I’m Sorry You’re Here . . .
No Wait, I Take That Back

In this world you will have trouble.

John 16:33

I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

John 10:10

I’d been home less than twenty-four hours when I got the call from my sister, Claire. It was time. I’d hardly been back home in Oxford, England, long enough to throw anything in the wash or put my suitcase back in the attic, but it was time. Time to head back to Vancouver, Canada, to my mum’s house, where she’d lived since marrying my stepfather nearly twenty years earlier. She’d been battling aggressive, small-cell lung cancer for the last year, and I’d just spent two precious weeks visiting her. How could it be time? Had things deteriorated that fast?

I chucked some mismatched clothes and my wash bag back into my suitcase, landed a firm but quick oh-my-goodness-I’ve-got-to-go peck on Al’s cheek followed by one for each of the kids, and then dashed back to the majestic coast of the Pacific Northwest.

Mum was barely conscious by the time I arrived at the hospital, yet she appeared to have been waiting for me, the last of her kids, to arrive. Turning her head as I perched on the edge of the bed, she smiled weakly, the corners of her mouth curling slightly upward, relief filling her eyes.

“You made it,” she mumbled.

As her breathing became labored and she slipped unconscious, we held her hands and prayed. She passed away as we—my sisters Claire and Jo, and our stepfather with his grown children—looked on helplessly.

“In this world you will have trouble . . .”

Six short years later, Claire had to make another call. It was time. Again.

With an ominous sense of déjà vu, I went through the motions as if acting in a play I’d rehearsed only once before. Once again it seemed like just a few hours that I’d been home. By then Al and I had moved with our three small kids to Charlotte, North Carolina, to plant CityChurch, and I’d been back in England for a week visiting my sister Jo in Torquay. It was now Jo’s turn to be fighting that same terrifying disease: aggressive small-cell lung cancer. When I’d hugged her goodbye, stroking her soft, fuzzy, chemo-bald head, my bubbly, vivacious chef of a sister may have been a shadow of herself physically, but she’d still been the same old feisty, belligerent girl I knew and loved who could crack a joke like a stand-up comic. How could it be time? Had things deteriorated that quickly?

It was just after Christmas, and we were having a brilliant time sightseeing and freezing our butts off in DC when the international number flashed up on my phone. My stomach lurched. I just knew. I’d thrown my passport into my bag just in case this happened, but it had felt like a betrayal to Jo’s strength to fight on, so I’d studiously ignored the fear warning me to pack my little black dress and pumps. All I had with me were jeans, fleece socks, my winter boots, and the rather gaudy fake-fur earmuffs I’d had to buy to save my ears from the biting DC wind. It would have to do.

Once again I kissed Al and the kids goodbye, found a seat on the first flight from DC to London, and crossed the Atlantic deep in fear-motivated prayer.

As the train from London came to a stop, I stepped down into my father’s waiting arms. We stood clinging to one another, our hug tight and lingering, oblivious to the other passengers navigating awkwardly around us. His unuttered fear and grief were deafening.

“When I told her you were on your way she smiled and said, ‘Oh, it’s that close, is it?’” Holding me at arm’s length he looked me in the eyes. “She knows it’s nearly time, and she doesn’t seem frightened. That’s good. That’s a good thing,” he reassured us both.

The pain of seeing my father ache for his dying daughter tore me apart. It’s just wrong for a parent to lose a child. It just is—it’s out of order.

And I like order.

Like our mother before her, Jo’s eyes filled with relief as I pushed open the hospital door and sat beside her. With the faintest curl in the corner of her mouth she smiled our mother’s smile.

“You’re here,” she whispered.

Claire, Dad, and I held her paper-soft hands as her breathing became labored and she slipped unconscious. We prayed, told her we’ll always love her, and that she could let go. Tears fell as we said our goodbyes. She was just forty-four years old. It was New Year’s Eve 2011, and somehow that was fitting. Jo loved a good party, and maybe, just maybe, she knew each year we’d raise a glass to her and smile, the faintest curl in the corner of our mouths, as the clock strikes midnight.

“In this world you will have trouble . . .”

Just six short weeks later, with my jet lag but not my grief a thing of the past, I sat in a cold, clinical hospital room and was told I too had cancer. Not lung cancer but rectal cancer.

Rectal cancer?

Are you kidding me? That’s a double whammy right there. Rectal and cancer are two words that should never meet let alone hang out together. How would I live that down? More to the point, would I live? Had the heat-seeking missile of death finally locked in on me? Was it now my time?

Would my kids be getting a call like the ones I got from Claire, telling them it was time? Would Al be calling Claire and Dad in some weird twist of fate? Would they be the ones jumping on a flight, dashing to my side, and holding my hand? Would I manage to smile, the corners of my mouth turning up slightly, relief flooding my eyes, knowing the end was close?

Would my breathing become labored as I slipped unconscious while they prayed, held my hands, and told me I could go?

Would I pass away at just forty-three?

“In this world you will have trouble . . .”

I’m Sorry You’re Here

I am. In fact, I wish you weren’t.

I know, that’s weird. What author wishes no one will read her book? That would be bonkers. But it’s true. I’m sorry you’re here because it probably means your world is painful and difficult right now. And if yours isn’t, then it’s likely someone else’s is, someone you care about. No one picks up a book with the subtitle How to Live Well When Life Falls Apart when life’s happy and skippy. You’d never read a book about finding more when life hands you less unless life really has handed you way less than you bargained for—so I hate that for you.

My story isn’t especially unique, and yet that’s exactly why I want to share it with you. Not so you’ll feel sorry for me. Lord knows I’ve done enough of that already. No, I want to sit with you, sharing bits of my story and stories of others who’ve been where you are, because although the specifics might belong to me, the pain, grief, exhaustion, and the rubbish we tell ourselves belong to us all. Bad news sucks the air right out of our lungs. We hold our breath, hands to our mouth in disbelief as we listen to a life-changing diagnosis, the slam of the door as our husband walks out, or the voice of the banker explaining our house is going into foreclosure. Then, as the aftershocks overwhelm us and we cope as best we can, we struggle to keep breathing, gasping for each new lungful.

Deep down we’re all the same. When life’s storms threaten to drown us we just do our best to keep calm, carry on, and breathe. If I’ve learned one thing along the way it’s that learning to breathe again is a team sport and we all need a little help along the way.

So, I’m Actually Really Glad You’re Here

The fact you’re reading this tells me you want more, even though you’ve been handed a bucketful of less. You want to stand up right where you are and inhale deep lungfuls of fresh, life-giving air. You want your shoulders to drop an inch from where you’ve been wearing them as earrings, to relax little by little, to feel hope bubble up through the cracks of your broken spaces. I’m thrilled you want to lean in and go for it because I truly believe there is more for you.

The second I was diagnosed with cancer I was called a survivor. As you can imagine, I embraced my new title with gusto and wore it with pride. Hardy by name, hardy by nature, that’s me. Until after a while I realized that’s all I was doing—merely surviving. Then I met others who had shunned the word “survivor” for its more exciting and hope-filled cousin “thriver,” and I was intrigued. It sounded so alive and full of hope and energy without glossing over the tough stuff. Thriving sounded like surviving but with life-giving benefits added in free of charge. I wanted that. I wanted what they had. I too wanted to thrive, not just survive.

At the heart of this book is my encouragement that thriving—living the full abundant life God has for us—is possible right in the middle of our heartache, tragedy, and yearning.

Jesus says, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).

To grab hold of that full life we’ve got to shatter the myth that seasons come and go, clearly defined by circumstances and emotions. Yes, we experience tough seasons and busy seasons, spiritually dry seasons and seasons bursting with excitement, yet we assume these must be mutually exclusive, separated in time and space, and that it’s impossible to experience more than one season at a time. But to live life to the full we must smash this idea that the storms and abundance of life happen in different time zones, separated like quarreling siblings sent to opposite ends of the room.

We endure, we survive, and we forget to look for joy in the midst of deep grief or intimacy in a season of loneliness. And yet, in the unsafe, raw darkness of my grief and cancer I was surprised to find myself able to hold hands with peace and fear in the same moment. I found I could laugh when all I wanted to do was scream.

We’ve bought into the myth that a painful season can’t be full, that a time of abundance isn’t challenging—and this, dear reader, gets my goat. I just don’t think it’s true, and this is exactly what this book is about: smashing this myth and inhaling all God has for us.

So if you’re looking for a book about surviving, this isn’t it. It’s not about hanging in there, longing for happy, skippy days in the distant future, or plastering on a plastic fantastic smile, pretending life is hunky-dory because you’re a good little Christian. As Sheryl Sandberg said, “The question is: When these things happen, what do we do next.”1 This book is about what’s next.

I wish we could chat over a cup of tea, but you’re there and I’m here, so my words will have to do until I can hug you in person. Either way, let me look you in the eyes and tell you that you matter, you’re loved, and you’re not on your own in this. I want more for you, my friend, and I’m absolutely confident God does too.

So the practices I share in this book are for you. They help me to take those first life-giving breaths after shocking news or to simply keep breathing when I’m drowning. They help me grasp as much of the full life Jesus has for me as I can lay my grubby paws on. These are my answer to “What next?”

Stuff still knocks the wind out of me on a regular basis. I handle it terribly, throwing ugly, passive-aggressive hissy fits I take out on the dogs. But as I lie awake at night, worrying while the rest of the world sleeps, I come back to these practices and slowly I breathe again, a little more deeply than the day before. And that’s my prayer for you too.

I call them “practices” because that’s exactly what they are. If you’ve ever done yoga, you’ll know practices are about accepting where we are and refusing to compare ourselves to the human pretzel next to us, all while improving our mental and spiritual well-being. They are about setting our intentions as we inhale deeply before giving thanks and stretching. They are about moving forward into downward dog—despite knowing our life is heading into downward-facing spiral—all while trying not to laugh or break wind, of course.

When I was knee-deep in grief and chemo, I needed someone to show me how to grab hold of the life Jesus came to give me, not just to inspire me it was there . . . somewhere. I needed someone to show me how to live in the pain, not just get through it. These practices are the way I found to do just that. They are my gift to you.

At the end of each chapter you’ll notice two things: a new line in our Thriver Manifesto and some questions. The manifesto is a written declaration of who we are and what we believe as Thrivers, not merely survivors. It will build as you go through the book and learn the practices, dive into the questions, and start to breathe again. I want you to be able to make this manifesto your own, so I made a printable version for you to keep close. You can download it and all the other “gifts” I’ve created just for you at www.nikihardy.com/breatheagaingifts.

Let’s thrive—together!

Before we jump in, it’s important we find some solid ground first. When life falls apart and all hell breaks loose, we’ve no idea which way is up or which way to turn. Afraid and vulnerable, with our world hurtling out of control, we cling to anything that might stop its spinning. The trouble is, not everything that looks stable is solid ground. If we’re standing on a quicksand of lies and misunderstanding when the ground quakes, it sends tsunamis of emotions deep into our lives and we fall further apart. The only way to find our firm foundation is to be totally clear about what is truth and what is rubbish, and then throw the trash where it belongs.

Jesus came that we might live life to the full. Let’s go grab it.

I am a Thriver.

I believe life doesn’t have to be pain-free to be full.