I may not wake ready to jump out of bed in the morning, but I can still roll out on my own and brush my teeth and read my scriptures.
I may not be able to bend down to reach the pot in the cabinet, but I can pour in my own oatmeal and stir it by myself.
I may not be able to lift the toddler into her car seat, but I can buckle her in after she crawls up on her own.
I may not be able to open the door to the learning center, but I can kiss Five’s forehead when he opens it for me.
I may not be able to run a 5k today, but I can still walk at the park, slowly and carefully and in circles close to the car.
I may not be able to do jumping jacks, but I can open my arms wide to soak in the sunshine and breathe the breath of trees.
I may not be able to do burpees, but I can stretch my arms high into the sky as I sing praises to my God.
I may not be able to do crunches, but I can roll my head around while I walk.
I may not be able to do push-ups, but I can stretch my arms across me to wake them up and remind me I am still here.
I may not be able to lift any weights, but I can push my arms behind me and call my core to healing.
I may not be able to do any windmills, but I can circle my arms big and wide until I feel me whole again.
I may not even make it a mile today, my big effort only coming in at .93, but I can take one step in front of another until I have roused myself from the sleep of anesthesia.
I may not be able to workout, but I can move, and live, and have my being (Acts 17:28).
And on a gorgeous day like this one?
I can do it in the sunshine.
Cancer can’t take that away.