My aunt Cheryl. To help getting her bills paid up and current. She is behind to do cancer treatments. She has stage 4 liver, rectum and colon cancer. She was diagnosed in 2023. 

Cheryl never thought of herself as strong. Strength, to her, was something other people had. The ones who didn’t get tired, who didn’t have to sit down halfway through the day, who didn’t carry a body that felt like it was working against them. Cheryl was just… Cheryl. A woman who showed up. A woman who gave. A woman who prayed. Back in 2023, when the doctors said the words no one ever wants to hear, her life split into “before” and “after.” Stage 4. Not just one place, but many. Liver. Rectum. Colon. The kind of diagnosis that makes rooms go quiet and people avoid eye contact because they don’t know what to say. But Cheryl didn’t go quiet. She listened. She nodded. She asked a few simple questions. And then, somehow, she kept going. The world didn’t stop for her, even though it probably should have. There were surgeries that took pieces of her strength. Treatments that drained her in ways no one could fully see. Days when just getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight. And now, kidneys struggling too, like even her body was overwhelmed by the fight it had been asked to carry. Still, Cheryl showed up to work when she could. A registration nurse, greeting people who were scared, hurting, uncertain. Funny thing is, patients probably thought she was the strong one in the room. Calm voice. Kind eyes. Steady hands. They had no idea how much it cost her just to be standing there. But Cheryl never measured life by what it cost her. She measured it by what she could give. Before all this, she was already the kind of person people talk about but rarely believe exists anymore. The one who gives without calculating. The one who notices when someone else is struggling before they say a word. The one who would hand over her last dollar and somehow still smile like she had more than enough. Cancer didn’t take that away from her. If anything, it sharpened it. Because when you’re living in the middle of uncertainty, you start to see what actually matters. And Cheryl chose, again and again, to be someone who mattered to others. Every week, no matter how hard the days had been, she made her way to church. Not because it was easy. It wasn’t. There were mornings when her body protested every step. When exhaustion sat heavy on her shoulders. When staying home would have made perfect sense to anyone watching. But Cheryl didn’t go to church because life was easy. She went because life wasn’t. She sat there, sometimes tired, sometimes hurting, sometimes just holding herself together, and still she praised God. Not for a perfect life. Not for a painless journey. But for the breath in her lungs, for the people around her, for the chance to see another week. And then, as if that wasn’t already enough, she prayed. Not just for herself. For others. For strangers. For friends. For anyone who needed help. Anyone who felt alone. Anyone who was carrying something heavy. It’s a strange kind of strength, the kind that looks outward when every reason says to look inward. Cheryl has that kind. Her life hasn’t been easy. Not even close. It’s been up and down, full of moments that could have hardened her, closed her off, made her bitter. Most people would understand if she had become that way. She didn’t. Instead, she became softer where it mattered. Stronger where it counted. Steadier in her faith, even when everything around her felt uncertain. That’s not weakness. That’s something far rarer. If you met Cheryl on an ordinary day, you might not see the full story right away. You’d just notice that she listens when you speak. That she smiles in a way that feels genuine, not forced. That she treats you like you matter, even if the world hasn’t been doing a great job of that lately. But if you stayed a little longer, you’d realize something deeper. You’d realize you’re standing in the presence of someone who has every reason to give up, and yet chooses not to. Someone who is fighting battles most people will never fully understand, and still finds the strength to lift others. Someone who doesn’t just believe in goodness, but lives it, even when it hurts. Cheryl may not call herself strong. But strength isn’t loud. It isn’t perfect. It isn’t untouched by struggle. Sometimes, strength looks like showing up when your body begs you not to. Sometimes, it looks like giving when you have very little left. Sometimes, it looks like faith that refuses to break, even under pressure. And sometimes, it looks like a woman sitting in a church pew at the end of a long week, whispering a prayer for someone else. Cheryl is still here. Still fighting. Still giving. Still believing. And whether she sees it or not, she’s already done something remarkable. She’s turned a life full of hardship into a living example of grace.