Look! I am placing a foundation stone in Jerusalem, a firm and tested stone. It is a precious cornerstone that is safe to build on. Whoever believes need never be shaken (Isaiah 28:16 NLT)

I strolled a short stretch of the Ghost Town Trail with others this week, soaking in the sunny warmth that shimmered through every translucent leaf.

The trail is well named. It’s one of a network of paths along deserted railroad beds with renewed purpose. Bikers and hikers waved as we passed, basking in the brilliant afternoon light. I would guess few if any of us thought about those men who long ago built this corridor, making our outings possible.

A short distance from Dilltown we crossed over the sturdy new Armerford foot bridge, supported by four massive stone pilings. They’re the only remnants of the railroad bridge that once spanned Blacklick Creek, here.

Armerford was one of several now-deserted mining towns that once dotted this region. As far as I know, nothing is left of this little community. The homes are gone, the people who lived in them have left or passed away. Perhaps someone has recorded the stories of these ghost towns, but the only evidence we saw of Armerford that day was these rock structures.

They brought to mind when Jim and I met at IUP. We visited three different Indiana church services in a row. In what seemed more than coincidence, in each we sang a hymn from the 1800s, “The Church’s One Foundation is Jesus Christ our Lord…”

Our cornerstone, Jesus under girds His church and people with His strength. Whatever else happens, this foundation will prevail.

Jim and I raised our kids in one of the churches we visited as college freshmen. We must have passed along some of our faith because on Sunday afternoon Tara Joy, our middle child, was installed as Pastor of Christian Nurture at a Pittsburgh church, surrounded by family and a caring congregation.

Standing in that sacred place, I was happy for the ways this church and others reach out in ministry with practical compassion. They point to Jesus, who came in fragile human flesh so we would know what Love looks like.

How Love acts.

How Love dies to self.

This is the good news, that Love endures.

More than ever, I need to hang onto this, for those times when the power of the word “cancer” seems more compelling than faith. I let doubt almost win after I had some scans recently, uncertain what they meant until I finally saw my oncologist who cheerfully said they were satisfactory.

Despite my fears, at the same time I was a woman on a mission. Last February I was invited to speak at the Delmarva Peninsula Christian Writers Conference, scheduled for last Saturday. In March when my diagnosis looked bleak my sister, one of the organizers, said they would understand if I backed out.

Knowing how draining speaking can be, I considered taking an easy exit but felt the Spirit whisper I should proceed as if all would be well.

“I’ll be there in October,” I promised. .

Because cancer is not my most basic reality.

I have an inner chapel that cancer cannot touch.

So, in the last week I not only walked the Ghost Town Trail but also the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, breathing in the goodness of salt air.

With God’s help, I led that writing workshop in Delaware, believing a promise is a promise.

Then we scurried up the road some three hundred miles for Tara’s installation, where I prayed and wept in one of Pittsburgh’s most beautiful sanctuaries.

Although I received a positive report on Thursday, I live with advanced cancer. There will always be more tests, more chemo, more bridges of faith to cross. The thought makes me weary until I remember I don’t walk alone. The best thing I can do is persistently press my hand into that of my walking companions –above all, the Sacred Three.

I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus’ Name.

My hope is built on nothing less.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette