"A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" by Donald Miller

1:01 AM

I just finished reading Donald Miller's book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.

I cried.

It's been a while since I've actually cried while reading a book and it normally consists of a few years streaming down my cheek, only needing one or two tissues to clean up the mess. The last time I cried while reading was mt senior year of College. Every year, I read Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers. I've been doing this for the past few years now, so it's becoming an after-Finals or the start of a New Year tradition. Crying while reading about the love between Sarah & Michael is nowhere neat the kind of crying I did while finishing Miller's new book.

I wept.

I'm talking abnormally giant-sized tears, dramatic heaving between sons, hyperventilating while clearing out an entire box of Kleenex, kind of crying. It got to the point where I had to physically put the book down & remove myself from the room, away from the pressing pages of terribly sad stories, painful reflection & a strange new self-awareness that I was being changed with each turn of the page.

The entire book is brilliant, comparing the art of Story to living the art of Life, but the crying didn't start until I read the story about Jim & Janice. Janice had cancer and Jim, her loving husband, had found solace in unraveling his thoughts & feelings to Done about the painful ordeal. His story was touching. Moving. Jim had stayed by Janice's side for the duration of her last days, sending out e-mail updates (54 Total) to family & friends until she peacefully laid her head down into eternal rest.

This hit home.

A very close friend of mine, someone who has teken me in as one of her own children, has been battling a type of Lymphoma for 19 years now. Recently, she moved temporarily to Berkeley to undergo three months of intensive treatment, in hopes that it would cure her 100%. Her husband & children were still living in their house in Sacramento, pressing on with their daily lives as usual. To them, this was routine. 19 years is a long time to battle cancer, so the entire family had a lot of time to make peace with God, grieve and prepare for anything that could happen. Still, they cherish everyday with her, like it's her last. For 19 years, every day could have been her last.

I didn't have 19 years.

I couldn't see her. The drive to Berkeley is only about three hours, but I couldn't bear enough strength to see her. In pain, weak, facing death. She had adopted me as her own, becoming my "Surrogate Sacramento mom" & I wasn't ready to have her leave us. I was afraid that if I attached myself any more, I'd die from pain if she were to unexpectedly take a turn for the worse. So, I stayed in town. I didn't e-mail. I didn't write letters or call. I was distant.

God has worked miracles & the treatment was extremely successful. She's been back for about a month now, but I haven't had the gut to call her & go out for one of our regular coffee dates where I update her on life & she gives me advice, tells me that she can see God working in me, and that she loves me. I sat by her at church last week & I was afraid to even look at her, worried that the slightest touch would erase the past four months & she would be contaminated again, only worse.

Cancer is a bitch.

Grief is sometimes worse. Starting that grieving process was difficult, but sometimes gaining a life that should have been lost is even harder to deal with. Where do I go from here? I feel guilty when I see her because I failed to make contact when she probably needed it the most. Along in a strange city in a strange apartment with strange drugs pulsating through her veins. I feel like a terrible adopted-daughter.

Miller's book invokes passion & emotion, unbeknownst to my already overly emotional heart. Reading about conversations with God under over-sized trees outside the city walls of Heaven causes on to take a hard look at their life and the story they're living. What will God say when I sit down with Him to tell about my story? Will He be proud of me? Will he pat me on the back and say, "Well done, my good & faithful servant!"? Will I tell Him about my cancer ridden friend or the youth I've been working with? What will He want to hear?

I hope with all my heart that I'll be able to have one-on-one time with God, to be able to hash out the good ole' days when I loved to write & He loved to hear me sing. I hope He's not too busy in Heaven.

Conversations with God under vibrant trees, outside the gates of Heaven. Just the two of us.

My heart breaks & tears come in floods.