Cathy and I are growing vegetables in our new backyard raised bed. We’re harvesting white icicle radishes right now, but I’m disappointed in how slowly the lettuce is growing. In the meantime, we have Kentucky Wonder pole beans breaking through, a tomato plant to nurture, and this year’s test crop—chickpeas.

When I was a teenager, I hated working in my parents’ large garden—tilling, hoeing, picking—but these days I have fond memories of how my mother and father worked together to keep that patch of ground producing. It takes a good deal of faith to have a garden—faith that the seed will grow, that the rain will come in the appropriate measure, that you’ll be able to control the pests. Faith that you’ll have an abundant crop. You’ll reach the end of the growing season, and you’ll put the garden to bed for the winter, already eager to start again come spring.

Writing is like that. It takes faith to put those first few words on the page and faith to keep going even when you have no idea where you’re heading. It takes trust in the writing itself to show you the way. That’s where I am in this new novel I’m trying to write. Real life has intruded and shut down my writing process. As many of you know, my wife Cathy is battling breast cancer. Her health is my priority right now. I’m not complaining. I’m just stating the fact. Sometimes our lives have plans for us that don’t include the work we do on the page.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to continue work on the novel, but this past week I’ve had the chance to read through the close to 120 pages I’ve written. It’s been like being reacquainted with an old friend. As I’ve read, I’ve taken note of inconsistencies that will have to be addressed—plot points that are contrary to what I’ve established about characters and their situations, factual errors, glitches in the timeline, etc. At this point, all I want is to be aware of the problems I’ll eventually have to address. I choose not to address them now because I need to continue writing to know what to keep, what to revise, what to leave out. I can’t know where I’ve been until I know where I’ve gone.

Cathy and I are gearing up to battle this illness we never knew we’d have to face. We’re in the fight together. We have faith in a good outcome, but so much of the journey ahead is now a mystery to us. Wish us strength, wish us courage, wish us luck. Already, we’ve felt love from many of you. Each word of encouragement has bolstered us. Each offer of help has lifted us up. We know we’ll be tested, but we also believe in the power of love, not only Cathy’s and my love for each other, but also the love of a community that includes many survivors.

Writing is an act of endurance. We find a way to meet the obstacles before us just as we eventually overcome what frightens and confuses us. We don’t get to where we have to go unless we believe in our ability to do the hard things. The seeds never grow, the plants never produce, the manuscripts never get written, lives never flourish unless we believe in our ability to survive.