My friend Stephan called me last night to see how chemo went. After I told him I was tired but okay, he told me a story.  That afternoon he went to Whole Foods to get a protein shake.  As he was paying for it, the cashier asked if he’d like to make a donation to breast cancer research and have a pink ribbon with his name on it mounted up on the wall.  “No thanks,” he said, and collected his change.

When he got to his car, he thought about everything I was going through, and he walked back into the store and bought a ribbon.  The cashier asked for his name so she could write it on the ribbon. 

“Just write, ‘Jesus Loves Sarah,’” he said.

I was speechless after he told me that. 

“Jesus does love you, you know,”  Stephan said.

I nodded silently, skeptically.  Because cancer, and especially chemo days — where I’m poked and prodded and hooked up to gadgets and where I see patients in chemo chairs next to me who are dying of cancer — do not feel like love.

“Sarah,” he said gently, “God isn’t mad at you.  He is madly in love with you.”

I fell asleep last night with those words echoing in my head.  Some days are harder than others, but I’m trying to believe: “Jesus loves Sarah.”