Jasmine Adewale had always been the rock of her family, the kind of woman who balanced grading papers, baking cupcakes for school parties, and leading Sunday School with effortless grace. At 34, her life in the small town of Stacey Bushes was full: two vibrant daughters (Maya, 8, and Laila, 5), a loving husband Marcus who coached Little League, and her cherished third-grade classroom where she’d taught for a decade.
That’s why the crushing fatigue worried her. At first, she blamed it on the flu that had been going around school. But when she collapsed during recess one Tuesday afternoon, her colleague rushed her to MK University Hospital.
Dr. Chris’ face was grim as he entered the exam room. “Jasmine, your bloodwork shows some concerning markers. We need to run more tests.”
The diagnosis came like a sucker punch: Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
Chemo treatments at the Cancer Center left Jasmine hollowed out. Some days, just lifting her head from the pillow required Herculean effort. Marcus tried to keep things normal – packing lunches, helping with homework, but she saw the fear in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.
The lowest point came on Laila’s sixth birthday. Jasmine watched from the couch as Marcus helped their daughters blow out candles, her IV pole standing sentinel beside her. Maya’s whispered question to her father cut deep: “Is Mommy going to die like Grandma did?”
That night, Jasmine found herself in the attic, rummaging through boxes until she found it – her grandmother Abi’s weathered Bible. The one that had seen them through Grandpa’s passing, through Abi’s own breast cancer battle. A yellowed sticky note marked Psalm 23:4, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.“
As her fingers traced the familiar handwriting in the margins (“Shadow = temporary. Substance = eternal. Choose what you stare at, baby girl.”), Jasmine could almost hear Abi’s voice: “The enemy wants you so busy fearing the shadow, you forget the Light that casts it.”
Next morning, Jasmine marched into treatment with new determination. She covered her IV pole in Bible verses and photos of her girls. When nausea threatened to overwhelm her, she’d recite: “This valley is a passage, not my prison.”
Her oncology nurse, Jemima, noticed the change. “You’re different today,” she remarked while adjusting Jasmine’s port.
“My grandmother reminded me of something,” Jasmine smiled weakly. “That shadows can’t exist without light.”
Jemima’s hands stilled. “My brother died from this last year,” she confessed. “He… he never found that light.”
Jasmine reached for her hand. “Then let me borrow your hope until you find your own.”
Two years later, Jasmine stood cancer-free before her church congregation. Beside her stood Jemima – now a believer – and Marcus, his arm tight around her waist.
“The shadow was the sickness,” Jasmine testified, voice strong. “But the substance? That was God showing up in jolllof from church ladies, in my daughters’ drawings taped to hospital walls, in Marcus washing my hair when I couldn’t lift my arms.”
In the front seat, Maya and Laila beamed, their matching “My Mom Fought Cancer and Won” t-shirts slightly too big. As the congregation erupted in applause, Jasmine spotted a new face, a young mother fresh from diagnosis, gripping the seat in front of her.
After service, Jasmine pressed Abi’s Bible into the woman’s shaking hands. “Your turn to walk through,” she whispered. “But honey? The other side is glorious.”
The darker the night, the brighter the dawn – and honey, sunrise is coming.
Shadows prove the Light exists. Valleys aren’t graves, they’re proving grounds where faith becomes sight.
Heavenly Father, when shadows loom large, remind me they’re backdrops for Your glory. Let me feel Your rod correcting my course and Your staff pulling me close. May my struggles become signposts that point others to You. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.
