One Week Home
One Week Home
Reflections After Lung Surgery
Today marks one week home after lung surgery. One week since everything shifted again. One week since another “setback” became something deeper, holier, and strangely more peaceful than I expected.
For me, it really started the day before surgery.
On Sunday, I invited everyone who had asked, “What can I do for you?” to simply meet me at church. I wanted to be surrounded by my people. I wanted worship, prayer, laughter, hugs, stories, familiar faces. I wanted that to be the last thing sitting in my heart before surgery the next morning.
And they came.
My sisters and brothers. Delta coworkers. Friends from karaoke. Friends from old jobs. People who have known me through different seasons of life. People who have walked with me quietly for years. It was one of the most beautiful turnouts I could’ve imagined.
We worshiped together. We prayed together.
And I shared a song I had written just for that day called My People.
That was the memory I wanted to carry into surgery.
The next morning, my sister picked me up early and took me to the hospital. More family and friends came. We laughed. We reminisced. We talked in that strange way people do when everyone knows something important is happening, but nobody wants the room to become too heavy.
Eventually the surgeon came in and marked my right side. Nurses moved around the room preparing everything. And even then, I was handing out little cards to staff, thanking them for caring for me. I wanted them to know they mattered too.
I remember sitting on the edge of the bed while they attempted the epidural. I think it took five tries. I remember hearing one doctor say to get another provider because my back was “too bony.” I remember thinking, Well… this explains why I never got epidurals with my four kids.
Then they finally got it placed.
And after that, nothing.
I never remember seeing the surgeon again. I don’t remember saying my final prayer. I was simply gone into anesthesia.
Then I woke up.
At first, I didn’t even open my eyes. But I immediately became aware of something very clear:
I was still here.
I wasn’t in Heaven.
And strangely, my first feeling was peace.
Not disappointment. Not panic. Just awareness. Okay… this is the next part now.
I could feel the heaviness in my chest. I could feel my right side felt different. I remember realizing I had left my contacts in and thinking, My sisters are going to be so annoyed with me. But honestly, when I left them in before surgery, I think part of me just didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to see my people.
I remember wondering, How much lung did they take?
At first I thought I heard someone say they didn’t take the whole lung, and I remember feeling relieved. Then I drifted in and out again.
Later, as I became more awake, I remember asking again, “Wait… are you saying they didn’t take the whole lung?”
And I remember my sister asking, “Are you awake? Are you REALLY awake?”
That’s when I opened my eyes more fully and realized something serious had happened.
Some family had already gone home. Others had stepped out to eat. I didn’t know what time it was. I only knew the room felt darker now.
And then came the conversation.
The surgeon had gone in expecting to remove the upper tumor if there was only one isolated spot. But once inside, he saw six or seven additional spots lower in the lung that had not shown up clearly before. He biopsied them. The ones tested came back positive.
He biopsied the original tumor again and waited for pathology.
Pathology’s recommendation was simple:
Don’t proceed further.
No major removal surgery. No removing the lung. Because it would not change the outcome.
So the surgery became something different than we expected. Instead of removal, it became confirmation.
And honestly? Family members all remember parts of the conversation differently. Trauma does that. Everyone catches different sentences. Different expressions. Different pieces.
But what I remember most is this:
I felt held.
Over this last week, something in me has shifted.
Not into denial. Not into giving up. Not into pretending everything is okay.
But into surrender.
Not passive surrender. Not hopeless surrender.
A deeper trust.
The kind that says: I will still dream. Still build. Still love. Still create. Still show up fully alive.
But I’m done gripping everything so tightly.
This week I’ve noticed myself slowing down enough to recognize sacred little moments I might’ve rushed past before.
My son came home and left clothes on the bathroom floor, and instead of irritation, I smiled. The younger version of me would’ve immediately picked them up. This version simply thought, Thank God he’s home.
I visited my dad and watched him quietly push food away after two bites while all of us tried to pretend our hearts weren’t breaking a little.
I watched my sisters reconnect in ways I honestly wasn’t sure I’d see again.
I watched people rally around me with unbelievable love.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, I realized something that completely changed the way I read the story of Noah.
The dry ground mattered.
God had Noah building before there was proof. Before rain. Before floodgates. Before anyone understood.
The dry ground was necessary before the floodgates opened.
And suddenly I realized: that’s where I am too.
Still building. Still trusting. Still preparing. Standing on dry ground between the waters.
Peace before certainty. Trust before proof. Preparation before release.
I don’t know exactly what the future holds. I don’t know whether my floodgates mean healing, more time, greater purpose, deeper ministry, or ultimately Heaven itself.
But I do know this:
Hope did not die here.
If anything, the floodgates opened.
Moving Forward with Grace -Donna ❤️
This song was written during a season when I found myself standing between fear and faith, uncertainty and hope. Dry Ground Between the Waters tells the story of discovering that God’s provision often appears before we recognize it. Looking back, I can see places where grace was already making a way long before I understood what lay ahead. This song is a reminder that we don’t always need to see the entire path. Sometimes we simply need the courage to take the next step and trust that dry ground will meet us there.
This song is available on all major music platforms, including Spotify, Apple Music, and Pandora.
My Grace In Motion 