LEMONADE, ANYONE?
“WHY DO SO MANY BAD THINGS HAPPEN?” It’s a question I hear asked all the time. I doubt anyone who asks it expects an answer, but the answer is simple—very, very simple.
WE LIVE IN A FALLEN WORLD. God created this really great place. For six days He put things together in such a pleasing manner that He paused several times just to exclaim that it was good. And, after it was just the way He wanted it, things began to go downhill. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, like an avalanche on one of those National Geographic films where the snow slides a little tiny bit, and, before long, a perfectly nice village is buried while it sleeps.
THAT MEANS, BASICALLY, WE’RE STUCK in a world that isn’t going according to the original plan. So, what’s to be done? I don’t know what you do, but I make lemonade. Lots and lots of lemonade . . . because, frankly, I don’t know what else to do.
ABOUT A WEEK AGO I was told my most recent biopsy showed ductal carcinoma (one of breast cancers), which, I was repeatedly assured, had, in a woman my age (a comment which could have been left out), a ninety percent cure rate. A simple lumpectomy, lasting perhaps thirty minutes, and I’d be playing golf the next day . . . if I played golf.
THE SURGEON ORDERED A FOLLOW-UP MAMMOGRAM. The only appointment I could get was at 7:15 in the morning. That meant pre-breakfast, which I hope explains why I fainted while in the machine and then further distinguished myself by depositing what I hadn’t eaten in the technician’s trash can. Because, just to be clear, I wasn’t a bit nervous . . .
AFTER MY DRAMA-QUEEN MOMENTS, the radiologist grabbed her sonogram wand and began making that “hmmm” sound that I’ve heard so many times from cancer specialists. After twenty-five minutes, she let me know she didn’t like what she saw. She felt, if the breast were to be saved, I needed an MRI as soon as possible. Whoa! This was not going the way I’d envisioned. What about the lumpectomy? What about the round of golf? I got on the phone.
BY THREE THAT SAME AFTERNOON the MRI tech was taping Vitamin E tablets to me. I finished all the exams they needed in one day.
BUT THE NEXT DAY, which was a Friday, no one had time to read the scans. That meant it would be Monday before I could get any word. Two very, very long days loomed before me. If you’ve ever wondered why cancer patients seem possessed, this is why.
I BEGAN MAKING MY MENTAL In-a-Perfect-World-This-Would-Never-Happen list, but I reminded myself—before I became too crazy—that this is a FALLEN world. No point in making the list.
IT WAS TIME FOR lemonade—Advent style.
TOM AND I DRAGGED THE CHRISTMAS TREE out of the garage, I found the stash of red candles, and we set up the tiny crèche I love so much.
IT REMINDED ME WHY CHRISTIANS remain hopeful—radically hopeful—when life’s lemons abound. Our God is not just looking down on the little people. He knows what it’s like to live ON earth. Our God knows what it’s like to suffer.
AND WHILE I UNTANGLED the lights (the Hansons are still in the twentieth century), I remembered the ultimate, words of hope . . . Christ is risen. Christ is risen, indeed. And that is more than enough for me.
HAVE A MERRY Christmas.
You’re blessed. Be a blessing!
WE LIVE IN A FALLEN WORLD. God created this really great place. For six days He put things together in such a pleasing manner that He paused several times just to exclaim that it was good. And, after it was just the way He wanted it, things began to go downhill. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, like an avalanche on one of those National Geographic films where the snow slides a little tiny bit, and, before long, a perfectly nice village is buried while it sleeps.
THAT MEANS, BASICALLY, WE’RE STUCK in a world that isn’t going according to the original plan. So, what’s to be done? I don’t know what you do, but I make lemonade. Lots and lots of lemonade . . . because, frankly, I don’t know what else to do.
ABOUT A WEEK AGO I was told my most recent biopsy showed ductal carcinoma (one of breast cancers), which, I was repeatedly assured, had, in a woman my age (a comment which could have been left out), a ninety percent cure rate. A simple lumpectomy, lasting perhaps thirty minutes, and I’d be playing golf the next day . . . if I played golf.
THE SURGEON ORDERED A FOLLOW-UP MAMMOGRAM. The only appointment I could get was at 7:15 in the morning. That meant pre-breakfast, which I hope explains why I fainted while in the machine and then further distinguished myself by depositing what I hadn’t eaten in the technician’s trash can. Because, just to be clear, I wasn’t a bit nervous . . .
AFTER MY DRAMA-QUEEN MOMENTS, the radiologist grabbed her sonogram wand and began making that “hmmm” sound that I’ve heard so many times from cancer specialists. After twenty-five minutes, she let me know she didn’t like what she saw. She felt, if the breast were to be saved, I needed an MRI as soon as possible. Whoa! This was not going the way I’d envisioned. What about the lumpectomy? What about the round of golf? I got on the phone.
BY THREE THAT SAME AFTERNOON the MRI tech was taping Vitamin E tablets to me. I finished all the exams they needed in one day.
BUT THE NEXT DAY, which was a Friday, no one had time to read the scans. That meant it would be Monday before I could get any word. Two very, very long days loomed before me. If you’ve ever wondered why cancer patients seem possessed, this is why.
I BEGAN MAKING MY MENTAL In-a-Perfect-World-This-Would-Never-Happen list, but I reminded myself—before I became too crazy—that this is a FALLEN world. No point in making the list.
IT WAS TIME FOR lemonade—Advent style.
TOM AND I DRAGGED THE CHRISTMAS TREE out of the garage, I found the stash of red candles, and we set up the tiny crèche I love so much.
IT REMINDED ME WHY CHRISTIANS remain hopeful—radically hopeful—when life’s lemons abound. Our God is not just looking down on the little people. He knows what it’s like to live ON earth. Our God knows what it’s like to suffer.
AND WHILE I UNTANGLED the lights (the Hansons are still in the twentieth century), I remembered the ultimate, words of hope . . . Christ is risen. Christ is risen, indeed. And that is more than enough for me.
HAVE A MERRY Christmas.
You’re blessed. Be a blessing!
posted by Chronic Hope at 5:41 PM
1 Comments:
Thanks for the update. (You're entitled to a drama-queen moment or two, even if it was unintentional.)
Still keeping you in my prayers...
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