposing our illusions. One of the things this diagnosis has forced me to confront is how often I postpone things that matter—not because they aren't important, but because they feel vulnerable.

Writing feels vulnerable.

Publishing feels vulnerable.

Telling the truth feels vulnerable.

It is far easier to stay busy. Far easier to manage responsibilities. Far easier to produce something useful than to sit quietly and put words on a page. Yet that is the invitation I keep hearing.

Use it.

Not because I have all the answers.

Not because I understand this season.

Not because I know how this story ends.

But because I am living it.

Because I am learning in real time.

Because perhaps someone else needs permission to stop waiting until they have everything figured out too.

One of my favorite verses in the book of Jonah is found in chapter three:

"Then the word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time."

A second time! What grace.

Not condemnation.

Not rejection.

A second invitation.

Perhaps that is what this season feels like most. A second invitation.

Not to become someone different. Not to accomplish something extraordinary. Simply to stop postponing what God has already asked me to do.

To write.

To pay attention.

To tell the truth.

To trust Him with the outcome.

I don't know how this cancer story ends. I don't know what the coming months will hold. I don't know what healing will look like.

But I do know this:

God is still speaking.

And this time, I want to listen.

If you find yourself in a whale season of your own—a season of interruption, uncertainty, or waiting—I hope this prayer below encourages you today.