Horn Family Update #1

“It is not what happens to us that matters as much as what happens in us.”

- Jerry Sittser, A Grace Disguised

I generally do my writing well in advance. A well-written piece of literature is like fine wine—it only gets better with time. (The opposite can be true as well…some works go bad.)

Slowly, methodically, on the margins of a day job, family, and coaching, writing has been an anchor. It’s helped me make sense of a world that is hard to grasp. This has never felt more necessary than it does right now.

Earlier this week, my wife and I received some hard news.

What we know: my wife has a brain tumor, and she needs to have surgery on July 1st. About a month ago, doctors found a spot on a MRI scan (unrelated to this), which led to further inquiry. After numerous scans and appointments, they concluded earlier this week that surgery is the most prudent and necessary course of action.

For clarity’s sake, there is still a lot we don’t know. I’ve debated even putting something like this out there. After surgery, we will receive a more detailed prognosis and begin to understand the journey ahead.

It’s hard to fully articulate the feeling of this moment. How do you even begin to summarize or speak to what feels like one of life’s cruel turns? As a former pastor, sitting with many over a decade through both loss and love, there are no words that can fully broach the deafening silence of suffering.

The initial aftermath feels something akin to a concussion—you feel disoriented, yet somehow more sensitive to every sound, movement, and possibility around you. Katherine May, in Wintering, captures this sensation much better than I can:

At moments like this, sleep feels like falling; you sink into luxurious blackness only to jolt awake again, staring around at the darkness as if you might divine something in the grainy night.

Like a young child standing at the edge of the deep end of the pool, I’ve tried not to jump into those darker waters prematurely. But inevitably, this is where the mind wanders when you’re worn down by worry and the weight of life’s demands.

For my wife and me, we could carry the weight if it only belonged to one of us. But when we think about our young boys and the long ripple effects of loss, it’s hard not to go there.

I’ll fully admit: I’m the dramatic one in our marriage. My wife is the toughest and bravest person I know. When the doctor told us surgery was the best course of action, she said, “I can do this today if you need me to.” (Let’s just say…we sat there for another half hour of my questions and concerns.)

Her courage in the face of life’s most demanding moments humbles and astounds me to this day.

A mentor, who has battled cancer multiple times, mentioned to me that it’s harder in a different way on those around the person suffering. The person getting the surgery is living within the bounds of their body and their moment, while everyone else—no matter how close—is at an arm’s length, trying to wrap their arms around a bubble that can’t seem to break.

This isn’t meant to say that people can’t help or support. We’ve been blown away by the numerous ways our community has rallied around us. Sweet texts and calls from friends near and far, random strangers offering prayer, people being present, helping with rides, and showering us with more gifts than we can count have left us humbled beyond belief. I guess what I mean to say is that there is an inevitable distance or gap that exists.

But the beauty of such painful moments—something I’ve come to know through both my older brother’s and dad’s passing—is that you get to see what it looks like when that gap closes, even just a little bit.

Like a wildflower emerging through the cracks of concrete, grace often appears in places where we least expect it. The closing of the gap between sufferer and supporter in a harsh world creates space for something beautiful to grow.

Grace is not an ethereal concept removed from the everyday; it makes its home in suffering, difficulty, and the broken places of life. It is something we’ve found to be true in these last few days.

So, as we walk into this new season, we ask for your prayers.

Pray for my wife, Hilary, as she traverses what could be a long process of tumor removal and whatever follows. Pray for our young boys, that they’d be protected from the weightier things they don’t need to carry—and that they can simply be kids this summer. Pray for me: I’m tired. It’s been a busy winter and spring with lots of transition.

Lastly, we pray that the unexpected grace we’ve come to know is one that grows further and farther beyond our own situation. The world is filled with suffering we may never fully see or comprehend. But the one thing we know: grace finds a way to grow.

God meets us in the hardness and cruelty of life, caring for even the faintest glimpses of his goodness.

For this, we are grateful.

Much love,

The Horn Family

For those who have asked how they can support us: a close friend has created a Meal Train for our family with multiple ways to help. We have been overwhelmed by the love and care shown to us, and this is simply one practical way to walk alongside our family in this season. You can find it here.