Wrestling with my husband’s cancer invasion, I asked God many questions. Journaling was my own conversation with God. I wanted to keep those words private. But as the months ticked by after my husband’s passing, I knew I had to let them out. Drawing on my experiences in Stephen Ministry, women’s mentoring, GriefShare, and Bible study groups, I pose a perspective that rests in God’s Word.

In my early career, my name appeared as a co-author on several clinical journal articles and abstracts from work in cardiovascular research. Trained in biological sciences and preventive medicine, I thrived in the healthcare arena, addressing better quality of life for patients. However, writing facts and conclusions in medical journals is light years away from expressing the intense emotions that surfaced in writing about my husband’s illness.

From humble beginnings in a small, primarily Mennonite town, I have an attachment to the land. You see, I am a farmer at heart. I love to touch the soil. No, I did not grow up on a farm, but farms populated the countryside around my community. We were not Mennonite; that is a story for another time. Presently I am part of a gardening group. When I was young, everyone had a garden in my hometown. They canned vegetables and fruit, preserving them for winter use­. I learned to cook early, and maybe that is why I love cooking for guests. Spending a fair amount of time researching ideas for the menu, I have no qualms about trying new recipes on unsuspecting guests. I had an early education for that. In the summer after my first year of college, I took a three-month job working as a Girl Friday in a well-to-do home on Chicago’s North Shore. When the lady-of-the-house explained my duties like answering the door, dusting, and making beds in her proper way, she asked at the end, “Do you cook?”

“Of course,” I answered. My upbringing included taking turns cooking everything homegrown. At my answer, my new employer informed me their cook was off for the summer.

“Could you follow my recipes?”

“Sure.” Being naïve about what that might entail, I agreed. That summer, preparing recipes never eaten at my mother’s humble table, I served quail stuffed with apple wrapped in bacon, wild rice rings surrounding a bed of peas with baby onions, and many other dishes foreign to my repertoire.

Following a recipe requires attention to ingredients, order of preparation, and technique.

Writing this book involved all of those elements but much more. It uncovered profound emotions I never knew I had.

I share my thoughts and experiences about this struggle, hoping it may encourage others going through similar life-changing circumstances.