By April Yamasaki

During my husband’s months of chemo, we got used to the ups and downs of his treatments. On Day One, I would drive him to the hospital with a snack, his headphones so he could listen to the latest sports podcasts, and a book or a few magazines. Several hours later, on the way home, we would often pick up takeout for supper. He usually felt quite well, and it was fun to treat ourselves and have a little reward for making it through another session.

Over the next few days, he would feel more and more unwell, too tired to read or to work on the animated videos he was developing to teach New Testament Greek. But then he would start feeling better, and by Day Six or Seven he would feel quite normal again — until his next chemo appointment when the cycle would start over.

But then after one of his treatments, the usual rhythm was off. Instead of feeling better, he felt progressively worse. I talked with the cancer agency nurse twice, then with the on-call oncologist, and both advised continuing to monitor at home, until finally his own oncologist said to call an ambulance and go to Emergency. Complication after complication followed, until finally after three weeks, he had pulled through them all. Then just when he was feeling better, just when his doctors started talking about him getting stronger to come home, there was one more crisis, and suddenly he was gone.

With chemo, my husband and I would sometimes ask ourselves, how long can we keep doing this? When will we finally get to go home from a treatment and not have to come back? Suddenly without him, my questions multiplied, but they all came down to this: How could I go on without my Dearheart?

In my sudden plunge into the molasses of grief, I felt as if I could hardly breathe. So I started there: with learning to take measured breaths, and letting those breaths become my prayer when I could hardly think or put two words together. I returned to the basics, like remembering to eat and to drink water throughout the day. Staying connected to family and friends and church with phone calls and coffee times and going for walks that also helped me stay active. Taking time alone to cry or journal my thoughts and feelings and prayers. Taking naps. Mulling over Scripture. Sitting in silence or listening to music or getting outside to tend my garden and chat with neighbours.

My days were full of grief and full of these practical expressions of hope, caring for myself and staying grounded in God and connected with other people. But they all came down to this: by God’s grace and over time, I found a way forward, God’s way forward for me in the midst of life-changing loss.

In the gospel of John, Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6 CEB). Many read this verse with an emphasis on the — meaning that Jesus is the way, the one and only way to God. But with our theme “Jesus as Way,” the emphasis falls on the way, on the person and work of Jesus, the one who also says, “Don’t be troubled. Trust in God. Trust also in me” (John 14:1 CEB). Jesus spoke these words of assurance to his first disciples, and in my early grief, these words of assurance spoke hope to me too. Now three and a half years later, these words continue to point the way forward: to trust in God, to trust in Jesus as the way, to God’s way forward on the journey of grief and hope.

April Yamasaki is a pastor, editor, author, and spiritual formation mentor. Her newest book is Hope Beyond Our Sorrows: Learning to Live with Life-Changing Loss (Herald Press, 2025). In it, she shares some of her journey with grief after the unexpected death of her husband, and invites readers to join her in learning to live with faith and hope beyond their broken dreams. Whatever loss you’re living with, you will find comfort in her book’s short, easily digestible readings accompanied by prayers and spiritual practices. Learn more at AprilYamasaki.com