He Thinks of Me Young

“Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.” Isaiah 40:31

I realized recently that being diagnosed and treated for brain cancer made me feel old. For one thing, I was physically weaker, first from the symptoms of the tumor, and then from months and months of chemotherapy pills. I lacked energy. I lacked confidence in my balance and in my physical strength. I had no stamina.

It didn’t help that I actually am getting older. The late 60’s are different from the early 30s or even the mid-50s. And having never been this age before, I could not sort out which symptoms were the normal process of aging, and which were the quickening of cancer and cancer’s treatment.

For another thing, I thought about dying every day in the first year after diagnosis; and frequently in the second year. I would think a young man’s thoughts about some world changing effort I wanted to be involved in. And then I would say to myself, “I won’t have enough time to do that.”

I have always been a person who has dreams & visions, and also has the patience to see them through to reality. But seeing dreams through to reality can take years, and everyone’s best guess was that I was almost out of years. It is sobering to realize that there is no longer enough time. I found solace in Carl Sandberg’s comment that “Some dreams are stronger than death.” And I felt old.

During those two years the only part of who I am that felt stronger, like it was being renewed, was my relationship with God. Perhaps it was the prayers of so many people in my behalf. Perhaps it was my openness to God’s goodness in the midst of the challenge. Whatever happened, and however long my life continued, I wanted to reach a new level of knowing God. Looking back, I know that the spiritual growth and newness I have experienced in these last 2 ½ years is a gift to me from God.

I think that some aspects of spiritual growth can only happen when “the things of this world” lose their attraction…usually as we grow old. Or at least feel old. I am grateful to be freer from the love of this world, a freedom ironically which accentuates the beauty and goodness all around us. But still I am more aware than I would like to be that I am older, and growing old. If God has granted me the “15 years and then some” that I wrote about in the last blog, then there will be no arguing by then that I will be old. Most people in this world will still not be old 15 years from now, but I will be. I have mixed feelings about that reality.

At the same time, I don’t feel as old as I did a year ago. Physically I feel so much better and so much stronger. I am not thinking about dying every day. I have come to believe that my time is not short like I thought it was when first diagnosed. So I will have time to be patient with some dreams. And I have gained the wisdom that all time is short when compared to the reality of the eternal world.

I feel younger and wiser at the same time.

A few months ago, I woke from sleep with these words in my mind: “He thinks of you young.” The words have stayed with me like a consistent reminder. What if the eternal one, the one who gave us life and promises eternal life, always thinks of us young even as we grow old?

Maybe that is the truth Isaiah was trying to tell us. If we wait upon the Lord, our strength will be renewed. We will mount up with wings like eagles. We will run and not be weary; walk and not faint.
This, then, is the good news. God thinks of us young.

Adjusting My Thinking

My MRI last week was the same as the last 15. The tumor is small and stable, perhaps “no longer viable,” as my doctor wondered about last time.

Perhaps no longer inevitably fatal, as he wondered this time. Though he told me when we first met that he has never seen anyone survive this particular brain cancer, he mentioned last week that one of his four rules of oncology is “Never say never.” I asked myself “Why am I hearing about this rule at this time?”

I quit taking chemotherapy 33 weeks ago, and I have felt so much better ever since. Feeling good for the last 8 months makes it hard for me to believe I have a fatal illness. In fact, I no longer believe it. If that MRI image wasn’t there every other month, there would be no evidence at all for the maybe not viable, maybe for the first time ever not fatal tumor.

In addition to my five imagined border collies (with symbolic Biblical names) herding cell cancer sheep that I wrote about 2 ½ years ago, I have always used Biblical verses and images as a basis for hope that I would live beyond the 18 to 24 months that is the normal survival time for this cancer. A friend wrote from Vietnam quoting Jesus’ words “This illness is not unto death, but is for the glory of God.” I felt an inexplicable ring of truth in those words. The prophet Isaiah tells King Hezekiah that God has granted him an additional 15 years and a cure of his “fatal” illness, so I ask for the same and think maybe I got a “yes.” Jesus curses a fig tree saying “You will never bear fruit again,” and that withered tree somehow becomes a spiritually convincing image of the never say never nature of the no longer viable tumor in my head.

You also notice that I never call it “my” tumor, but rather “the” tumor. I will not claim it as mine. In fact I have disowned it, giving it to Jesus to do with as he pleases. For two years African American friends, when I ask them to pray for my healing, have responded “It’s already done.” For the last several months I have believed them.

In my mind I recently had a conversation with God that went like this: Dale—Lord, how long am I going to live? God—You asked for 15 years. I granted you that and then some. Dale—What is “and then some”? God—4 or 5 years. Having had such a conversation, I then have to decide if I believe it was God responding or my wishful thinking. If I had to guess right now, I would guess it was God.

People sometimes tell me that I am not going to die for several years because there is so much that I still have to do on the earth. I admit to being a purpose driven person. I believe followers of Jesus are supposed to be agents of change in this far too callous world. And I admit that there are some amazing possibilities opening for the online university that I am president of, opportunities to bring healing where major wounds have existed for decades. Opportunities to reach people never before reached with good education. Possibilities of almost Biblical proportion. Possibilities that bring my soul alive with hope and wonder.

And yet I have started to believe that if tomorrow I finished the work God has in mind for me on this earth, I would still be given the “15 years and then some.” As all life is a gift from God, so this extension after a “fatal” diagnosis is a gift that does not require me to accomplish something. God is better than that. God’s gifts come with the hope that we will use them well. And God knows I will always be trying to be a faithful follower of Jesus. But the 15 years and then some are not given if I work hard to be productive for God. The additional year are just given…a free gift of God’s love.

One of my favorite Old Testament stories, found in 2 Kings 6, is about the king of the Arameans sending a large army to surround the town of the prophet Elisha at night. In the morning the sleepy eyed servant of Elisha goes outside and sees the horses and chariots of the enemy. “Alas, master!” he says. And Elisha replies, “O Lord, please open his eyes that he may see.” His eyes are opened, and he sees multitudes of horses and chariots of fire in the mountains around the town. “Do not be afraid,” Elisha says. “There are more with us than there are with them.”

I am starting to feel like that sleepy eyed servant, my eyes opened at last. And I ask myself which world is more real, the one we can see or the one we usually can’t see. I am leaning strongly toward the world we can’t see as the greater reality, even here on earth. After all, isn’t faith the conviction of things not seen?

I have never understood Jesus’ teaching that if we had faith as small as a mustard seed, we could command a mountain to be lifted up and thrown into the sea. In theory maybe, but in reality how would that ever work? These last 2 ½ years have not been for me an experience of that kind of faith. I can’t even imagine being involved with that kind of faith. Rather I have benefited from God’s remarkable kindness to me, and other people’s faith working in my behalf.

But I have changed and grown, perhaps mostly in internal ways visible primarily to God. Meanwhile I think my eyes are being opened, my thinking adjusted, my faith less concerned with what is scientifically verifiable and logically rational, my mind becoming more sensitive to a confidence we can have in God.

The very rational, very Presbyterian part of me keeps warning that I could end up looking like a fool for believing this cancer will not kill me. That voice is getting weaker. But even if it proves to be correct over time, looking like a fool will be a small price to pay for what I am learning about the things that are possible with God.

Planting Something New

I have to apologize for not writing since early June. I can’t believe it has been so long. From now on, take it as a good sign when I don’t write.

Much has happened since my last blog entry, including graduation ceremonies at Union University of California, the online school where I am president, and a community which prays faithfully for me every day.

One particular incident stands out during graduation week. I had responded early in the week to a student who asked about my health. Later in the week, at the celebration dinner the night before graduation, he told me that while I was answering his question earlier in the week, he saw an image of a withered tree, like the fig tree that Jesus cursed in Matthew 21. I looked that story up again, and what Jesus said to the fig tree was “May no fruit ever come from you again!” I liked the idea that the tumor in my head was like that fig tree, all withered up and not able to “bear fruit” ever again. I started praying this would be true. And honestly I have to say that I now believe it is true.

My history with brain cancer is that the tumor shrank during the first year, until what remained was only 10% of the original size. And for the last 16 months the tumor has remained small and inactive. My most recent MRI last Friday showed the same size tumor that it has shown for 16 months, including the last 6 months without chemotherapy. Taking the risk that it could be only wishful thinking, I am willing to live in the faith that Jesus has actually taken some action similar to the cursing of the fig tree, and this tumor will never bear fruit again.

My doctor, who has always been clear about this type of tumor’s ability to regenerate, who has said that this kind of tumor is always fatal, said something new last Friday. Looking at the MRI image, he said “It is too bad that an MRI can only show the size of a tumor. It is too bad that an MRI cannot also show whether the tumor remains vital, or if it is no longer viable.” It was the first time he has talked about the tumor possibly no longer being viable. He did not say that he was wondering whether the image he was looking at was of a “no longer viable” tumor, but only that he wished MRI images had the capacity to show that information. Still it is the first time the words “no longer viable” have been spoken in our consultation.

I thought immediately of the withered fig tree and Jesus’ words, “May no fruit ever come from you again.”

Four days after the MRI I had an amazing sleeping/waking prayer experience. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. feeling lots of joy (not natural to me, as many can tell you), and began thinking of all the things I am thankful for, all the people I have recently been praying for, & all the specific good things I want for our world. This was a kind of dozing/waking/dozing experience, and I couldn’t tell you when I was awake and praying, and when I was dreaming.

Somewhere in that process I found myself either praying or dreaming that I was asking Jesus to uproot the “withered tree” in my head and replace it with something new; to remove the “no longer viable” dead cancer cells, and “plant” new, healthy brain cells. And I wanted this new planting to be dedicated to some new openness to new spiritual insight or giftedness or ability or knowledge. I wanted that spot in my brain to be wholly dedicated to experiences of God and faith that I have not previously known. I continue to pray for this “new planting” to occur.

I have written often how this journey with brain cancer has been also a journey of longing to grow spiritually, to reexamine what is important, to get off the comfortable spiritual plateau, and move with trust into personal new territory in my discipleship following Jesus. I have become very aware that different “families” within Christian faith (like Presbyterians, Pentecostals, Orthodox, et. al.) have different strengths and blind spots. I want to live with my eyes more open and to gain spiritual strengths I do not yet have, and to be more capable of receiving what the Spirit of God would teach me.
I have always believed that, in heaven, we will be much more than we currently are. One of my favorite promises from the scriptures is that we will be like Jesus when we finally see him face to face. (1 John 3:2). For these last 28 months, the desire has been growing in me again, like when I was young and first knew him, to learn to be more like him now.

That is a gift I wasn’t expecting on this journey with brain cancer.

“Bye Bye Da”…Dana Sewall, age 2, to her Dad.

“Where I am going, you cannot follow me now; but you will follow later”… Jesus to Peter (John 13: 36).

When my daughter Dana was two years old, Jinny used to hold her in her arms while saying goodbye to me as I went off to work each morning. I would say “Bye Bye Dana.” And Dana would respond “Bye Bye Da.” It was a happy exchange with no hint of sadness. We were confident in our reunion later in the day.

Dana has seldom written for this blog. You have to go back a couple years to find her entries, which are funny and sweet. I asked her last year why she wrote so seldom, and she said her view of our family situation with brain cancer is a little different. She referred to those morning goodbyes when she was little, and said that is how she thinks about my possible death. It is not something to get too upset about. Dying is a part of life and relationships. And we are certain we will see each other again. Dana and I agree on this. “Love never ends” (1 Corinthians 13), so our relationship never will end. Death is not the end of things because love (not ours, but God’s) is stronger than death. We count on God for that.

I find Dana’s perspective refreshing in its confidence. I find it powerful, because it comes from a position of love rather than from a distant relationship. And I find it peace giving. If “perfect love casts out fear,” then Dana is giving us (me at least) a glimpse of that truth.

I have another MRI on Friday, four months after stopping chemotherapy. I have enjoyed living without chemotherapy, but now I pay the price in increased anxiety. Will the MRI show that the tumor remains small and inactive? Or has the tumor begun to grow again without chemo? I will let you know the answer in a medical update over the weekend. Meanwhile I seek to live into Dana’s truth.

Since I was diagnosed with brain cancer 26 months ago, I have taken more note of people I knew over the years who are now gone, some in the last two years and others earlier, like high school classmates who died years ago but whose death I only learned of at a class reunion last year. I know so many who have died, who have “gone before me,” that their dying also testifies to the naturalness of death, to the reality that some die early and some later, but eventually we all follow. As Jim Morrison said, “No one here gets out alive.” This too is strangely comforting. If, like birth, we all go through it, dying can’t be so bad. And especially if we know that God is good; is in fact far better than we dare to hope.
It occurred to me the other day that our trouble with dying is mostly about community, and especially its absence. Jinny and I arrived home from a two week trip to find that our neighbor had moved away while we were traveling. Even though we knew he was moving, his absence and his empty house left me feeling a little empty inside. Our community has been diminished because our neighbor is gone.

For those left behind, death is mostly about absence. I noticed my old work jacket hanging on a nail in the garage and I thought, “If that jacket is still hanging there after I die, its presence will make Jinny feel my absence.” We fear moments like that for our loved ones.

And because most people die individually rather than together, those who are dying often fear the experience will be isolating. It’s a lonesome valley that we walk by ourselves, we are told. I am not so sure about that, as I have written previously. Nevertheless, our anxiety about dying is often grounded in fear of the aloneness of dying. So anxiety about dying has much to do with loss of community, of togetherness, both for the dying and those left behind.

Is there some way we can live with less anxiety about dying? Is there some way to reach the childlike confidence of Dana’s “Bye Bye Da”? Or the spiritual maturity of Jesus’ “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now, but you will follow later”?

Both Dana and Jesus assume that community is not lost in the parting, even when the parting is death. What Dana at age two did not know is that there is much pain in the world. She knows it now and yet retains the knowledge that togetherness is not lost forever in the parting.

Jesus was fully aware of pain and sorrow in the world. Yet he told Peter that while Peter could not follow him right away, he would follow him later. They would be together. Community would not end, because love does not end.

And he told all the disciples that their sorrow at his leaving would be turned to joy. As the pain of childbirth is forgotten, he said, when the child is held in arms, so the pain of “leaving” this world is overcome by the joy that follows. And while there are aspects of giving birth that are individual and isolating, even when surrounded by medical staff and family, still the birth of a child is very much a family and community experience.

I am glad Jesus acknowledged that the pain of separation can be significant. He knew his disciples were anxious, and that we would be anxious. We don’t like partings, especially from our loved ones. But his analogy between dying and childbirth tells us that the pain will be forgotten, that the community will remain intact even through death, that parting will be superseded by reunion, and that we will rejoice together on the other side of our partings.

Reading this blog entry, some may wonder if I have a premonition of bad news. I do not. In fact I am planning, God willing, to live a long time in this world. But whenever a “last” parting comes to me or to anyone, my hope for those remaining is that they will experience some of the confidence and lack of anxiety in the child’s words “Bye Bye Da.” And for the one departing, some joy that the words of Jesus are now being fulfilled. He promised that we could follow him later. He was promising community and being together. And he was talking about his departure from this world, and ours, when he said it.

Losses and Gains

The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Job 1:21

We just returned from a trip east for my mother’s memorial service. Though she died in early February, and there was a brief graveside service at that time, this was the first opportunity for family from around the country to gather, and my first trip back since just before her death.

Our time in western Pennsylvania, where my mother lived all of her 91 years, was full of subtly powerful emotion. There was a strange, disconnected feeling about being in the place she lived her whole life without her presence. It occurred to me that there will be little reason to visit the area again, especially if my sister, who lives across the border in Ohio, retires and moves closer to her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchild in New York CIty. A place of memories has its power, but memories live in the mind without needing actual location. And it seemed this time that memories, without the presence of at least some of the people who inhabit the memories, can only hold us in a location for a few days. The heart attaches more powerfully to people than to location. And all the western Pennsylvania people we go home to see are gone.

So the entire visit had a “last time” aura about it, an “almost goodbye” feeling. And though the farmlands and wooded hills are so familiar and so beautiful with their subtle early spring colors, and though they still appeal, they are no longer home. I don’t think western Pennsylvania will be a regular stop on our journey of life anymore. This trip felt more like leaving than arriving.

Seeing my mother’s grave was a bit of a shock. I was imagining a finished grave, flat and grass covered. But because it had lain under snow and winter weather, it was still a raw mound of dirt, not yet settled, leveled and seeded. It made her death seem fresh, and her laying to rest unfinished. My daughters in particular had a hard time with the grave. Their grandmother was a powerful mentor and source of honest wisdom for them, and they did not have the benefit I had of witnessing how full of faith and eagerness she was as she approached dying.

Finally, her memorial service refreshed in people’s minds the possibility of my death from brain cancer. I didn’t notice this at first because I definitely am not thinking that way. But people I love were wondering how much time they have left with me.

So much for the experienced and anticipated loses.

There were also gains in this experience. The memorial service was a full expression of faith, as my mother’s life had been. Retelling stories of her experiences with God, which began when she was a child and never stopped, we realized that we could conclude only one of two things about her. Either she was delusional about her relationship with God, or she lived her whole life close to God. And since she wasn’t delusional about anything else in life, we favored the relationship with God explanation and realized what a gift it is to have lived with and learned from such a woman.

The family gathering was definitely a gain. We have a big family, but we kept the circle for the memorial service small. That allowed for some conversations we wouldn’t have had in a bigger group. My brother, sister and I talked about our father’s drinking years with more openness and courage than I can remember doing previously. Two cousins talked honestly about suffering and loss in their own families. Somehow the last of the older generation being gone safely into God’s hands loosened our tongues to share things we had not shared before. Such conversation was a step forward in who we are together. It is hard to be close growing up in dysfunctional families. We began to know each other in new ways, and it brought us closer.

A third gain was the gift of being able to reflect not only on my mother’s entire life, to see what she overcame and how she lived with honor and achievement; but also to be able to do that for her generation of our family. They are all gone now. But as my cousin noted, we can conjure them in our memories any time we want. And we can see them as people, almost as peers rather than parents, aunts and uncles. I found that to do so brings sympathy and understanding.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once wrote that “the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I find my 60’s to be a time of longer, deeper, wiser reflection than the thoughts of my youth. In my family, we are the older generation now. We are the ones with time and inclination to reflect, and with at least the opportunity to be wise. We are the ones who can have both the experience and compassion to guide the generations after us. We are the ones who have seen lives fully lived to their completion, and the outcomes of how those lives were lived.

I cherish this time in my life, this gift of reflection and understanding about what it means to be human with all its gains and losses. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed is the name of The Lord.

***
A brief health report: It is 10 weeks since I stopped taking chemotherapy. My April MRI showed a small and inactive tumor. I am feeling great. My next MRI will be in early June. Thank you for your continued prayers for many more years. It surprises me now when I find that someone is worrying about my imminent death. I am planning a different course, and hoping I am right.

Stirring Things Up

“He grew and the Lord blessed him, and the Spirit of the Lord began to stir him…” Judges 13:24-25

These words from the book of Judges seem to be happening to me right now. Certainly these words are what I want to happen. I have definitely grown through this two year journey with brain cell cancer. In some ways I now function on a different level of relationship with life and with God. And there have been surprising blessings along the way.

Monday was the second anniversary of the day my doctor told me that statistically I had between 18 and 24 months to live. Later, because I was responding so well to chemotherapy, he told me that my chances of living significantly longer would go way up if I survived 2 years. Monday was 2 years.

I had an MRI on Monday, my first since stopping chemotherapy 6 weeks ago. It showed that the tumor remains as it has been for the last year, small and stable. My doctor was ecstatic. He prescribed vigorous aerobic exercise. That would have been unthinkable 2 years ago.

So I have grown. And the Lord who has been blessing me is still blessing me.

The words from Judges are about Samson, who is not one of my Bible heroes. I did not seek out the Samson story. But in honor of my mother, who read the entire Bible every year for at least 60 years, I have been following a plan to read through the whole Bible this year. And Monday’s Old Testament reading, on the 2 year anniversary of my diagnosis, was the Samson story.

The words from verses 24 & 25 will not leave me. They are a description of what I have experienced for 2 years, and a statement of what I want. I want the Spirit of the Lord to stir me. I want to be more finely tuned to the Spirit’s prompting. For my remaining days on earth, I want to experience what it is like for my soul to be stirred by God’s Spirit, and to respond. I want to do what the Spirit prescribes, and not just what my doctor prescribes.

I have already begun, and with something a little strange. In the Judges story, an angel tells Samson’s mother that he is never to drink wine. So I decided, almost on a whim, to stop drinking wine. I can’t say that God told me to stop; only that I felt like stirring something up in my life, and maybe the Spirit gave me the idea. Actually Jinny and I decided on New Year’s Day to give up almost all meat; also most wheat and dairy products. So perhaps the urge to stir things up in our lives began as 2013 began. And continued with the decision to stop chemotherapy. And appeared again about the wine.

I don’t know yet if I am giving up wine forever. On the night he was arrested, Jesus told his disciples “I will not drink this fruit of the vine again until I drink it new with you in the kingdom of heaven.” I am intrigued by that commitment, but not sure that is what the Spirit is stirring up in me. Time will tell.

Some of my friends would say that it is silly or puritanical or without usefulness to give up wine. But I have already discovered what may be the primary value of this decision. I decided on Monday morning, before my doctor’s appointment and MRI, forgetting that Monday evening my men’s book group would meet. We always finish our book discussion with a glass of wine. Forgoing the wine reminded me that I made the decision for a reason. I want the Spirit of the Lord to stir in me again and again.

I think that every time I am offered wine and decline I will silently remember my soul’s desire for the stirring of God’s Spirit in my life. I wonder what else God has in mind for the remainder of my days.

Perfect Love Casts Out Fear

I’m a fixer. I spend all day solving problems; it’s one of the skills that makes me a good manager. I listen, I sympathize, I negotiate, I get to the bottom of things, and I take action. Specific action that more often than not rights a wrong or takes the bluster out of an argument. It’s a skill that comes naturally and over time has become my default mode.

One of my favorite TV shows is Monk, a show about an eccentric detective who picked up a number of unique personality traits when his wife died. They enable him to see things clearer at crime scenes than the other detectives, but they also inhibit his growth and his ability to find joy in life. Again and again throughout the series, when characters ask him how he solves an impossible case, he just shrugs and says, “It’s a gift…and a curse.” That’s how I sometimes feel about my skills as a “fixer.”

The reality is any trait taken to its extreme becomes destructive over time. The issue with spending upwards of 40 hours a week solving problems is that when life throws something at me I can’t fix, I nearly exhaust myself trying to control it anyway. I’ve written about my tendency to want to control everything and everyone around me before. It’s an issue I’ve been working on for nearly two years now with some success.

Or so I thought.

My family started this blog in April 2011 when my dad was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and my husband requested a divorce. The two events occurred in close conjunction and as such, their lives as the primary men in my life have remained intertwined in my mind from that moment on. Each has travelled a different journey since then, their paths diverging wildly. Yet somehow, their “big moments” along the way seem to always coincide. The same is true again now.

As I write this, Cory is contemplating choices that will affect his future, some that are out of his control. His immediate future is unknown and uncertain, a fact that creates chaos in his soul and a problem I want to fix. Simultaneously, my dad has decided to discontinue chemotherapy, giving the remaining 10% of his tumor to God as a tithe to do with as He sees fit. Another decision with an uncertain outcome.

I clearly cannot control the outcomes for either of them. They aren’t my decisions to make. But because they affect people I love and indirectly my own life, I want to control them. I want to offer the perfect insight that influences them to do what I would do, I want to find just the right series of actions to take the burden of these decisions from their shoulders and put them on my own so that I can feel safe about the outcome. I want to orchestrate things in just the right way that my life continues on the path I’ve laid out for myself.

But God doesn’t work that way, and neither does life. Rather than fixing things, I exhaust myself and them with my endless suggesting, nudging, and questioning. Given that I thought I had made progress on this issue, I get annoyed with myself when I catch myself doing it again. I’m determined to get to the root of my behavior, to uncover why I simply cannot fully let go of control.

When I dissect things, I am stunned to learn that much of my behavior is based on fear. The reality is, I simply still cannot fathom that God could have a better plan for all of us than I do. He has shown me countless times He can turn even the hardest moments into something lovely, yet I still question what He has in mind and His character. I want to trust Him. I do. I want to fully believe that if my dad stops relying on modern medicine that God will fill in the gap. I want to believe not just rationally but in my soul that no matter the outcome for Cory that his path was chosen long ago by God for a reason…a good reason. But I still worry. I still am afraid. I still doubt. I still control.

I’m attempting to rest today in the idea that perfect love casts out fear. And since only God has perfect love, only God can cast out fear. So I draw near to Him again, bow my head in prayer again, and attempt to replace fear with love again. And to let go.

-Sara

Life Without Chemotherapy

“And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire, a still, small voice.” 1 Kings 19:12

Since I last wrote a blog entry, I have been trying to listen to God as I decide whether or not to continue chemotherapy. If I could clearly perceive what God wants me to do, I would gladly do it. I know that God is wiser than I, and that what God has in mind is for good, not necessarily for me but for all of us together. My trust level concerning God is sky high, the result of the last two years of reflection and of other people’s prayers. For the most part I am pretty certain I can say what Job said (Job 13:15), “Even though he slay me, yet will I trust him.”

So I have been trying to be attentive to whatever God might tell me about continuing or stopping chemotherapy. I mentioned in my last blog entry that I have “tithed” the last 10% of the tumor to God. And since it now belongs to God, I intend to let God deal with it while I no longer worry about it. But I do want to cooperate with what God wants from me. Thus the listening for God’s voice. Or if God prefers, the waiting for a strong feeling of what is right to do. Or for the vivid and compelling dream. But I haven’t received any of those things.

In Elijah’s experience described in 1 Kings 19, the phrase “a still, small voice” is sometimes translated “a gentle whisper” and sometimes even “a sound of sheer silence.” I have been saying to God, “Could you please speak up?” I have received either the sound of sheer silence or a whisper so gentle that I keep saying “What? What?”

Meanwhile the next scheduled chemo round drew near, and with it the time to decide. I decided to stop taking chemotherapy.

My doctor concurred with this decision. He told me several months ago that I should consider stopping the chemo treatments for now since there is no way of knowing whether they are helping, or whether the tumor would be just as stable without treatment. I have taken this chemo drug longer than most patients because I have lived longer already than most people live with this tumor. I am statistically “off the charts,” with no studies or other predictors of what will happen next, with or without chemotherapy. I asked my doctor last week to “prophecy” my future. All he could say was “Time will tell.” So the plan for now is a new MRI every two months to monitor the tumor. If it starts to grow, there will be options to consider.

For me this was not a decision to go passive and let whatever happens happen. Rather quite the opposite. It was a decision to live a chemo free life trusting God.

While I was in the process of making the decision, I asked myself “What kind of faith story do I want to be living?” I realized that I get to choose the answer to that question (as you also do for your life). I decided that I want my answer to be this: I live a faith story where God has a clear and unambiguous opportunity to bring complete healing; where God is good enough to not only keep me alive until I complete the exciting ministry I am now involved in, but also to give me many years of second retirement to live in contentment with those I love. God is that good. And God can easily do it. Nothing is impossible with God. My hope remains to die in 15 or 20 years of something unrelated to this tumor.

The day after the decision was made and the chemo drugs were not ordered, the scripture in my “year through the Bible” reading (in honor of my mother’s lifelong habit of reading through the Bible each year) was from Mark’s gospel, chapter 5, about the woman whom the doctors could not cure in spite of 12 years of treatment. (My doctor has been clear from the day I met him that there is no cure for this tumor. From the point of view of medical science it is “always” fatal.) In Mark’s gospel she is instantly healed when she touches Jesus.

Is it a coincidence that I read that story on the day after my decision? Maybe. Or is it a whisper so gentle that the natural response is “What? What?” As my doctor said “Time will tell.”

Occasionally it occurs to me that I am going to feel naïve and stupid if the tumor begins growing again in the next few months. But of course there are things to do in response if that does happen. And what I know for sure is that I get to decide what kind of faith story I am living, and what kind of God I believe in.

I believe that God’s goodness is far more personal and far greater than anyone has imagined so far. And I want to live a faith story that is, for the moment at least, chemotherapy free.

Death Has No Victory

“Death, where is your victory? Death, where is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:5

My mother died in Pennsylvania last week at age 91. I spent a remarkable five days with her before she died. She has had a strong faith and a vital relationship with God since she was a young girl. She heard God “speak” to her many times in many ways during her life. And she read the entire Bible every year from the time I was a toddler until macular degeneration slowed her reading down. She was in the last chapters of Romans when she went to the hospital two weeks ago; and it probably would have taken her a year and a half, using her big reading machine from the Pennsylvania State services for the blind, to get through the Bible this last time.

I sat by her hospital bed for 12 hours every day, and she slept and woke, and we talked. She was very ready to move on from this world, to leave behind this body that had become frail and blind, to mount up with wings like eagles. She was absolutely unafraid, looking forward to the future, a little disappointed each time she woke and found she was still in this world.

When I left her to fly home, my prayer was that her dreams would be sweet and her journey swift. She had dreamed often while I was sitting with her, and her dreams were always of being young and having fun. She died peacefully in her sleep 3 days after I had gone.

It was her time to go home to the Lord. And it is hard to grieve for someone who was granted what she wanted so much. So I rejoice with her. And being far away on the west coast, it still seems more like she is alive in her Pennsylvania apartment, until I think about calling her. Then my heart feels a little lonely and yet, at the same time, glad. Her apartment is empty. She would not answer the phone. I won’t see her until I see her in heaven. Meanwhile I know she is having fun there, and young.

It was her time to go home to the Lord, and I find, remarkably, that death has no victory, that in this death there is no sting. Rather God has given us the victory. I have always read that verse with the emphasis on the word “victory.” God has given us the victory. Now I think the emphasis is on “us.” God has taken the victory away from death, and given it to us.

I came away from this sacred time with my mother feeling strongly that while it was her time to leave this world, it is not my time. I could have come away jealous, since I do believe that to live is Christ and to die is gain. But I came away certain that my time to leave this world is not close. Rather, I have a calling to fulfill, a vision to help turn into reality, a work given to me to complete. I don’t believe I will die of a brain tumor or anything else until that work is done; until the Lord calls me to come. Then I will gladly go. But now I gladly stay. And I think I will be staying for a while, perhaps for quite a while.

A friend recently suggested that I stop being concerned about the 10% of the tumor that remains in my head. Since it is one tenth of what it used to be, he suggested I should give it to God as a tithe. Let it be God’s tumor now, to deal with as God chooses. And I agree. I give it to God. I am taking it off my radar. I am going to live as though the tumor is not my concern. I am not certain yet how I will live this out. The doctor says I can decide to continue the chemotherapy or I can decide to stop. I guess I will do what feels right when it is time to decide. Whichever I do, that is not the important part. The important part is to give it to God and live like it is not my concern. I intend to think about it less, refer to it less in conversation, urge wife, daughters and friends not to be anxious about it. I will focus on the life and love around me, and on what it means to be fully alive and fully in relationship and service to the Lord.

It feels good already.

Grammy

I don’t want to write this post.  My stomach is in knots from the assault of my dinner hitting my stomach at the same time I sit here wracked with grief preparing to write.  Throughout this blog journey I’ve written about my grandmother a few times as she is a source of inspiration to me, especially in my life’s most recent challenges.  Lately she has been quite ill and this morning she made the decision to terminate all medical machinery that might prolong her life.  As a result, her time left on earth is limited.

Having spent time with her just this past October, her decision didn’t come as a big surprise.  She long ago made peace with death and has spoken of it with great anticipation for years.  She longs to be reunited with people she misses who went before her; to be with Jesus; and to return to her thirty year old body so she can run, jump and dance again.  (She is certain that’s the age we will all be in heaven.)  But while it’s not a surprise, I’m not ready.  I don’t want her to go.

I’ve caught myself a few times today wishing it was my turn.  I’m tired of goodbyes and of sadness.  I want to be in a place where my days are filled with happy reunions rather than challenging partings.  Where I get to be with Jesus and where the trials of the world no longer plague me.  Part of this is driven by fear.  With no descendents of my own, I worry about the rest of my life stretching before me filled with one goodbye after another until there is no one left of my family and I’m here on earth alone.  And yet I imagine if that day comes, it will be my grandma I will think of. 

She is the last remaining member of her original immediate and extended family.   As in all things, she accepted this, faced life as it came, trusting God had the perfect plan for her life, that He knew best and that His plan was created for her benefit.  I’m trying to remember and hold to that now, and I’m trying to feel joy on her behalf, for when she goes, it will be a beautiful reunion.

There is simply no way to sum up what she has taught me and all the ways she has influenced me.  She shows up in nearly every aspect of my life and the right words simply escape me.  And I so badly want to find the right words, to do her justice in this blog.  I want everyone who reads this to know what a beautiful soul she is.  I want them to know that with her passing the world will lose a steadfast prayer warrior, a staunch defender of all that is good and right in the world, an incredibly brave person, and one of the greatest examples of unconditional love and acceptance I know.  I want them to do more than just read this blog for a few minutes and move on, but to appreciate her life for the inspiration it is and go forward aiming to do better, to be better.  I know I will.    

I was born the second child of a second child of a second child, a chain that began with her and ends with me with my dad sandwiched in the middle.  Given that they are the wisest people I know, I feel some pressure to measure up.  A task that seems insurmountable and yet it is because of her that I even stand a chance. 

She is responsible for directly and indirectly shaping any good trait inside of me.  From her I learned how to not only tolerate but to appreciate those who choose to live differently than me,  how to find beauty in life’s hard moments, how to forgive, how to hope for and believe in the redemption of people, how to love unconditionally, how to put God above all things, how to live in the present moment, how to make the best of challenging situations, how to laugh at the unexpected, how to hold tight to those you love, how to put others before myself,  how to apologize and take responsibility, how to be still and listen, how to trust God even when it’s hard, how to let go of things I can’t control, how to love Jesus, how to butter toast perfectly, and so very much more. 

I intended for this blog to be a thank you gift and note for her, but how do I even begin to thank someone who has given so much asking nothing in return?  Words are inadequate.  So instead I will try to live out the example she taught me.  I will do my best to live the remainder of my life around these principles, to carry on her legacy so others may catch a glimpse of her beautiful and perfect soul through knowing me.

My dad posted a conversation he had with her on Facebook today.   My grandma has read the bible cover to cover at least 60 times in her life, returning to it year after year.  He asked her if she would like him to read it to her today.  Her response?  “Already got it.”  And she does.  She has more biblical knowledge than trained scholars and has faithfully lived out its principles day in and day out year after year.  Yes, she’s got it.  And because of that, the idea of dying brings her nothing but joy.

I don’t want her to go, but even though I’m just beginning to “get it,” I know we will meet again.  At the end of my life when I hope that I too can claim to fully “get it,” I will have a happy reunion with her and it will be another special moment in our long journey together. 

I look forward to that moment. 

I love you Grammy, your life meant something here on earth, and I will miss you so very much.    

-Sara