No One Knows How Many Tomorrow’s Are In A Lifetime…
So I’ve stopped taking them for granted.
That’s one of the greatest lessons chronic illness has ever taught me.
For more than two decades, I’ve lived with something most people don’t see.
Behind the smiles are hospital rooms.
Behind the laughter are tears.
Behind the encouraging words are moments of fear that I’ve never shared with anyone.
There have been nights when I’ve laid in a hospital bed listening to the machines around me, wondering what tomorrow would look like.
There have been moments when I had to confront something none of us really want to think about:
I could die.
Not someday in some distant future.
But maybe sooner than I thought.
When death becomes more than a word—when it becomes a possibility sitting at the foot of your hospital bed—it changes the way you see everything.
You stop worrying so much about things that don’t matter.
You start caring more about the people you love.
You become grateful for things you once overlooked.
A sunrise.
A conversation.
A laugh.
A hug.
Another morning.
Another breath.
Another chance to tell someone, “I love you.”
Another opportunity to say, “Jesus has been good to me.”
Chronic illness has forced me to stretch the limits of my faith.
There have been moments when faith was the only thing I had left.
And sometimes my faith wasn’t strong.
Sometimes all I could whisper was:
“Jesus, please get me through tonight.”
And somehow, He did.
Not always by changing my circumstances.
But by changing me in the middle of them.
I’ve learned that thriving with chronic illness doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay.
It doesn’t mean putting a smile on your face and hiding the pain.
It means being honest enough to say,
“This hurts.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t understand.”
…and then somehow finding enough faith to say,
“But God, I’m still trusting You.”
That’s where writing came into my life.
During those long hospital stays, when the hours seemed to crawl by, I started writing simply to pass the time.
I didn’t know what it would become.
I just knew I had emotions trapped inside of me that needed somewhere to go.
So I wrote.
I wrote when I was scared.
I wrote when I was angry.
I wrote when I was hurting.
I wrote when I was grateful.
I wrote when I couldn’t understand what God was doing.
And I wrote when I needed to remind myself that God was still there.
Eventually, writing became a daily habit.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something:
Maybe these words aren’t just for me.
Maybe that hospital bed wasn’t only a place where I was fighting for my own life.
Maybe it was also a place where God was teaching me how to speak hope into someone else’s.
Because somewhere out there, someone is sitting in a hospital room tonight.
Someone is staring at a diagnosis they never expected.
Someone is crying where nobody can see them.
Someone is terrified about tomorrow.
Someone is wondering if their life still has meaning.
Someone is asking God,
“Why am I still here?”
And if my words can reach even one of those people and whisper,
“Please don’t give up. You’re not alone.”
then maybe the pain wasn’t completely wasted.
That’s what I’ve come to understand about purpose.
Sometimes purpose doesn’t come wrapped in something beautiful.
Sometimes purpose comes wrapped in pain.
Sometimes God takes the chapters we would have gladly erased and uses them to write hope into somebody else’s story.
I wouldn’t have chosen this journey.
I wouldn’t have chosen the illnesses.
I wouldn’t have chosen the hospital stays.
I wouldn’t have chosen the fear.
I wouldn’t have chosen the uncertainty.
But I can choose what I do with it.
I can let it destroy me.
Or I can place it in God’s hands and say,
“Use this, Lord.”
Use my scars.
Use my tears.
Use my failures.
Use my fears.
Use my story.
Use every broken piece of me.
Just don’t let my suffering be meaningless.
Because I don’t know how many pages are left in my story.
And neither do you.
That’s the truth we don’t like to talk about.
Every one of us is living on borrowed time.
We just don’t know how much time is left.
So I’m trying to stop counting the years…
and start counting the moments.
I’m trying to embrace the time God gives me instead of being consumed by the time I don’t have.
I’m trying to live while I’m alive.
To love while I can.
To forgive while I can.
To encourage while I can.
To write while I can.
To tell people about Jesus while I can.
To leave a little more hope in this world than I found.
Because one day, all of us will write our final sentence.
And when that day comes, I don’t want my greatest regret to be all the things I was too afraid to do.
I want to know that I used what God gave me.
That I loved people.
That I encouraged people.
That I prayed for people.
That I made somebody feel less alone.
That I pointed somebody toward Jesus.
That I didn’t allow my illness to steal the purpose and joy God placed inside of me.
So…
I will keep writing.
Even when my hands are tired.
Even when my heart is heavy.
Even when my thoughts are harder to find.
Even when the words come through tears.
Because there is still something inside of me that needs to be said.
And there is still somebody who may need to hear it.
I don’t know how many tomorrows I have.
But I have today.
And today is enough.
Today, I can love.
Today, I can pray.
Today, I can encourage.
Today, I can write.
Today, I can live.
Today, I can tell somebody,
“Don’t give up.”
And today, I can look toward Heaven and say:
“Thank You, God, for one more day.”
I don’t know how my story ends.
But I know Who holds the pen.
And until He writes “The End,”
I’m going to keep turning the page…and live. ~OC
The Blessed Overcomer 