What makes my heart sing - by Sharon

I recently lost part of my ability to sing. For weeks, even speaking or holding a note was not possible. I used to be able to go above a high G, but now I can comfortably sing up to A — almost an octave lower — before I feel a choke in my throat. My range has shrunk and my volume has diminished. It happened as part of a surgery to remove thyroid cancer from the neck — the laryngeal nerve connected to my left vocal cord was severed, and now only my right vocal cord works.
For weeks, I was simply in awe that removing multiple parts from a body resulted in so little net loss. Besides the laryngeal nerve, my vagus nerve, left jugular vein, parts of my esophagus, left lymph nodes, left parathyroids, and whole thyroid were cut out. I hadn’t expected so much to be taken out, and yet I was just glad the surgery was done and that they had appeared to successfully resect the cancer. I was busy rejoicing. I was still alive. I would recover. I would speak again and sing again eventually.
Once I got the “all clear for now” from the last scan and blood test, I thought I would feel more happy and liberated, but I wasn’t. With one worry put to rest, other problems rose to inherit their place. The day after I got the “all clear” I was scheduled for yet another scan anyways, perhaps just for good measure. Another scan, another result to wait for. As I prepared to restart life again, I tested speaking into my personal amplifier. It worked well, but it hung heavy on my heart, where fear and discouragement loitered.
That made me realise something about rejoicing. There is something to rejoice about in every situation. There was rejoicing in receiving a cancer diagnosis — it wouldn’t be a terrible prognosis. There was rejoicing in the cancer being more advanced than the doctors previously thought — I still came out of surgery doing relatively well. There was rejoicing in finding out that the chance of recurrence for me will be higher than usual for other young patients – above 10% – because it means that for now there is still life to live.
It makes my heart sing when I recall God’s faithfulness. There is always something to rejoice in to endure the temptation of despair. During the time that I have walked down uncertain paths in the last few months, I experienced so much of my Father speaking into my life during my devotional time, and so much of his love shared through his other children. It was more than I deserve. During the time when I could not sing at all, my heart sang to know that whatever happened, I would not be alone. That is a sure hope.
Now that I can sing again, albeit with some limitations, my heart wants to be afraid again. I miss my voice, even if it was always soft-spoken to begin with. I wonder if, or when, a tumour will grow again — and if I could have prevented it. How quick I am to forget to make my heart sing. God gives when he takes away — now one way, now another. While we are still on earth, God is never done working on us, and there is no "all clear.” When I fear, I need to remember my sure hope and then hope inquisitively, with great expectations.