“The manna stopped the day after they ate this food from the land; there was no longer any manna for the Israelites, but that year they ate the produce of Canaan.”
— Joshua 5:12
I rang the bell. The port is removed. Everyone cheered. And then I came home and sat on the couch and thought… now what?
Nobody warns you about this part. They tell you about the side effects, the nausea, the fatigue, the hair. They do not tell you about the weird emptiness that shows up after the last appointment. For months, I had a schedule. Every third Tuesday, I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing. The nurses knew my name. The chair was almost familiar. And then — done. No more Tuesdays.
It’s the same feeling as after a big event — a wedding you spent a year planning, a party you hosted, a big trip, a project you poured everything into. The day after, you wake up and the house is quiet and you think, what do I do with my hands?
When our beloved dog passed away, the walks stopped. And I didn’t just lose the dog — I lost the structure the dog gave me. The morning routine. The reason to go outside. The energy had somewhere to go, and then it didn’t.
When my grandmother died, I watched my mom and uncle go through it. They had spent so much time taking care of her — doctors, medications, visits, decisions. Caregiving was exhausting, but it was also a purpose. And when she was gone, the grief wasn’t just about missing her. It was about not knowing what to do with the hours they used to spend keeping her alive.
My mom and dad had a strong marriage. But she says the hardest chapter was when they became empty nesters. With kids at home, she knew what to do — the purpose was built into every morning. Then we left. What was she supposed to do with that energy? Where did it go? It took time to figure that out. And she had a good marriage to figure it out in. Imagine doing it without one.
That’s what post-treatment feels like. The fight gave me a mission. A terrible, exhausting, I-don’t-want-this mission — but a mission. And when it ended, the relief didn’t come alone. It brought its friend: disorientation.
I remember my first happy hour after chemo. My immune system had been so compromised that I hadn’t been out with friends in months. I should have been thrilled. And I was — for about ten minutes. Then it just felt… awkward. I was doing something I had done a hundred times before, but I wasn’t the same person who had done it. I had lost my confidence with small talk. I hadn’t really lived for months — no stories to tell, no “you won’t believe what happened last weekend.” And when they genuinely asked about my treatment? How much do I share? Do I give them the real answer or the easy one? Why was talking with wonderful, caring friends suddenly hard?
It was like getting a new car.
You’ve driven before. You know how cars work. But you get in this one and nothing is where it’s supposed to be. How do you turn on the windshield wipers? How do you open the trunk? Where is the button for the heated seats? You know you’ll figure it out — you’re not an idiot, you’ve been driving for years — but right now you’re sitting in the parking lot pressing the wrong buttons and feeling like a beginner at something you used to do without thinking.
That’s post-treatment. That’s post-grief. That’s post-anything-that-consumed-you. The car still drives. You just have to relearn the controls.
And it’s different from The Itchy Sweater. The itchy sweater is about a new normal that doesn’t feel right. The new car is something you wanted. You wanted to be done with treatment. You wanted to be cancer-free. You wanted the new car. It’s just that wanting it and knowing how to operate it are two different things.
The Manna Stopped
There’s a verse in Joshua that I think about a lot.
The manna stopped the day after they ate this food from the land; there was no longer any manna for the Israelites, but that year they ate the produce of Canaan.
— Joshua 5:12
For forty years — forty — God fed the Israelites with manna. Every single morning, it was there. They didn’t have to plant it, grow it, harvest it, or understand it. They just walked outside and picked it up. It was strange and it was monotonous and I’m sure they complained about it (they did — Numbers 11 — they wanted meat), but it was reliable. It showed up. Every. Single. Day.
And then they crossed into the Promised Land and it stopped.
No warning. No transition plan. No gradual weaning. One day the manna was there, and the next day it wasn’t. The thing that had sustained them through the wilderness — the daily provision they had built their entire routine around — just ended.
Because they didn’t need it the same way anymore. They were in a new land with new food. The wilderness diet doesn’t work in the Promised Land. But nobody handed them a recipe book. They had to learn how to farm, how to harvest, how to cook with ingredients they’d never used before. They had to figure out the new car.
I think about this with my post-treatment diet. During chemo, I ate whatever fit a Keto diet and didn’t taste horrible. (Chemo is brutal on your taste buds.) Now I’m trying to figure out what eating looks like for the rest of my life. What helps my body heal. What gives me energy instead of draining it. It’s not the crisis diet anymore — it’s the long-term one. And nobody gives you a manual for that either.
The manna stopping wasn’t God leaving. It was God saying: you’ve arrived. The provision is going to look different now. You’re going to have to participate in it differently. That’s not punishment. That’s growth. But growth and loss can feel exactly the same at first.
Staring at the Sky
The disciples had the ultimate “now what?” moment.
For three years, they had the clearest mission anyone has ever had: follow Jesus. Wherever he went, they went. Whatever he said, they wrote on their hearts. They didn’t have to figure out the plan — he was the plan. Every day had direction because every day had him.
Then he ascended. Right in front of them. Up into the clouds. Gone.
And they stood there. Staring at the sky.
They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky?”
— Acts 1:10-11
I love that the angels had to come tell them to stop staring. Because that’s what we do. We stand in the spot where the thing used to be and we look up at where it went. The chemo chair. The caregiving schedule. The dog’s leash hanging by the door. We stare at the empty space and wait for it to make sense.
The angels didn’t say, “He’s coming back soon, don’t worry.” They said, essentially, go back to the city. Wait there. Something new is coming, but it’s not going to happen while you’re standing here staring at the sky.
The disciples had to go back to Jerusalem and sit in an upper room for ten days before Pentecost. Ten days of nothing. Ten days of “now what?” before the Holy Spirit showed up and the next chapter started.
That waiting — that in-between — wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a delay. It was part of the plan. Sometimes the space between what ended and what’s next is supposed to be empty for a little while. Not because God forgot about you, but because you need a minute to stop staring at the sky before you can see what’s in front of you.
The Parking Lot
Here’s what I want to say to anyone sitting in the new car, pressing the wrong buttons.
You’re not broken. You’re not ungrateful. You’re not failing at being a survivor or a griever or a person who should be happy. You’re just in a new car. The old one got you through the wilderness, and it was reliable, and you knew every rattle and squeak. But it’s done. And this one — this new life, this post-treatment, post-loss, post-everything body — is going to take a minute.
You’ll find the windshield wipers. You’ll figure out the trunk. One day you’ll reach for the turn signal without thinking and it’ll be right where your hand goes. But today, sitting in the parking lot feeling lost, is not a setback. It’s just a third Tuesday. And it’s the first third Tuesday in a long time that doesn’t have an appointment attached to it.
The manna stopped because you arrived. The angels said stop staring because something new is coming. The new car still drives.
You just have to start it.
My Prayer
Lord, thank you for the wilderness and thank you for getting us through it. But thank you, too, for the disorientation of arrival — even when it doesn’t feel like a gift. For the empty Tuesdays and the awkward happy hours and the parking lot moments where nothing works the way it used to. Teach us to stop staring at the sky long enough to see what’s in front of us. And give us patience with ourselves while we figure out the new car. We know it still drives. Help us trust that. Amen.
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