I trust you, God.
And I did. But then I’d receive a prayer request about a friend’s horrific chemo treatments. Or I’d see a Facebook status about someone’s new diagnosis. The truth about how many people — faithful, honest, trusting people — live with and die of cancer every day shook me. The worst can happen. There are no guarantees.
Soon the fear returned and my heart failed. What if this is the beginning of the end? What if my boys have to grow up without me?
Terrified, I’d crawl back to my closet and plant my face on the floor.
Help me!
In and out of that closet. Courageous one moment, terrified the next. Always, always, regardless of brief respites, by the time the sun set the fear consumed my insides like the heavy dark outside. Nighttime caused the beast to grow.
I suppose I should have anticipated such a reaction. This wasn’t a the-dishwasher-stopped-working crisis. It was big, life altering. My family and future were at stake. Even so I expected more from myself. For four years I’d been a writer and speaker who encouraged audiences to live firmly rooted in the reality of God. In fact, two days following my PET scan, I was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at a women’s Christmas event. As I made worried tracks in the carpet, I chastised myself for my hypocrisy. I preached a good word on faith, challenged men and women to stand on their belief. But now, when life hiccupped — albeit a big hiccup — I couldn’t seem to grasp my own message. How would I speak a hope- and peace-filled message to a room full of women when I couldn’t find a scrap of either for myself?
Another long fear-filled day passed. As I headed to bed, exhausted but unsettled, I went to check email one last time before shutting my computer down. In the dark, with only the glare of my screen giving any light, I clicked open my inbox.
A message waited. From my doctor.
In an instant, my heart rate doubled and hands shook. This is it. I braced myself, clicked open the email, and read her message: “The PET scan did not pick up any cancer in your neck or elsewhere. In fact, the residual cancer in your tongue is so small that they couldn’t see that either. I believe that is very good news regarding your overall prognosis with this! See you next week for surgery.”
I fell to the floor.
Relief. Complete, draining relief.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Through an ocean of tears, I prayed the same two words over and over. It was all I could think to say. After days of verbose pleas and strategically quoted Psalms, I could hardly speak.
I read Dr. Forrester’s words again, relishing each one. The journey ahead wouldn’t be easy. I knew that. A major surgery, several weeks of painful recovery, and countless appointments that would last for at least five years. But the weight of a worst-case scenario lifted.
That’s when I started dancing. I twirled through my house like a carefree five-year-old, telling my husband and children the good news. In between poorly executed dance moves, I here and there fell to my knees to give thanks again. I had no idea how much I loved my life, until I almost lost it.
In the middle of my gratitude-fest, it occurred to me I needed to do one more thing. I got back on my computer, pulled up my messages, and typed a reply to my new best friend and doctor: “I’ve been crying huge tears of relief over here all night long! Thank you so much for this wonderful news! I don’t know what your beliefs are, but I believe with all my heart in Jesus. At least forty people (not to mention me and my own family!) have been praying their hearts out for the last week and a half. Though it seemed such a bold request, this is exactly what we were praying for. God is good. Much to be thankful for tonight.”
I knew I probably sounded silly and ridiculous. But I didn’t care. I wanted the world to know I believed in a God who could answer bold, ridiculous prayers in bold, ridiculous ways.
She wrote back quickly, probably laughing at my online evangelism. But her tempered reply sobered my enthusiasm just a bit: “Yes, God is good — I believe this even when we struggle to understand all of his purposes.”
Her words stopped my twirling. It occurred to me then that she’d had to deliver bad news more than once. Not this time, thank heavens, but too many times before. How does a doctor make sense of the sparing of one life and the losing of another?
Yes. God is good. It was easy for me to say it at that moment, buoyed as I was with good test results. But would I still have celebrated the goodness of God with different results? Would I have testified to my confident, unwavering belief in Jesus had the PET scan turned out differently? I would like to think so. But honestly, I don’t know.
That night I danced. I celebrated a God who heard my closet pleas and fought for the life of his child. I poured out gratitude like an offering. But later, when other prayers didn’t receive such neat and tidy answers, I’d have to learn a different kind of dancing, the kind that stands still. The kind that leans into the sure arms of a mysterious and unfathomable God and allows him to lead, even when she doesn’t know where he is leading.
Because sometimes God fights for his girl in ways she never imagined.
CHAPTER 4
A Cancer Far Worse
How can the inner workings of the heart be changed from a dynamic of fear and anger to that of love, joy and gratitude? Here is how. You need to be moved by the sight of what it cost to bring you home.
— TIMOTHY KELLER, The Prodigal God
THERE’S A STORY IN THE BIBLE ABOUT A FATHER AND HIS TWO sons.3
The older, a model of near perfection. The younger, impulsive and selfish. We hear little about the older brother, but the younger creates enough drama for twenty-two verses. Hungry for the rush of indulgence and popularity, he demands his inheritance from his still-living father. He wants to party and believes cash is the key to his happiness. The father, knowing that some lessons can be learned only the hard way, gives his son what he asks. And, filled with grief, he lets him go.
For a while, the son lives it up. He indulges in his freedom, spends lavishly without thought or care. This is what he wanted, what he’d been missing! But soon reality tarnishes the dream. The money runs out. The friends run off. And a famine, both literal and figurative, leaves him with nothing. Starving and with nowhere left to go, the younger son heads home. To his father.
The entire story hinges on a single moment, a split second in a plot stretched with tension. The son approaches his father’s home, broke and broken. The father, having endured the ache of a lost child too long, squints at the familiar form in the distance. Can it be? For the briefest moment, son looks at father and father looks at son. What will the father do? Send the ungrateful, foolish child away? Or welcome him home?
“But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ ”4
Dead, then alive! Lost, then found!
The moment my doctor delivered those beautiful, glorious PET scan results, I resurrected. For weeks I’d been dead in the waiting and worrying and unknowns. Broke and broken. Limping and empty. Now, with her words — “no evidence of disease” — the lost girl found her way back home.
I was no longer dying; I was living.
If I’d had a fattened calf, I would’ve grilled it faster than you can say “filet mignon.”
It’s a horrible thing to think you’ve lost your life. But it’s a wonderful thing to find it again. I hadn’t realized how much I valued my breath until I thought it might end. With renewed hope, I wanted to savor every moment, every morsel this life can offer.
A celebration. That’s what we needed. So Troy planned a date, a full afternoon and evening of doing ordinary things together. Christmas shopping for the boys, dinner at a nice restaurant, and two tickets to The Nutcracker ballet in downtown Denver. Our own fattened calf.
But, like everything else th
at month, the date didn’t go according to plan.
It started fine, with a quick lunch and shopping. In less than two hours we got half our Christmas shopping done. Filled to bursting with gratitude, I bought a little of everything for my boys. Movies, games, their favorite chocolates and bubble gum. After paying for our purchases, we loaded up our bags and headed back to the parking lot. Troy may have walked, but I nearly skipped the entire way to his truck. More stores and shopping awaited us, and I was enjoying every bite of this slice of ordinary life.
Merry Christmas!
That’s when I saw the window. Rather, the empty space where the window used to be.
Glass shards littered the cement at my feet. It took a full minute for my mind to recognize what my eyes took in: while we shopped, a thief had broken into our truck.
Over the next few minutes, we catalogued all we’d lost. Christmas gifts already purchased. Gift cards. The GPS. A Kindle. Troy’s wallet. (Yes, he left it behind.) Every item of value had been stolen.
Wait.
I blinked, shook my head. Not true. Everything I valued I still had.
My husband, whose calming presence and wisdom had become a bulwark to me over the past weeks. My boys, who daily reminded me of what it feels like to love someone more than yourself. And this mysterious and unfathomable God and Father who, though I could not always understand him, had become more real to me than ever before.
No, a vandal couldn’t take what I had. The best of my life was still intact.
There was a time when a thief could’ve robbed me of that day’s celebration. I would’ve kicked the tire or screamed in frustration. But this time, with life and death as the backdrop, the injustice hardly registered. As my friend Becky later reminded me, “If you can write a check for it, it isn’t a tragedy.”
Ah, yes. Truth.
Troy called the police, while I called insurance and credit card companies. Over the next hour, we filed a report, canceled cards, and scheduled a repair. By the time we got the logistics taken care of, we didn’t have time to finish shopping before the ballet began. We barely had time to drive home, exchange cars, and grab a quick dinner.
So we readjusted. Like we had so many times over the preceding weeks. We took a deep breath, embraced our new reality, and enjoyed a beautiful Nutcracker ballet.
Not an ideal date. But a wonderful one.
And just like that, we forgave the offense of a nameless vandal.
Almost exactly four years before that night, long before my health crisis showed up and a thief vandalized our truck, I watched a cancer steal the life of our church.
We’d been there fifteen years, from the week it began as a church plant in an elementary school, through exponential growth, a building campaign, and a new facility. We knew nearly every member by name, had watched each other’s children grow up. We’d taught Sunday school classes, volunteered in the youth group, and led worship. Our church was both home and family. We loved it.
Which is why watching it die tore me in two. I felt like a child caught in the middle of her parents’ nasty divorce.
The details of what happened and why aren’t important. I’m sure some remember it differently than I do. It’s enough to say that pride, selfish ambition, and emotions got the better of a couple of key groups of people. What followed over the course of months was a poisonous dividing, a splitting into hostile camps. One group advocated for this. Another advocated for that. Fervent about their reasons, fueled by tender wounds and a sense of justification, both sides fought for their positions.
The cancer culminated late one Sunday night in a church auditorium thick with tension. A congregational meeting, they called it. A gathering of my dearest friends. Leaders hurled words like weapons. Congregants bared emotions like fangs. Within the conflict, several fought for peace and calm, pleaded for a biblical solution. But emotion drowned out reason.
I wept that night, knowing there would be no winners. While conflict ensued in the auditorium, I exited the double doors and dropped to my knees in the carpeted hall: God, save us! Do something!
Somehow, hours from closing its doors, our church managed to survive both that congregational meeting and the cancer. Hundreds exited, leaving a broken few to try to fix the mess. It took years for a measure of healing to come. Even then, the church we’d loved for so long never stopped walking with a limp.
Nor did I. The whole situation devastated me. I’d grown up in a strong, healthy church. Not perfect, but good. The richness of that Christian community set a standard I’d spent my adult years searching for. To see it fall so far from its potential and purpose grieved me. And changed me. I was angry with leadership who could allow it to happen, disappointed with those who’d allowed both pride and position to become tumors more consuming than grace.
We remained at that church for another five years. Licking wounds and limping, along with everyone else who stuck around. But we weren’t the same. None of us were the same.
I lost my innocence the year our church split, the tender, trusting part of me who grew up seeing God’s church as a haven, a family.
It certainly can be. But not when God’s people allow disease to spread unchecked.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to absolve the vandals of that.
Friday, December 10. Surgery day. A partial glossectomy, that’s what Dr. Forrester called it. The biopsy had confirmed cancerous cells. Now they needed to remove a larger section of tissue to ensure clean margins around the affected area.
In less glamorous terms, she was going to cut out part of my tongue. Like a gnarly scene from a pirate movie. Not something a mom of three adds to her Google calendar. Let’s just say I was feeling some separation anxiety. My tongue and I had grown rather attached.
Sure, we celebrated the night of the Nutcracker, enjoyed every bite of our fattened calf. But I was naive to believe my post-PET-scan high would last through the tension of surgery week. It didn’t. As December 10 moved closer, the peace of the prior Friday ebbed as fear of the next Friday grew.
The surgery would last an hour, Dr. Forrester said. If recovery went well, I’d be home later that afternoon. For at least two weeks, I’d “eat” liquids, then baby-soft foods: applesauce, pudding, runny mashed potatoes. Talking would be nonexistent for the first few days, limited for several weeks following. This, I’m quite sure, my husband celebrated. I, not so much. I feared weeks of biting my tongue (so to speak) would cause me to swell with unexpressed words and explode like a Gallagher watermelon.
A mess, I tell you.
In all seriousness, the aftereffects of such a surgery terrified me. I worried about things like how I would breathe with all the swelling. How I’d eat, drink, and swallow. Not to mention the brutal pain. What would I do when the nausea and vomiting hit? The thought of throwing up did not thrill me.
Monday. Tuesday. Ever closer inched Friday. Unable to eat because of my anxiety and pain, I’d lost close to fifteen pounds in a month. Worse yet, I couldn’t sleep without sleeping pills. Even then, I often lay awake through the night, cataloguing scenes from my too-short thirty-nine years.
Those lazy childhood fishing trips to Minnesota with my parents.
Our day-after-Thanksgiving treks to cut down the perfect Christmas tree.
Dancing with Troy on our wedding day.
Bedtime tuck-ins and lullaby-singing with my boys.
I stared at the bedroom ceiling and envied my husband’s rhythmic breathing. Reliving those key moments didn’t bring comfort like I thought it would. I treasured them, yes. But I also mourned how I’d squandered them. In all my rush to make the next memory and snap the next photo, I’d missed the significance. Flippant. I’d been flippant about far too much.
I awoke Thursday morning a zombie, bleary eyed and dragging my half-dead self from room to room. A bit overly dramatic, but fear does that. It puts a magnifying glass on a gnat and shows it as a Goliath.
Panicked by my Goliath, I started more negotiations with God.
Help me, God. Do something, anything. I can’t keep going this way.
This time he replied. Not audibly and not how I expected. But his presence and words came in an Elijah-like whisper of glory I could not mistake: You’re so worried about this cancer, Michele. Consumed over whether it will eat away your life. But you have a cancer far worse in your heart.
What? I do?
Unforgiveness. You need to let it go.
God’s rebuke shushed me silent.
The grievances I’d long held against friends and family members. The countless times I’d lost it with my boys. My disappointment with my husband when he didn’t listen or say what I needed him to say.
And my resentment toward those who nearly destroyed our church.
I’d been consumed by thoughts of surgery, pain, and metastasis all while continuing to nurse wounds and wrongs I hadn’t made right.
Cancer. And I needed to cut it out.
Forgiveness, of the authentic and true kind, is a rare find. We spend years restoring worn antiques, hundreds of dollars repairing wrecked and dented cars. But if a relationship sustains damage, we’re more likely to relegate it to the scrap heap than try to restore its shine. We’re far more enduring with our valuables than with the people we claim to value. As a result, we accumulate junkyards filled with harsh words, hurt feelings, and damaged relationships. We toss people to the side, punish them for their fallibility. But eventually the wreckage grows beyond our ability to disguise.
It’s foolish, really, how I believed my unforgiveness caused the offending party a measure of my pain. But cancer threatens only the one carrying it.
In a moment, urgency replaced anxiety. Now that I was faced with death, the injustices that once seemed important showed themselves to be trivial. And the grudges that seemed inconsequential showed themselves to be nearly cancerous.
Time to let the vandals go.
Less than twenty-four hours before surgery, I pulled out my scalpel and made phone calls, wrote emails, and initiated difficult conversations. With friends, former friends, and family members. Uncomfortable? Yes. A cutting out of the unforgiveness to which I’d grown attached. To this day it remains some of the hardest work I’ve ever done. But by the end of the last “I’m sorry” and “Will you forgive me?” a weight lifted. Nothing remained unfinished.
Undone Page 3
