Chronic Hope

Dear Friends,

2007-12-19T16:40:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night with my mother lying in a hospital bed.

I arrived shortly after 8 PM to be told that I had just missed 44 of her friends piling into her room at once to sing Christmas carols - her favorite. They had all come for her; and still more to come! And the banker. And the doctor. And the preacher. Friends of years. Friends of months.

I know you would have been there.

Sometimes she could speak, and sometimes she could not. Some could not find it within themselves to go into the room, to see her as she was.

That morning was foggy and overcast - we could not see the cars from her window, but my mother only had eyes for the people in the room.

I asked her, "Are you afraid?"

She shook her head, "No."

And the day cleared up. And the fog rolled back. And the clouds slowly went from the sky. And night fell.

I whispered in her ear how much she meant to me. She put her arms around me for a little while, as if I were still a child.

"I love you."

Her husband, Tom, and I sat for hours, holding her hand.

On December 15th, 2007 at 7:45 PM, with only one cloud in the Texas sky, with the stars so clear above us, with her mother and father, with her husband, with her sister and nephew, with her neice and her daughter and her son, Tamara Hanson stole away into the night.

"I love you all."

I am not afraid.

Alan Shields
Her Loving-but-Difficult Son

PS: A memorial service will be held on Saturday at St. Andrews United Methodist Church (5801 W. Plano Pkwy, Plano, TX 75093). In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Journey of Hope Grief Support Center or Baylor Health Care System Foundation.

Wait for me, I'll be back

2007-09-02T18:45:00.000-07:00

WELL, IT FINALLY HAPPENED TO ME -- the woman who considers herself ultimately organized.

ON THE SECOND SATURDAY MORNING in August of this year, all my accomplishments blew up in a cloud of self-sufficient pride. Surgery followed several days later and here I am, still looking for what was lost in that cloud of pain.

DON'T GIVE UP ON ME, I'll be back. Like McArthur, I'll be back.

You're blessed. Be a blessing!

(transcribed by her son, against whom all grammar mistakes should be blamed)

ROLL ON RIVER

2007-08-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

The soft green of the Jordan River swished around my ankles, and little pebbles of the exposed aggregate steps dug into the soles of my feet. I pinched the soft skin of my inner arm to convince myself that I was really so near the place where the heavens had opened, and God had declared His pleasure in His son, the Beloved. (Matt 3:16)

Large trees dipped their branches into the water not far from where a canoe bumped against barricades designed to keep boats out. After tipping their fishing rods at me, the occupants paddled toward the center of the river. Everything seemed so ordinary. So normal. But it wasn’t.

Standing in this lush river, my rite of baptism—that scant sprinkling in a Lutheran church nearly thirty-five years earlier—no longer seem quite enough. I felt let down by my baptism experience. Somehow it should have been MORE.

One afternoon after school I'd stood in the vacated sanctuary of the church I’d occasionally attended and promised to be a Christian with the ardor only a teenager can muster. There was no celebration afterwards. No sense of how special the moment was. We just went home.

Now, here in Canaan, I took my place at the end of a line of friends from our church about to commemorate their baptisms, and as I moved forward I felt the wonderment and joy that had been missing on that day. The moment I touched water from the Jordan to my own head, I knew I had been wrong. I hadn't any need to “redo” my baptism. I hadn’t even needed to rework a bad memory.

For Methodists, baptism is about belonging to the Body of Christ. And that beautiful river reminded me that I did, indeed, belong—and had belonged from that day so many decades before when, standing in the fading light of a stained glass window, I had made God a promise and myself a member.

And the Jordan River . . . rushing over my ankles . . . was a reminder of how many of us have been blessed by this mighty fellowship.

You are blessed. Be a blessing.

THE PAIN PLIGHT

2007-07-23T17:29:00.000-07:00

AS SOME OF YOU KNOW, my most recent struggle has been with pain. Greater than simply a challenge, pain is attempting to take over my life. My activities are limited, and what I can do I do with a pillow between my back and wherever I am seated. Standing for any length of time is not an option.

TODAY AT THE SURGEON’S OFFICE I received first-hand proof that I’m no hypochondriac. A tumor the size of a golf ball has wrapped its ugly self around one of the nerve trunks that exits the spinal column. Even on the doctor’s impersonal computer screen, it looked painful.

OF COURSE . . . THE TUMOR IS INOPERABLE. To get permanent relief I’ll have to wait for the treatments I’m currently undergoing to smack that tumor around. LORD, ARE YOU LISTENING?

I WAS SOMEWHAT PREPARED for the surgery-really-isn’t-an-option message. Five years ago on July fifteenth, I heard nearly the same words. Only then the prognosis had been very grim. Today this is only about relief, not life or death.

YET IN SPITE OF THE PREDICTIONS MY POOR FAMILY HAD TO LISTEN TO THEN, here I am--still alive. Still useful. It is, after all, God’s world. He does get a vote on how it’s run, which brings up another point in this crazy Christian faith where many of the answers seem to contradict themselves.

BEFORE I BECAME ILL I never really believed evil had power. I thought that the devil was blamed for choices people made that sent them in the wrong direction. If they suffered, they had only themselves to blame.

ENTER CANCER. Careful in the sun, quick to supplement my diet with vitamins and nutrients to promote health and ward off the Big C, I was the last person I expected to come down with anything, much less this terrible disease. Yet here I am in the midst of a contest between good and evil—conducted in my very own body.

AFTER WATCHING THIS BATTLE for several years, I’d grown to believe that if I lost it would be because I fell under the temptation of despair. Now I’ve come to believe that pain is my personal demon.

PAIN HAS THE POWER to destroy faith. It tempts me to believe that God would never allow any child He cares about to suffer. But then I remember His only son. Even He wasn’t exempt. When He climbed Calvary Hill, pain brought Him to his knees several times. Our God understands suffering.

AND IF I HAVE ANY SENSE, this pain will bring me to my knees as well. Where there’s a problem, there’s a solution. God is still in charge. I just need to wait again for His solution.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THE 21st CENTURY AND THE BEATITUDES

2007-07-16T17:53:00.000-07:00

STANDING ON THE MOUNT where Christ preached the Beatitudes, I fight the wind that only moments before had raced across the Sea of Galilee, and, giving up, I remove my hat. I pause to survey the country side before I look for a seat among the exposed boulders.

MORE THAN ANYTHING, I’m reminded of Texas Hill Country. This is grazing land. Shepherds would have called their flocks together here amongst the outcropping of limestone.

TODAY A CHURCH RUN BY ITALIAN NUNS has preserved several acres from the vineyards and orchards that have long since encroached on most of the ancient pastures.

TIME HAS NOT STOOD STILL even in the land where Christianity was born. The Sea of Galilee has become a hot spot for windsurfers. More than a hundred have congregated in the newly-risen afternoon wind. On the hill I am high enough to let my imagination convince me their sails are sea gulls.

ISRAEL HAS TAUGHT THE LAND to feed its people. Black plastic is wrapped around bunches of dates. More plastic covers fruit trees. Harvest is only days away, and a bird is always eager to bury a sharp little beak into an apricot or a sugary date.

BUT, IF I TURN MY EYES AWAY from the road that brought me here, I can ignore the twenty-first century. I can carry myself back to the time when Rome called this place Palestine. Back to the time when Rome was disgusted with the hard-headed Jews who lived here.

I FIND A ROCK THAT DOESN’T HAVE TOO MANY BIRD DROPPINGS and settle on it among other members of the Bible study classes I’ve attended over the years. They are also hushed, seemingly meditative as the wind tears at their clothes just as it must have torn at the clothing of Christ’s many disciples so long ago.

OUR TEACHER, who struggles with the windblown pages of his Bible, encourages those of us who had enough forethought to bring one (I was not one of them) to open to Matthew 5:3. He begins to read, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

MY MIND IS SWEPT AWAY to the moment those words were first spoken. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at our Jewish tour guide. He too seems caught up in some of the most beautiful, most hopeful words in the New Testament.

I BOW MY HEAD and let the rest of the words flow over me, blessing me again and again with a fresh understanding of grace.

You are blessed. Be a blessing!

ICKTHUS . . . SOMETHING FISHY FOR THE FAITHFUL?

2007-07-09T18:14:00.000-07:00

SINCE I BECAME what I sometimes refer to as an Old Testament Christian, I’ve wanted to see Jerusalem and Canaan. I’ve wanted to walk where Jesus walked. I’ve wanted the breezes that grace those ancient hills to grace my own face. I’ve wanted the waters of the Jordan River to swirl around my ankles. I’ve wanted to put my hands in the very Sea of Galilee that Christ walked on.

I’VE DONE ALL THOSE THINGS NOW. I’ve also seen where David slew Goliath, and I’ve knelt down to touch Golgotha. I’ve peeked into the Nazareth home of Joseph, Mary, and family. I’ve seen the tomb of Joseph of Aramethea and prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I KNOW HOW NARROW THE KIDRON VALLEY is and that the arid backside of the Mount of Olives meant freedom was only a hop, skip, and jump away for Christ. And yet He chose to wait for the burning torches He would have seen were meant to take Him away.

OH, YES. I can chalk the number one item off my travel To Do list.

WHEN THOSE WONDERFUL, MYSTERIOUS DAYS were completed, I felt the rest of the trip would be nice, but nothing to write about. I was wrong.

BEING IN THE MINORITY is something I’ve really never experienced. In most of the countries we visited—Egypt, Turkey, and even much of Israel—we pale Christians from a nice north Texas United Methodist Church were often outnumbered by as much as 98 percent of the Muslim population. Now that’s a minority.

IMAGINE AN ARMED GUARD ON A TOUR BUS. Imagine days without Christian symbols or churches. Imagine days without seeing a single woman show her hair.

THAT’S WHY, when I saw the Ickthus carved into the paving stones of Ephesus, Turkey, I was reminded that I was in the ruins of the world Paul had lived and worked in.

TALK ABOUT LIVING IN THE MINORITY! He might have been a super missionary, a force-to-be-contended-with, but much of the time he was alone. No wonder he landed in trouble so many times. (For Ephesus specifically, read Acts 19: 21-41.) Paul was not well-liked by the authorities or most of the citizens. Yet here, deeply etched outside a theater large enough to accommodate the same number of spectators as an NFL stadium, was the secret symbol of Christianity.

THE “Ι” RUNS NORTH AND SOUTH. The “Χ” (which is the “k” sound) is obvious. It takes a moment longer to find the ϑ (which is the “th” sound). The ϒ (the “oo” sound) is easier. And the Σ (the “s”) can easily be traced. Ickthus. The fish. As clear as it was in the early days when it first defaced the road. Christian graffiti. Paul’s legacy.

I PAUSED IN HUNDRED DEGREE PLUS HEAT and thanked God I was lucky enough to be in a time and in a place where I heard the Word. Where what I believe is what most of the people I know also believe. Where we don't have to resort to secrecy to share the truth with others. Feeling how very fortunate I was, I reluctantly followed the elbow in the road toward the bus where the others were waiting.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

FREEDOM?

2007-07-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

FIVE YEARS AGO, almost to the day, I was diagnosed with this pesky cancer I drag around with me. July fifteen of that same year after unsuccessful surgery, even my optimistic oncologist was only willing to venture that I might have three months left. Everyone else gave me a month at best.

FOR THAT REASON, each successive July I have had trouble keeping my spunky equilibrium. I should be rejoicing, but instead I find myself in a rare funk, flirting with despair. I find myself looking at my TO DO list as though it might be too long. I find myself thinking that by shortening it, I might be able to alleviate my discomfort and let myself be swept into the hereafter.

PAIN, POOR SCAN REPORTS, or feeling worn out lead me toward the temptation of giving up—like that’s the way to win this game. Right.

WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT THIS? Because I’d be less than honest if I were to tell you I didn’t have dark moments. And while I may lie to myself at times, you deserve better. After all, if I can’t share my bottom-of-the-barrel moments with you, what gives me the right to share my shining moments of faith with you?

THE DAYS SINCE I RETURNED from my once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Holy Land have not been filled with the best of times. Pain from the jiggling I took on the turbulent flight home has not abated, the MRI scan I had on the Monday I returned shows tumor enlargement, and the doctor failed to call in a refill of the prescription I need for pain before the holiday began.

SO, HOW DOES THIS LITANY OF COMPLAINTS relate to “Freedom?” Well, it’s about truth-telling. I’m not pretending everything is wonderful when it’s not. In John 8:32b, Christ said, “and the truth will make you free.” He was talking about understanding the truth of who He was. A very big truth. But the truth is powerful in even smaller doses. Like being honest.

IF I REMEMBER TO BE KIND, being honest will free me from the burden of taking care of those who are capable of standing on their own two feet—or, perhaps even better, falling to their own two knees. But, I have a responsibility. Those who care about me and who have to stand by watching the battle I’m waging deserve my kindness. This is not the time for a drama-queen performance. This is a time to remember that while I may be stumbling right now, while I may be reacting to a date on the calendar, tomorrow all this, even if it is true, may not be as important as it seems now.

TOMORROW I MAY BETTER SEE THE LIGHT of Christ that brightens my path. I may thank God for the challenges He sends my way—even if I don’t understand why. Or like them very much. I may better understand that what I’m enduring just now is nothing more than yet another false low in the cancer journey I was sent out on five years ago.

I DO KNOW ONE THING. If I have to walk this path, I’m glad you’re with me.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Vacation Time!

2007-06-05T17:34:00.001-07:00

At long last I will see Jerusalem. For me, this is the fulfilment of a lifetime dream.

I'll be back the first week in July.

Blessings.

NOT BELIEVING

2007-06-05T17:31:00.000-07:00

SEVERAL OF MY FRIENDS are not believers.

SOME ARE OBSERVERS, undecided, window-shopping the faith of others.

SOME SEEK ANSWERS. They want independent proof that God exists. “Show me,” they say. “Let me see Him, and then I’ll believe.”

SOME ARE SIMPLY UNMOVED. They have never felt any compulsion to believe.

MANY OF THEM ARE FORMER CHRISTIANS—adults who, as children, adopted the belief system of their parents but have never delved deeply enough into the teachings to forge their own faith. They might want to believe, but they won’t put in the effort to get their doubts satisfied.

SADLY, SOME ARE ALSO GOD-HATERS. They blame God for all the earth’s problems. He can’t care about us, they insist angrily, if He’s let the world get in such a mess.

THEY SHARE ONE TRAIT: all of them are preoccupied with THIS world. They’ll face the next if and when it comes. To borrow from Winston Churchill, for them death is optional.

I UNDERSTAND HOW THEY FEEL because I was once one of them. In fact, at one time or another, I was all of them. Maybe that’s why I befriend them and listen to them, even when, silently, I disagree with them.

I CAN’T ANSWER THEIR OBJECTIONS. I’m not smart enough. I can’t scare them into heaven. I don’t believe in that. I can’t even tell them what I know to be true. I don’t know where to begin.

I CAN ONLY LISTEN to whatever pain, frustration, or apathy they care to share.

EXPERIENCE CAN NEVER BE TRANSFERRED. Neither can real knowledge. Some have to be knocked down to get it—like Christ knocked Paul to the ground. Some find the answer in study—though few will put in the time.

BUT MOST—as I did—will reach a point when they are completely without hope and sick to death of this world. They will open the door to God because there is nothing else they can think of to do. And only then—if they grasp the opportunity—will they be ready to learn, will they be ready to accept comfort, will they find the joy of knowing the God who loves each of them so dearly.

BECAUSE THEY ARE MY FRIENDS, I pray I’m with them to celebrate on THAT day.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

A TALL ORDER

2007-05-29T18:09:00.000-07:00

IN BETWEEN TEN DAYS of scans, biopsies, injections, examinations, and consultations, I began reading Thomas Cahill’s DESIRE OF THE EVERLASTING HILLS. It's an odd name for a book about the times before and after Jesus walked the earth as a man. The title comes from Genesis 48:26. It's crouched in the verses of Jacob (now known as Israel) blessing Joseph, his favorite son, the firstborn of his favorite wife, Rachel, the one whom his other eleven sons had told him had been killed so many, many years before.

THE BOOK IS POWERFUL, informative, and not too difficult to wade through (as some Bible scholars can be). It is well worth reading.

NEAR THE END, Cahill points out the joy the early Christians had in their faith and in their community. They’d formed what I like to think of as a covenant group. Close-knit, caring, serving and willing to share a good time as well as a good meal with each other and anyone else lucky enough to be around. I used to think of these simple people as pious and serious, but I can hear the joy in Acts if I pay close attention. They bore the Good News, and they were excited about it.

THESE EARLIEST OF CHRISTIANS lived in double peril. To the Jews they were blasphemers—a sentence punishable by being stoned to death. To the Romans they were disturbers of the peace—a sentence that could easily put them up on the cross. Despite this, they didn’t cringe in the corner. They were, as Cahill describes them, “engaging, affectionate, informal people ready to roll up their sleeves and pitch in.”

IT’S A REMINDER TO ME that as a Christian I need to model the best my faith teaches me to be. People, both non-believers and believers, are watching.

OH, I’LL MAKE MISTAKES. I know I will. I’ll miss doing what I should and many times I’ll do what I shouldn’t. But, as often as I can I need to be kind, slow to anger, and patient. I must try to never be rude, boastful, arrogant, or insist on my own way. I need to check any tendency to be irritable or resentful. The whole list is there in I Corinthians 13.

A TALL ORDER for anyone.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THE PRAYER OF A DESPERATE WOMAN

2007-05-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

LORD, YOU ARE THE MIGHT IN MY LIFE. I am learning to surrender, to accept my weaknesses as being as much a part of my life as my strengths. This is very hard for me. I am learning to explore the gifts and talents You’ve given me within the confines of my limitations, and this is even harder. If the day comes in my journey with this disease when I find I can’t do even that any more, I will still be able to pray . . . to spend time with You. And I will remain grateful for that.

I KNOW YOU SEEK ME IN CONVERSATION, just as you seek all of us. That puzzles me. What could I have to say about my day and my ziggy-zaggy thinking patterns that could possible interest you? It’s clearly not a give-and-take conversation. I spend my time complaining, pouring out my troubles, voicing my hopes, making requests, asking for guidance and for help, and reminding myself of how grateful I am. Who would want to hear that over and over?

I’M REMINDED OF MY CHILDREN. Our conversations really have to be mostly about what’s going on in their lives. I don’t worry them with the nitty-gritty of this boring old cancer. Unless they bring it up, why should I? It’s not anything they’ve experienced (thank you, Lord), and they don’t really know what’s going on. I’m not sure they should.

FOR MY PART, I really do want to know what’s going on in their lives. One struggles to find a job. The other has stayed up all night with a sick child. These are things I’ve done too—they’re a basis for a relationship.

PERHAPS THE WAY I FEEL about my children is the way You feel about me, Lord. Given Your infinite intelligence, if our conversation is going to have any meaning for me, I’m the one who has to set the foundation for it.

SO, LORD, teach me to open the door a little wider from my side. I’m desperate—really desperate—to have a closer relationship with You.

AMEN.

(You’re blessed. Be a blessing.)

THE ONLY THING THAT COUNTS

2007-05-13T17:14:00.000-07:00

THIS PAST WEEK while my dear husband and I were attending a business conference in Athens, Greece, the husband of a friend of mine began telling me how glad he was to see me so well. By then, jet lag had worn off, so I took his comment without regard to this illness I've dragged around with me for so long.

BUT, HE DID MEAN THIS ILLNESS. His sister had died ten days before of cancer while he and my friend were on a cruise. Her death had not been expected so soon, and I could see, despite his calm tone, he was deeply shaken. He hadn’t realized that when his sister had called him upon hearing that he would be gone for three weeks that she was initiating what she knew—even if he didn’t—would be their final conversation. “She wanted to settle all our old disputes and differences,” he said. “We’d never gotten along.” He paused. “She told me she loved me.”

IT WAS THE WORST OF MOMENTS for meaningful conversation. A band began playing music that Greeks seem to appreciate the most, and, not three feet from me, a woman well past the age when she should be clad in a black gossamer dress began to sway and warble out a middle eastern song. She seemed to know that few in the crowd understood her, and she compensated with volume. I shouted my condolences to my friend’s husband.

HE RAISED A HAND. “I’m not sad. She’s in a better place.”

I NODDED MY CONCURRENCE, and he continued. “After all, we’re only energy, you know. We’ve been here before, and we’ll be back again.” He buttered a roll with too much care. “Of course, we may not recognize each other,” he winked, “but it’ll be us.”

THE TEMPO OF THE MUSIC PICKED UP. The woman was joined by four dancers and a man who crooned meaningfully into a microphone he seemed in danger of swallowing. It was impossible for me to offer further comment.

HAD I HAD THE CHANCE, I would have told him that we are far, far more than energy. We are children of God, made in His image, destined for bodily—not just spiritual—resurrection. Christ was the first, but we will follow. Surely seeing his sister as the beloved individual God had created would be better than thinking of her as so many electrical impulses.

THE MOMENT PASSED, and our paths didn’t cross again before my husband and I caught our return plane.

NOW, AS I REFLECT ON THE MAN and his private grief, I wish I had been wise enough to say what Paul said in his letter to the Galatians (5:6): The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.

BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH THIS MAN did not understand the Message as I do, he was expressing his own faith through love for his sister, and she, by defusing whatever differences that they had had throughout her life, had done the same for him.

AND MAYBE THAT WILL BECOME A STEPPING STONE for him to build on in the future.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

POWER MADE PERFECT

2007-04-29T18:16:00.000-07:00

MOST OF THE TIME I like to think about my strengths, not my weaknesses. Why not concentrate on the best part of me?

OF COURSE, when I do that, I may forget that I need to grow. How motivated am I to improve what I feel I’m already pretty good at?

THINKING OF MYSELF in only the best of terms won’t win me any points with friends either. Who wants to hear me brag? Most of them would rather I appreciate THEM instead of going on and on about myself.

ACTUALLY, MOST OF US connect in our mutual weaknesses. In fact more often than not, we compete when we have strengths in common.

WORST OF ALL, concentrating on my strengths makes me think I am self-sufficient. It puts me in danger of taking credit for what God has done—or of thinking I don’t need God’s help. Either of these can’t please Him.

THE OTHER DAY I browsed through the latest best-selling craze, THE SECRET. The author talked about how we were all magnets drawing to ourselves what we concentrate on. It’s an old idea. James Allen talked about it in AS A MAN THINKETH. He was right. Starting out the day with praise and a request for help gets my thinking on the right path, and that sort of thinking leads me where I need to go. My glass stays half full all day long.

BUT THE SECRET leads the reader to believe that he or she is entirely in charge of his or her own life. The reader needs to concentrate on his strengths and ignore his weaknesses. Just place the order, the author encourages, and the Universe will deliver. A new car. A yacht. A trip around the world. Santa Claus at his best. Never once does the author take into consideration what God may have planned.

IT’S AN ATTRACTIVE PHILOSOPHY—especially for those like me dealing with life-threatening diseases. All I need to do is keep the “good thought” and all will be well. The author even quotes the New Testament (although very briefly and very selectively) to back up her theory.

AND IF THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T DELIVER, why the onus is on me. I’m too doubtful or I’m concentrating on what I don’t want. Or I’m concentrating on my weaknesses. No matter the result I get, it’s a win-win for the author.

I’M NOT READY TO BUY. I know Who the Master of my universe is, and it isn’t me.

PAUL WAS A MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD the true nature of weakness. In 2 Corinthians 12:9 he said, “. . . power is made perfect in weakness.” Those weaknesses he boasts of made a space for Christ to dwell, and I like that. I’m more than ready to make room, and if weaknesses are the way to do that, I’ve got plenty of space available.

BUT, WHILE PAUL ACKNOWLEDGED his shortcomings, he didn’t concentrate on them. Quite the contrary. A thorough reading of Acts shows a man who literally dusts himself off (after being beaten and stoned) and continues on. Setbacks only increased his determination. And I have to think THAT pleases God.

I MAY NOT BELIEVE IN PLACING AN ORDER, but I do believe in dusting myself off. God will help me if I just get up.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

PLAN? WHAT PLAN?

2007-04-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

I’VE OFTEN WONDERED WHAT GOD HAS PLANNED FOR ME. He’s not been all that willing to bring me into His secret. If there is a playbook, I haven’t found a way to open it . . . although I’ve prayed long and often to be enlightened. And now, in the midst of this stupid disease, I have to fight the despair of thinking it is too late by remembering that the plan, whatever it is, is not up to me. My job is to show up ready to participate.

OVER THE YEARS I’ve mistaken my own desires for His call several times.

IN COLLEGE I THOUGHT I was meant to bring order from chaos, and I became the best accountant I knew how to be. After twenty years, I gave in to frustration and took up financial planning. The second career fared no better than the first.

BEING AN IDEAL PARENT was as dismal a failure. If asked, my child and stepchildren would quickly point I made as many mistakes as anyone can.

LATER I HONED MY SKILLS as a writer, confident that MY message was important enough to gain the attention of the reading public. This proved false.

WITH EACH OF THESE I WAS CONFIDENT I had at last answered the call; I had been made privy to the plan. But, I was only listening to my own ego beckoning me to a course of action that it hoped would bring me recognition.

TODAY I SIMPLY SHOW UP and pray that God will use me as He sees fit. I measure success or failure in terms of how useful I’ve been. And, although I hate to admit this, it is the only time in my life I’ve felt job satisfaction.

BUT, I STILL DON’T HAVE A PLAN. I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do. God hasn’t let me know how I can please Him most. I’m in the dark, grateful to be useful when I am, happy to be part of whatever comes my way that needs doing.

IT’S A RUDDERLESS EXISTENCE—a bit hard for a Type A personality like me to swallow. But, it keeps my ego where it belongs and it keeps me on the watch for a chance to serve.

MAYBE THAT’S EXACTLY where a hard-charger like me needs to be. After all, if I knew what was in the playbook, as soon as it was opened I’m sure I’d begin lobbying to change it!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

LIFE IN A PICKLE

2007-04-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

MY FRIEND HAS AN EMPLOYEE with great potential, but who is, in a word, unreliable. When my friend speaks of this young woman, I can hear her pain. Employees like this are real heartbreakers. They bring to mind that old struggle between “can she?” and “will she?”

HER EMPLOYEE OBVIOUSLY CAN, but for some reason the desire and discipline to follow through are missing. It’s not just the office. The young woman has her whole life in a pickle.

I CAN RELATE TO BOTH my friend and the young woman. My earliest working days were awash in self pity. No job used the abilities that my imagination and my grades in school made me think I was entitled to. I didn’t think in terms of earning my stripes. I made sure I took every sick day I accrued. Vacations were taken as quickly as possible. I showed up for work sleepy and sometimes cranky from watching the late, late movie on TV. I warmed my chair, waiting for the ten o’clock break. And I never found pleasure in my work.

I WAS NOT ALONE. Most people work at jobs that bring them no joy.

SHOULD THEY QUIT and find something that brings them pleasure? There are probably no jobs that can do that . . . because most people don’t bring pleasure TO their jobs.

COLOSSIANS 3:23-24 PUTS IT SO WELL. When I accept a job, I need to put myself into it as done for the Lord . . . I serve Him. He’s in charge of my inheritance.

I HAVE THE CHOICE of being happy or unhappy with my work, and I bring that attitude with me. I was created to work—all of us are. Even Adam had a job in the Garden of Eden. No one can find joy without purpose.

AND THAT PURPOSE? Here again, the Bible is very clear. Our purpose is service. Once my friend’s employee begins to measure her day in those terms, she will automatically become reliable. She will know what she does is important—not just to those she helps—but to God.

UNTIL THEN, she will be unhappy and unreliable . . . and very likely unemployed.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

PORT NOW HAS A NEW MEANING

2007-04-03T16:33:00.000-07:00

HOW I WISH that when I mention my port I were speaking of dusty kegs of fortified wine kept romantically in a damp cellar. But, that’s not the case. Instead I refer to a plastic central venous access inserted in my chest. For about sixty percent of cancer patients, a port is just one more indication of a life changed by disease. Countless blood draws, and, in some cases, infusions of healing medications (chemo) take their toll until an artificial means becomes necessary. That day arrived for me on February 15th of this year.

SURGERY IS NEEDED to insert a port. In my case I was sore, although not bruised, for nearly a month. Today I’m still aware of it, but I’m no longer dealing with it.

DEALING WITH IT is the right phrase. For me, the port seemed a major defeat. It was as though I’d finally succumbed to the cancer monster that took up residence in my body five years ago. I fought the idea, which had been suggested many times, until no other options were available.

LOOKING BACK, I really don’t understand my reluctance. Blood draws had become a painful process. Routinely I was stuck several times. Waiting made no sense.

BUT, THERE COMES A TIME in dealing with this crazy disease when logic, at least for me, doesn’t work. I’m not always capable of a rational decision. So I waited until the last possible moment.

HAVE I BEEN HAPPY with a port? Of course not. I’d rather not have my blood drawn with my arm over my head and my feet in the air. I’d rather avoid having the port cleaned every few weeks in a process that takes about two hours and can never be planned for. Oh, and did I mention there’s no money-back guarantee?

ACTUALLY, I’M FORTUNATE. The port can’t be seen (unless someone knows what to look for). I no long have the inner elbows of an addict. A lot of pain has been eliminated from my life. In short, I’ve been spared much of what was the norm for a cancer patient ten years ago.

MEDICAL SCIENCE has made great strides. God is working, as He so often does, through mankind, and I am privileged to enjoy the benefit. And you can be sure I know exactly where to lay the credit. Halleluiah.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

GOD’S TIME

2007-03-25T18:05:00.000-07:00

AFTER SPENDING FOUR DAYS at a conference full of ideas, imagine my surprise when, after returning to my dear home and my own dear bed, the first thing I read about was slowing down to leave room for God.

EACH MORNING BEFORE ATTENDING MEETINGS, my husband and I prayed our special Lenten prayers, including one for our little company and our well-loved employees. That done, we raced to the breakfast gathering. Ideas for improving our business came at us at warp speed. I could almost hear a sonic boom.

BY THE LAST DAY, I found myself working out the initial steps in a business plan. In the weeks before the meeting I had felt helpless to make a difference in the shortfalls that seemed to have plagued us for nearly a year, and after only three days I had awakened far too early in an effort to capture these new ideas before they fled. That’s how prayer is sometimes—a little dangerous.

AND THEN, ARRIVING HOME, I hear an unmistakable voice: “Leave time for God.” It’s the best advice I received all week.

PRAYER—that moment when I am aware of accompanying God on His journey—refreshes me, keeps me ready for the challenge. Even though I only allow cancer the backseat in my life, it’s enough of a presence to remind me that each day is a gift . . . a new beginning . . . and one I’m lucky to have.

THERE MAY COME A DAY WHEN CANCER DEMANDS and gets the driver’s seat, and I must be prepared to make my way to my true home. Prayer is how I do that.

SO, NO MATTER HOW THRILLING NEW IDEAS may be, no matter how demanding the business plan may become, I will leave time for God. Because I know that my time in this life is just rehearsal for my time in the next.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

GOD'S TONIC

2007-03-18T16:17:00.000-07:00

THE OTHER DAY I read again about using “A-C-T-S” as a guideline for prayer:

A for ADORATION—a means of reminding myself who God is and who I’m not;
C for CONTRITION—which I think of as confession with a desire for improvement and the acceptance of forgiveness;
T for THANKSGIVING—for me that’s the ever faithful gratitude attitude;
S for SUPPLICATION—meaning I don’t know what Your plan is, Lord, but I’d like to tell you mine.

I SEEM TO HAVE LESS DIFFICULTY with adoration, thanksgiving, and supplication than I do with contrition. I just can’t seem to put aside my failures. I seem to need to punish myself for what I’ve done that I wish I hadn’t and for what I haven’t done that I wish I had.

GIVEN WHAT I’VE READ in the New Testament about the promise of absolute forgiveness, these failings seem far more important to me than they are to God.

I AM REMINDED of the story about a man who heard God’s voice.
“How do I know you’re God?” the man asked.
“Ask me a question only I would know the answer to.”
“Okay. Tell me how I sinned day before yesterday,” the man said.
God replied, “I don’t remember.”

THAT’S HOW IT IS. God forgives me. He moves on and I waste time cycling back through the sin. Do I doubt the promises?

HOW WOULD MY LIFE CHANGE if I dared to live it forgiven?

I THINK I KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT. I waste a lot of energy to “unforgiveness.” I waste a lot of energy refusing His tonic. Confession is like putting the garbage out to be collected. All I have to do is hand it over. Once I do, I’m lighter. I have more energy. I’m ready for His plan and eager to be a part of it.

AND I HAVE PEACE.

THAT ALONE is worth striving a little harder for.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

WE HAVE A ROLE.

2007-03-12T17:53:00.000-07:00

GOD MAY CHANGE HIS MIND AT TIMES, but one thing that never changes is His love for us. We may look in a three-way mirror and be disappointed by the reflection, but God sees someone He adores.

THAT BEARS REPEATING. Each of us is God’s favorite. He loves each of us as though we were his only child. Unbound by time, He gives us His undivided attention all day long.

HE CREATED US IN HIS IMAGE WITH A JOB IN MIND. Even before the fall, Adam had his work cut out. We are aides and assistants in accomplishing His plan. C. S. Lewis explained that it is as if God were a playwright who left the minor roles up to the actors themselves. And we fumble around with our parts, messing them up and trying His patience. We’re like a kid with training wheels, even when we say yes to what God asks of us.

I ONCE SEARCHED FOR MY CALLING. What is it I was supposed to do, I wondered. And while I tried to figure it out, I was miserable. And not very useful. But, when I accepted that God has chosen what He wants me to do, I realized all I have to do is show up and be willing. He’ll point it out soon enough.

I DON’T WORRY. God will make use of what happens. I want to be a part of what He has planned, and I can’t do that when my own agenda seems more important.

AS FRUSTRATING AS MY DECISION to “just show up” has been at times, I have been amazed at what I’ve managed to attend to. (Not alone, of course.) Looking back for a moment, I have a sense of accomplishment and joy—even when my own TO DO LIST has a few items left on it.

AND IN MY TYPE-A rushing-around-to-get-everything-done past, I missed out on that feeling altogether.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

ANYBODY THERE?

2007-03-04T15:53:00.000-08:00

FOR ME, ONE OF THE BIGGEST BARRIERS TO FAITH is the unanswered prayer. My husband tells me all prayers are answered, but, he adds, sometimes the answer is one I don’t like—NO. While he may be right, there are some times when I’m tempted to ask if anyone’s there. That’s one of the difficulties of believing in a God I can’t see.

I’VE READ TOO that part of my problem may be that I haven’t learned to align my desires with those of God. If that’s the case, I don’t need to wonder whose desire will be honored.

IN MATTHEW 18:19, Jesus told the apostles that whatever two or three of them asked for in His name would be granted by his Father in heaven. Considering the saintly lives the apostles lived afterwards, that makes sense. If I expect to get the prayer results they were promised, I may have to rethink how closely I follow His commands to love God and love neighbor.

IN HIS book, PRAYER, DOES IT MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?, Philip Yancey recounts a “Prayer Checklist” recommended by David Mains. Reading it, I realized how far off the mark I often am. See if you fare better:
1. What do I really want? Am I being specific, or am I just rambling about nothing in particular?
2. Can God grant this request? Or is it against God’s nature to do so?
3. Have I done my part? Or am I praying to lose weight when I haven’t dieted?
4. How is my relationship with God? Are we on speaking terms?
5. Who will get the credit if my request is granted? Do I have God’s interest in mind?
6. Do I really want my prayer answered? What would happened if I actually did get that girlfriend back?

GOD WON’T GRANT EVERY PRAYER, no matter how many of us gather in His name to petition. He can’t put us in charge of running the world. And I can think of several instances where I could find far more than two or three fellow pray-ers who want what I want, misguided though it might be.

SO MAYBE INSTEAD OF ASKING if anybody’s there, I should be asking how often I make myself available . . . how often I’m listening to Him. Especially when I don’t like the answer. Because like Abraham Lincoln, “I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom and that of all about me seemed insufficient for the day” . . . and I have arisen a better woman.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

LODGING A COMPLAINT

2007-02-25T13:39:00.000-08:00

SINCE MID-DECEMBER I’ve been on a roller coaster ride. Strapped in with the disease I try to ignore, there have been times when I’ve had to remind myself that despair is one of the most deadly of temptations . . . and other times when I’ve boldly reminded God of His promises—although I’ll admit to looking for nearby thunderclouds before I began.

I’VE HAD TWO SURGERIES; two incorrect biopsies; one misread sonogram; an alarming PET scan that later proved to be only that—alarming (not a fair depiction); the last of my “injectible” veins blown; and two scary moments when I was afraid I’d be removed from the clinical trial that I’d had to convince the researchers to accept me for! And did I mention experiencing so much tumor pain I’m medicated more than my thought processes like?

THE ANXIETY AND MINOR MISERIES of three scans and multiple major blood draws during this same time frame would have made me sick if I hadn’t already been.

USING THE PSALMS AND JOB as my guideline, I understand that my relationship with God is to be based on honesty. So, I can honestly say I haven’t been happy with how things have been going lately.

I’M NOT UNGRATEFUL; I am fully aware that things could be much worse. But, in the interest of being forthright—and I’m not certain anyone but God would remain on friendly terms with me if I were to be up front with all my feelings all the time—I’m lodging a complaint. I believe our relationship can withstand it. He can’t be deceived. He knows how I feel even before I complain.

THAT’S THE POINT, isn’t it? Other religions have at their center gods who demand appeasement. That’s not our God. He seeks relationship with us. And that includes our blunt, in-His-face, this-is-how-I-see-it opinions.

HIS IS THE MOST INTIMATE RELATIONSHIP I can ever have. He wants to be a part of my life at all times—whether they are the nice or the not-so-nice ones. And that takes honesty on my part.

AFTER ALL, I can’t fool God about how I feel. I can only fool myself.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THE LENTEN STRETCH

2007-02-19T08:12:00.000-08:00

LENT BEGINS WEDNESDAY, and, for me, it’s the true season of making resolutions . . . of trying to become what God would have me be . . . of remembering that who I am is a gift from God and that who I become is my gift to God.

MY DEAR COUSIN reminded me of one of the great resolutions, attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr who used it in a sermon in the 1940’s. It has held up well. I’ve reproduced it here in its entirety.

THE SERENITY PRAYER

GOD, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make all things right if
I will surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with Him forever in the next.
Amen

BLESSINGS during what I hope will be a season of growth for us all.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

FORGET THE WHALE.

2007-02-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

THE OTHER DAY I met a little boy named Jonah. He was a sweet child, which made me question his parents’ biblical scholarship. (Perhaps they’d just been caught up in the recent “J” fever that seems to have infected young parents lately and they ran out of options.) Then, out of the blue, my husband asked me about the significance of Nineveh.

BECAUSE OF THAT, I feel the nudge to talk about Jonah.

GOD WANTED JONAH to go to Nineveh and warn the inhabitants about what He had planned for them and their evil ways. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

NOW NINEVAH WAS THE CAPITAL OF ASSYRIA, and Assyrians were the mortal enemy of the people Jonah came from. Jonah decided he’d rather risk a sea journey (most desert people were terrified of the ocean) than warn a people he loathed and sincerely hoped God would wipe off the face of the earth.

THIS IS WHERE THE FISH INCIDENT COMES IN. Usually everything stops here while a heated discussion about the fish ensues. But, there’s something much more important to the story.

WHEN JONAH REACHED DRY LAND, he’d learned his lesson. He headed for Ninevah. It was such a huge city, it took him three days of preaching to cross it.

TO HIS SURPRISE, the Assyrians listened to him. They believed his message. Even the king heard it. They fasted; they sat in the dirt; they wore burlap. They all REPENTED and became people of faith.

AND GOD CHANGED HIS MIND about punishing them. He heard their prayers and spared them.

JONAH WAS FURIOUS! Why? Because God is merciful; abounding in love and grace; slow to anger; quick to forgive. And those rotten Assyrians didn’t deserve that. They deserved the calamity previously planned. That was what Jonah endorsed.

HE STOMPED OUT TO THE DESERT to sulk. God had not acted according to the plan.

AS FOR ME, I’m glad those old Assyrians didn’t get what they deserved.

I’M GLAD GOD CHANGED HIS MIND . . . because it gives me hope that I can be forgiven and spared as well.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

YEAH? WHO’S NOT A ‘FRAIDY CAT?

2007-02-05T17:37:00.000-08:00

THE OPPOSITE OF FAITH ISN’T DOUBT, as I once believed, it’s fear. That condition that causes all the blood to flow to my big flight-or-fight muscles tells me that I don’t believe God will keep me safe in the lion’s den. It’s the acid test I’ve failed more than I’ve passed.

PUT ME IN THE PASSENGER SEAT with a daredevil at the wheel of a powerful car, and I forget everything except getting out at the first stop light. Self-preservation—that singular quality that Christ did not value—takes over and leaves little room for much else.

I CAN LIST DOZENS OF ANXIETY-PRODUCERS: the treatments I undergo every other week; being removed from the treatments I’d like to continue having anxiety about every other week; an unexpected knock at the front door at night; tiny dark places—like PET scans—where I have to remain still far too long; surgery of any kind; high open places; bullies; and stairwells in tall buildings that smell of smoke. The list goes on and on.

I’M NOT PROUD of how often I’m afraid—or of what that says about my faith. But, I am in good company. Joshua, Gideon, the tribes of Judah, Ahaz, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, Jerusalem, and nearly everyone in the Bible who was greeted by an angel needed reassurance.

IT’S NO EXCUSE. In fact, considering what it took to frighten them I have lots of room for improvement. Lots of room to build my faith. It keeps me humble. It keeps me praying for increased faith.

AND MAYBE THAT’S WHAT FEAR is supposed to do.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

THAT’S NOT MY JOB

2007-01-28T15:52:00.000-08:00

EVERY TIME I RUN into people who tell me I won’t get to heaven unless I believe what they believe, I know how Christians get a bad reputation. I think they’re probably trying to scare me into that section of heaven they believe is reserved for their denomination. As if they’d been there, scoped out the territory, and determined that their section was not only the best, it was the only one.

FOR ME, THEY HAVE TOO MANY PAT ANSWERS to questions I find far too complex for simple dot-connection. Can any of us be that certain? They are, and, given the opportunity, they are eager to debate with those who are not.

THIS IS WHEN I RESORT TO MARK 9. Jesus, Peter, James, and John descended the mountain after the transfiguration and found the disciples who had been left behind debating with scribes after a failed attempt at exorcising a possessed boy. Jesus asked, “What are you arguing about with them?” There is no answer.

IT NEEDED NONE. Arguing with those who already know they’re right—like scribes or Pharisees—is a waste of time. Dale Carnegie said it so well: “Those convinced against their will are of the same opinion still.”

HE ALSO SAID, “The only way to get the best of an argument is to avoid it.” But, for me, it’s more than just avoidance. As a person of faith, it’s not my job to determine what only God has the authority to decide. And God, being God, is free to decide whatever He wishes and to change His mind as it pleases Him.

IF I DIDN’T BELIEVE THAT, I wouldn’t pray for others, asking that their burdens be eased, that their hearts be lightened, and that their health be restored. I wouldn’t believe the promises. I wouldn’t believe God.

BUT I DO.

I CANNOT KNOW HIS MIND. I can only look to his Son for a hint of what He’s like—after that, I’m pretty limited. The more I study, the more I pray, the more I’m convinced that those who claim more might be looking for assurances that prove that they are right.

THEY MAY HAVE MISSED THE POINT. Jesus told us to love one another; He didn’t tell us to scare one another. As Christians our job is to plant the seeds of faith . . . God will do the rest. That’s another of His promises.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

COUNTING IS THE WAY TO JOY

2007-01-21T17:32:00.000-08:00

DO I SOUND LIKE A GRATITUDE JUNKIE? I probably am one. So much of the misery I see and experience is rooted in a lack of gratitude.

OF COURSE, THE WORLD IS IN A MESS. It’s been that way since shortly after man and woman showed up. But, the world isn’t entirely awful. Good leaks out and shows itself every time I look for it. Of course, it’s up to me to practice looking.

I’M NOT BLIND. I take note of what’s wrong, but I don’t concentrate on it. I believe that I bring into my life what I give the most attention to.

LET ME EXPLAIN what I mean with an example. Suppose I need a new raincoat. I find myself noticing what kind of raincoats others are wearing. I go into stores that sell them. Raincoats are everywhere! I try several on. Before long, I find one I like that fits me and my budget. I bring that raincoat home.

GRATITUDE IS LIKE THAT. If I look for good—for things to be grateful for—before long I find them. Maybe they were there all along. Maybe like a woman who doesn’t need a new raincoat, I never noticed what I passed by every time I entered the mall.

SO, WHAT’S THE POINT? Why do I choose to look for things to be grateful for? Why don’t I concentrate on what is wrong?

BECAUSE I WANT JOY IN MY LIFE. I want to be the kind of person for whom a kind word becomes the most spontaneous thing to say. For whom a smile seems the most natural way to greet a stranger. I want to finish my day knowing that I’ve been blessed many more times than I can count.

MOST OF ALL, I want to know the Source of all these blessings, and I am confident I will know Him by His generosity. All I have to do is cooperate by counting.

SO, IF YOU, LIKE ME, are looking for a joy beyond mere happiness, join me in learning to count.

You are blessed. Be a blessing!

GIVE ME THAT GRATITUDE ATTITUDE

2007-01-14T16:58:00.000-08:00

MOST OF MY UNHAPPINESS is really dissatisfaction with the world. I don’t have what I want when I want it, and to paraphrase the words of George Bernard Shaw in MAN AND SUPERMAN, because of that I sometimes choose to be a “feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making me happy.”

FREQUENTLY DISAPPOINTMENT DRAGS me back to this type of thinking. Shaw, who was an in-your-face doubter, recommended being a force of Nature to overcome this, but I believe he was wrong. I need to succumb to the force of the Supernatural—the Holy Spirit—instead. I need to put my face into the wind of faith if I want to change.

AND HOW IS THAT DONE? By putting my feet on the path of thankfulness. Good old gratitude. I need to open my eyes. I need to be glad of where I am right now and for what I’m doing right now . . . not because I’m afraid that things will worsen. No. I need to be glad just because they are what they are. Right now.

GRATITUDE IS ABOUT NOW. It’s not about what was—that will lead to thoughts of what could have been or should have been. It’s not about the future. That leads to unrealistic expectations. No. It’s about THIS day, THIS hour, THIS moment. It’s about living even more fully than I ever expected I could.

I MAY NEED A CHANGE in my approach. I may need to rethink my attitude. I may need to change my spots—and that can only be done with the help of God . . . on the path that is paved with counted blessings.

OH, LORD, I’VE GOT IT SO GOOD. Right now! Thank you and amen.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

GUILTY PLEASURES?

2007-01-07T16:56:00.000-08:00

THE OTHER MORNING I heard a radio minister call guilt a sin. What a startling idea.

GUILT IS OFTEN MY NORMAL STATE. Guilt, that mixture of shame and remorse, is the way I normally deal with all the things I’ve done I wish I hadn’t and all the things I haven’t done that I wish I had.

I THINK OF REMORSE as regret tinged with sadness. That feeling I get when I’ve done something that hurts someone else. Guilt brings shame to remorse, and it’s the shame that eats me up. It won’t leave me alone. It can drive me to self-loathing. It convinces me I’m unworthy and unforgivable.

AND IF I TRULY BELIEVE I AM UNFORGIVABLE, there is little reason to look for grace. I can trick myself into believing that my suffering—whatever its source—is deserved, and I am to blame after all.

CLEARLY I NEED TO GO BACK to the story of David and Bathsheba (2 Sam 11 and 12), because if anyone has cause to feel guilt, that would be David.

AFTER A NAP, while standing on his rooftop, David sees Bathsheba bathing. Today he’d be considered a peeping Tom, but he was a king, so I suppose no one would have thought about calling the police.

HE SENDS MESSENGERS to bring Bathsheba to him. Suffice it to say that she couldn’t say, “no,” to the most powerful man in Jerusalem who also happened to be in charge of her husband’s career. We don’t know her degree of willingness, so perhaps what followed could be considered no worse than adultery (by both of them, not just her). I leave the “r” word out of the discussion.

IN THE NEXT VERSE she sends someone to tell David she’s pregnant. What now? David tries to trick her husband. But, Uriah is a dedicated officer, and he won’t leave the troops under his command who are living rough to go home and “wash his feet,” as David suggests. (It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to know what that refers to.)

THINGS MIGHT GET NASTY if David doesn’t come up with a solution, so he positions Uriah in an upcoming battle where he’ll be killed. Bathsheba mourns as quickly as possible. David marries her. Problem solved.

HOW’S DAVID FEELING about all this? The Bible doesn’t say, but it does take Nathan the prophet to point out David’s shortcomings to him. The Lord isn’t pleased. The child will die.

DOES DAVID GO INTO AGONIES of guilt? Not at all. He admits his sin. He fasts. He lays on the ground. All this in hopes the Lord will spare the child. But, after the child actually dies, David cleans up, goes into the house of the Lord and worships then heads home for a meal.

HE’S BEEN FORGIVEN. There will be no more Uriah-events in his future. What’s done is done. The past can’t be undone. There is only the future—a new start and an opportunity to do better.

THAT IS HOW HE AND BATHSHEBA treat their second son, Solomon, whom the prophet Nathan renames Jedidiah, “Beloved of the Lord”, the symbol of God’s forgiveness. Solomon is their opportunity to make a second start.

GIVEN ALL THAT, if David did not feel guilt, doesn’t allow his sins to separate him from God, how can I possibly think my sins, which thus far haven’t amounted to anything approaching David’s, are worthy of it?

THE RADIO PREACHER was right. Guilt is a sin—the sin of underestimating God and His ability to forgive. In this new year, I’m going to stop indulging myself in guilty pleasures.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Who me? Worry?

2007-01-01T18:53:00.000-08:00

ANOTHER TUMOR—this one in new territory—is reminding me how powerless I am against melanoma. Every step I choose in the direction of health seems, on days like these, not to matter. I am like the front grille of a Hummer trying to convince a train to jump the tracks. If I’m alone on this project, the outcome is obvious.

THERE’S PLENTY to be disheartened over, plenty to worry about . . . That is, if it were in my job description to worry. It’s not, of course. Matthew 6:34 makes that very clear. “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” (NRSV)

IN OTHER WORDS, my job is to deal with only this day. I am to attack the problems that present themselves NOW and trust that my cares—all of them—are important to our loving God. He will bring my problems (Are you listening, tumors?) to a worthy conclusion. I must let God, who is unconstrained by time, deal with the past and the future. I can’t. My troubles are for His doorstep. After all, what can I possibly do about them?

I WIN WHEN I STOP indulging in my worrying ways. Shucking them gives me a greater appetite for the challenges of TODAY. I’m ready. Even if it means I go to bat with one more tumor. Bring on the NOW.

AM I SOMETIMES DISAPPOINTED in God? Of course! Many, many times He doesn’t do what I want done—or do it when I think it should be done.

BUT THAT BRINGS UP ANOTHER QUESTION. Is God ever disappointed in me? Oh, I don’t even want to think about this. When I stop and count those times I have disappointed Him, this tendency of mine to worry, which shows a decided lack of trust, is merely one in a list too long to count. Without question, God is much, much better to me than I am to Him.

AND NO TUMORS—new or old—can ever rob me of that.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

HANG ON SLOOPY?

2006-12-26T18:30:00.000-08:00

THE MONDAY FOLLOWING the MRI, I received a call from the nurse at the cancer research center. The radiologist’s report, the nurse said, confirmed what the earlier CT scan had shown: one small, Jelly-Belly sized tumor that could easily be removed.

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I met with the surgeon. His money was still on melanoma, he confided. In his experience, the tumor was behaving too little like ductal carcinoma. Tom and I would know by Friday. He would tell Tom before I was even out of recovery.

HE LED ME TO A WOMAN who matches the surgeon’s schedule with available operating rooms. How did the following morning sound, she asked with a smile that seemed far too pleasant. I mean, this is SURGERY! Someone is going to put me to sleep. Someone else is going to cut me with a knife. Does anyone know anyone well enough to feel good about that? I mean really.

WE SETTLED ON FRIDAY morning, and I, with knees that had developed the trick of knocking together, headed to the opposite end of the Baylor complex so that I could register for “elective” surgery . . . as if removal of a cancerous tumor could be considered a choice. (The nurse in admissions explained that if the patient hasn’t come in on a gurney and can nod in assent, surgery is elective! Another name needs to be found. Like courageous surgery.)

FRIDAY CAME FAR TOO QUICKLY, but it brought good news. (It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy these days.) The surgeon had been right. The pathologist who read the needle biopsy had been wrong, and the radiologist who read the mammogram and the sonogram had been mistaken too. It was melanoma.

THERE MUST BE A LESSON in all this. Mistakes happen? “Today’s trouble is enough for today (Matt 6:34b)?” “Hang on Sloopy” (from the song written by Rick Derringer)?

I DON’T KNOW, but I do know what I prayed when my brain cleared itself of enough anesthesia to let me understand that I’d managed to remain on the clinical trial AND I wasn’t facing more than one type of cancer—my very favorite prayer—“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” (Feel free to chime right in.)

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

LEMONADE, ANYONE?

2006-12-16T17:41:00.000-08:00

“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!

GOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS

2006-12-03T18:19:00.000-08:00

TRYING TO MAINTAIN MY REPUTATION as a twenty-first century Pollyanna has just become increasing difficult. I seem to be caught in a good-news-bad-news story, and I’m hard pressed to find the humor.

AFTER SEVERAL MONTHS’ STRUGGLE I managed to talk my way into a gene-therapy clinical trial at the Mary Crowley Medical Research Center on the Dallas Baylor campus. This was a major victory and definitely on the good-news side of the ledger.

THE SMALL PRINT in the “Informed Consent” document put me in the hospital for three-and-a-half days of isolation as a Class 2 Biohazard. I was to remain until it could be proven to the FDA that direct contact with the injection site would not infect someone else with any gene-altered cold sores. Considering the location of the tumors that were treated, including all the doctors and nurses involved, I can count on one hand the number of people I know who would be allowed even a peek, much less a touch!

NEVERTHELESS, I SUBMITTED to hospital food and a face mask and caught up on the Reading-through-the-Bible plan I had committed to last January. So that was good news. I guess.

I’D MADE ANOTHER STEP toward avoiding permanent residence on Melanoma Lane . . . a cause for celebration. But, there was bad news as well.

IN THE PROCESS OF QUALIFYING for this clinical trial, a biopsy was run, and it came back positive for breast cancer.

ARGH. YET ANOTHER TYPE OF CANCER? I always thought that cancer was a one-to-a-customer disease. And I have two? How can anyone, even Pollyanna, put a positive spin on THIS?

WELL, OF COURSE, the tumor was found early. And, in a delightful change of pace, it IS something medical science knows how to treat. It’s very small—about the size of a Jelly Belly. And then there’s all those contributions I’ve made to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation over the years. Those have got to count for something. And finally, once it’s removed, there will be one less tumor to deal with. So that’s good. I think . . .

I’VE HAD MY SCREAMING FIT. I’ll admit I shook my fist at God—enough is enough, already. It took about a half-hour before I came to my senses. God didn’t give me melanoma, and He hasn’t given me breast cancer either. These things just happen in a world that doesn’t conform to His original plans for it.

TRUTH IS, I don’t think God is overly concerned about what type of illness He cures. At the end of the day, this is the best of the good news: God is more powerful than any disease. All I need to do is remain patient and faithful—even if the healing I want isn’t manifested on my terms.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

COUNTING SHEEP

2006-11-26T17:43:00.000-08:00

WHILE LISTENING to the sermon this past Sunday morning, I realized that while it is easy for me to think of God as a shepherd, it is very difficult for me to think of myself as a sheep.

THE ONLY SHEEP I’VE EVER SEEN up close held no charms for me. Their lanolin burned my eyes. They seemed badly in need of a good combing. They made a sound that reminded me of a fussy child who couldn’t stop complaining long enough to eat her food.

SHEEP ARE NOT KNOWN for logical thinking or self-reliance, and I recently learned that even the urge to save themselves was bred out of them long ago. They stumble along unmindful of how dangerous their surroundings are or of where the rest of the flock may be gravitating.

EATING MACHINES busy growing wool. Definitely not something I want to identify with . . . and yet the comparison shows up in the Bible again and again. Not only am I referred to as a sheep, I am a beloved sheep. As if there could be much loveable about a sheep—lost or otherwise.

BUT IF I AM A SHEEP, I’m one of the worst. Often I’m not interested in anything but how my next need will be met. My sense of direction leads me toward trouble. I even forget I’m a member of a flock! To top it off, I frequently put a prideful thumb to my wooly chest and take personal credit for God’s gifts to me.

I CAN SEE HOW FROM GOD’S PERSPECTIVE “sheep” might be a kind description. Donkey might be more appropriate. Maybe I should start thanking him for taking on the Good Shepherd’s job . . . before I graze myself off a cliff.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

‘TIS THE SEASON OF EXPECTATIONS . . .

2006-11-19T13:24:00.000-08:00

AGAIN I STRUGGLE with my lack of faith—and try not to be ashamed of myself. I’m in good company. Peter, Andrew, Thomas. Their “pre-resurrection” comments are rooted in the same vein of human confusion that I feel right now.

FOR MORE THAN FOUR YEARS I’ve been asking to be cancer free, and that prayer has not yet been answered. That is why today I find myself in danger of lowering my expectations. Part of me is weary of asking for something that doesn’t seem forthcoming.

I’M TEMPTED TO FORGET that I am beloved and worthy. I feel like saying, “Don’t bother Yourself, LORD. I know you’re too busy to fool with me,” even though that would make me wrong on two counts. God isn’t bound by the confines of time. And He’s promised again and again He would never ignore a genuine need.

OF COURSE, I’M GUILTY of the opposite extreme when I look for God to fulfill my unreasonable expectations. Like the teenager who explained to her father that she understood the difference between WANT and NEED. She NEEDED a new Mustang. She WANTED it to be red.

I KNOW GOD IS MORE INTERESTED in who I become than in fulfilling my wish list. And that is hard for me when my wish list is mostly health-related.

BUT, THEN I THINK OF THE TV AD I saw recently. Lance Armstrong’s strong facial features fill the screen. He’s thanking cancer for who he’s become. I’m not quite there, but I do see his point. I am a better person than I was when I was busy taking my health for granted.

SO, MAYBE I SHOULD SET ASIDE my concerns about whether or not my expectations of God are unreasonable—or whether or not I’ve lowered my expectations because of my unbelief.

MAYBE, INSTEAD, I should concentrate on God’s expectations of ME. Hmmm. Now that might be something to really be concerned about.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THE GUINEA PIG PERSPECTIVE

2006-11-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

TODAY AT CHURCH a friend told me with an angry quiver in her voice that she’d been turned down for a clinical trial only hours before treatment was to begin.

SHE TOLD ME, I think, because for the past four years I’ve had to seek treatment in the world of clinical trials myself. (Clinical trials are experimental therapies.) It didn’t seem the right time to tell her I’ve been turned down for as many trials as I’ve been accepted for. It’s not easy to get over the pain and the anxiety she seemed to be trying to control.

TRIAGE IS SIGNIFICANT in being accepted for a trial. The pharmaceutical company, which is usually the sponsor, and the scientists working for it direct the effort from afar. They review baseline test results and treat only those with the greatest promise of success.

IT’S ENOUGH TO MAKE the patient forget that God is in charge.

MOST OF THE TIME THE PHYSICIAN who is in charge of administering the trial first delivers the bad news and then proceeds to urge the patient to pursue treatment as quickly as possible. Being told the obvious is part of what infuriates the patient. Seeking treatment was why he’d signed up for the trial to begin with.

TO THE SPONSOR AND THE PHYSICIAN, it’s not personal. The sponsor, which is footing the bill, treats whom it can and leaves the rest to God. But to the person being left, it IS personal. He or she has wasted time—and no small amount of hopeful expectation—only to be sent away. Usually without further options. (Trial-oriented physicians aren’t usually as informed as those who are treatment-oriented.)

IT’S NATURAL FOR THE PATIENT to feel bitter. I know this from firsthand experience. But, as a Christian, I have to do better than this. Bitterness will do ME more harm than it will do the pharmaceutical company or the researchers. Besides, I’ve been left to God. Isn’t that the best place to be?

CONSIDER THIS. Something needs to be done about cancer—and these men and women are trying to do it. But, progress is slow. It’s a one-sided match with the researchers in the loser’s corner more often than not.

THESE PEOPLE ARE THE BEST AND THE BRIGHTEST, dedicated to finding a way to save lives. And every single day they meet the worst sort of defeat. Year after year . . . and this is their life’s work.

FRANKLY, I COULDN’T DO IT, but I’m grateful that they can. Perhaps they will come closer to removing the horror of this disease from our lives. I hope they keep trying. I intend to keep praying that they are successful, and I hope you will join me.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

DOUBTING WHO?

2006-11-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

THE OLDER I GET THE MORE it seems I will never outgrow doubt. It is as much a part of me as my faith is. I wait to be surprised by God while I wonder if that surprise will ever come.

I SUPPOSE IT’S TO BE EXPECTED. I can’t see God. Just one little peek, and my doubts would be eliminated forever. But maybe not. Consider Ezekiel. He saw God.

OF COURSE, SHORTLY THEREAFTER EZEKIEL shaved his head and burned his hair; laid on his side; cooked his meals on a cow dung fire; and was struck mute. Hmmm. Maybe seeing God isn’t such a good idea. He seems dangerous. Maybe I’d be better off using my doubts to build my faith.

THESE ARE TRYING TIMES. I’m forced once again to contemplate my own mortality. I’m challenged by a new wave of tumors that are making themselves painfully present and forcing me to search a broad field for treatment options that I’d hoped to never have to do. I seem closer to a precipice than I like, and I’m thankful for the prayers of my friends whose kindness reminds me that I am not alone.

UNFORTUNATELY, IT ALSO REMINDS ME that none of us is in charge.

BUT IT’S OKAY. When I was younger, I demanded more of God. Like Job, I wanted answers. I’ve grown more comfortable with un-answers. The mystery seems appropriate. It’s beyond my understanding, and at some point I need to stop banging my head against the unknowable.

GOD HAS HAD PLENTY OF CHANCES to give me the answers to all those universally asked questions, but He hasn’t. Perhaps my knowing the answers doesn’t seem important to Him. To Him I must sound like that cranky three-year-old in her car seat asking Why about everything. Because I say so, is His answer. And believe me, I do not want Him to stop the car!

I MUST LEAVE BEHIND THE DOUBT that for me comes with loving a God I cannot see and try instead to prepare myself and my world for whatever treatment awaits me . . . wondering how I will be surprised by Him.

AND ALTHOUGH I MAY ALTERNATE between doubt and faith, I don’t have to be afraid. I’ve read how kind Jesus was to others who doubted like Peter, Thomas, the father of the epileptic boy, even Judas.

IF DOUBT IS A SIN, hopefully, it ranks low on His scale. I know that when I doubt I make myself miserable, and perhaps that is punishment enough.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #10: MEDITATION

2006-09-17T17:19:00.000-07:00

WHEN I RECEIVED THE MORE-THAN-DISAPPOINTING PHONE CALL from the doctor conducting the cancer trial I had been counting on participating in, I was reminded that misfortune is always a call for me to exercise my listening skills. Citing an inadequate white cell count and insufficient lymphocytes, the doctor told me, “this trial won’t help you,” and my heart settled at the bottom of my reservoir of hope.

OKAY, LORD, YOU’VE GOTTEN my attention. Now what?

IT’S EASY AT TIMES LIKE THIS to push prayer into the beseeching camp—far away from the listening-and-observing mode. After all, begging feels so natural.

BUT, UNNATURAL OR NOT, listening-and-observing, which is how I think of meditation, is vital in my relationship with God. He is not to be confused with Santa. The lens of gratitude must be focused on a still, serene place to recognize His guidance.

BUT, HOW DO I FIND THAT PLACE? I’m not one to repeat a rosary long enough to empty my mind, and folding myself with a hum into a lotus position only makes me feel ridiculous. Everyone has to find the way that works for him or her. Mine is with a fountain pen.

MY PRAYER JOURNAL hears my Job-like complaints and eventually helps me overcome my distrust and doubts. Days of writing may pass before I find in the splotchy pages the answer God has been trying to get me to hear. He speaks so softly, and my life—especially when I’m afraid—is SO noisy.

AND HOW DO I KNOW I’m hearing God and not just my own wishes magnified by a narcissistic angle?

I BEGIN BY ASKING that I be able to set aside what I’m SURE of and what I WANT so that I might hear what I don’t know and what I’m meant to do. Thus far, the answers I’ve received bear no semblance to what I’ve hoped for; haven’t seemed possible; and have taken me so far along the unfrequented path that many of my friends and family have had to learn to tolerate my nuttiness. (Oh, yes, I once was a conventional woman! I often long for the days when I didn’t raise eyebrows.)

BUT, I HAVE NO DOUBT this is path I’m supposed to be on.

AND NOW, AS I PROCESS this bit of bad news from the doctor whose research I fully support, even if I can’t participate, I know that if I will listen carefully and meditate with my heart and not with my own understanding, a new route will be revealed.

IN THE MEANWHILE, with God’s help, I will keep fear—that old enemy of healing—at a safe distance and remind myself that I am—just like all of us—well loved.

GOD WANTS ONLY THE BEST FOR ME. My job is to pay attention when He tells me exactly what that is.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #9: GETTING OFF THE FENCE

2006-09-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

ON A RECENT VISIT TO LONDON, I found myself on Oxford Street in the presence of two evangelists on opposing sidewalks whose microphones were assaulting the ears of window shoppers with questions of salvation. My first impulse was to bolt. I ducked into a shoe store, wondering how Christianity promulgated with such a heavy does of fear could possibly attract anyone.

I BEGAN TO THINK of all the times I have remained silent about my faith when the right words might have opened a conversation that God would continue. The two men who thrust their microphones into the faces of passers-by probably weren’t plagued with such regret. They were clear in their beliefs and forthright in their message.

WHEN BILLY GRAHAM last came to Dallas, I went to hear him. I wouldn’t have gone had I not been invited by friends. As much as I’d always wanted to hear him, it was the invitation that motivated me to go. And, as a result, for the first time in my life I left my complacent fence-sitting position and proclaimed my faith to strangers. It was the initial step on a journey I mean to continue.

SO, IN A TIME WHEN CHRISTIAN-BASHING has come into vogue, I make no apology for what I believe. And I feel free of that wishy-washiness that in the past has kept me from standing up to be counted.

SOMETIMES FRIENDS who don’t understand this change in me worry that their doubts and concerns about their own faith will undermine mine. They needn’t worry.

MAYBE THE UNEXAMINED LIFE isn’t worth living, but, on the other hand, the OVER-examined life is not lived fully. There’s a point when our own thinking processes—no matter how brilliant—will never yield answers to all our questions and doubts. Some things must be accepted. In faith.

THE MISSIONARIES IN LONDON know that. And I do too. Even if I don’t use a microphone.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #8: ENLISTING IN GOOD CAUSES

2006-09-03T13:39:00.000-07:00

THE RENOVARÉ SPIRITUAL FORMATION BIBLE (NRSV) points out that following the path of God does not guarantee that life will be free of pain and hardship, but rejecting His way is a sure recipe for ruin. George Mason of the Wilshire Baptist Church ruefully refers to this as a desire for a “Witness Protection Program.”

I’M REMINDED OF THIS while initialing the many disclosure pages of what for me will be a third cancer trial. How I’d love the dots between faithfulness and the outcome I want for this trial to be so neatly connected that I know I’m doing the right thing. This is not the time for an impulse decision. The road ahead will not be smooth . . . and there are no assurances.

THE BOOK OF JOB REMINDS ME that this is just the way life in the faith is. A good dose of prayer and meditation has convinced me that this challenge to the disease I share with so many others—none of us willingly—is one I need to undertake. I sign my name on the last page. God has not promised me an easy way. He’s promised that I won’t be alone, and, He’s promised that irrespective of the outcome of what I’m about to do, I will be saved.

ALONG THE WAY, IF A CURE FOR MELANOMA can be found, or if the mysteries of the immune system can be further unlocked, so much the better. If not, I haven’t lost. I’m a winner either way.

DON’T GET ME WRONG. I’ll admit to a selfish nature. I’ll admit I’d like to be well.

BUT, I ALSO HAVE A FULFILLMENT AND PEACE I can’t explain from enlisting in what I believe is the right thing. Too bad I haven’t signed up for more good causes than I have before now.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #7: HANDING IT OVER

2006-08-27T14:52:00.000-07:00

OFTEN, EVEN AFTER I’ve sought guidance—and received it—I find myself still micro-managing. I’m like the man who hands God the broom, but then can’t resist telling Him, “Hey. You missed a spot.”

TWELVE-STEPPERS CALL IT, “Letting go and letting God.” It’s the Third Step, and it’s a real crowd thinner. Few things are as difficult for me, especially when I believe I’ve been given the answer I’ve been waiting for. My overwhelming impulse is to run pell-mell down the path to some finish line I’m sure is only a few steps away.

BUT, I’M CONFUSING the goal with the importance of keeping God with me on my journey.

THE QUAKERS HAVE A SAYING that, for me, explains this best, “When you pray, move your feet.” For them, constant prayer brings direction to their lives. It conforms their decisions to God’s will—and they move with confidence, knowing they are headed in the right direction.

I SHOULD PAY BETTER ATTENTION to their methods. I often find myself mentally snatching the broom out of God’s hands and using my tightest voice to say, “Here. Let me show You how to do that!” Oh, I’ve got enough arrogance to shame a Pharisee.

HOW MUCH CALMER MY LIFE would be were I to acknowledge that God will handle the broom when and as He sees fit. And He sweeps clean—just ask an Edomite.

HE KNOWS BETTER and can SEE farther than I can ever hope to. All I have to do is what He asks of me—and then get out of the way!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #6: SEEK GUIDANCE FIRST

2006-08-20T15:22:00.000-07:00

SOMETIMES I HAVE PROBLEMS that only God knows the solutions to, but He doesn’t seem ready to divulge them to me. Imagine. I keep looking at my watch and tapping my foot—and the answers are just not forthcoming. He knows I’ve got a schedule to keep, and I need answers. NOW. And who better than He knows just what I need?

NO ONE. And maybe that’s exactly why He’s slow to give me guidance. Perhaps I need to learn patience more than I need to keep my schedule. Maybe I need to remember I’m not the one calling the shots. Maybe the right solution isn’t any of the ones I’ve thought of. Maybe for Him, it’s about reminding me to keep an open mind and a watchful eye.

I’LL ADMIT I DON’T OFTEN HAVE an open mind. I’ve lived a long time. I have opinions. And I’ll admit to not being observant. I’ll even admit to not being attuned to my surroundings, admit to having my brain firmly in daydreams at times.

AS A RESULT, I usually do my own thinking before I ask for help—and just maybe that’s not as good an idea as it seems.

RECENTLY I RECEIVED A LETTER from a family member. A landmark birthday for her daughter is coming up, and she wants mentoring notes from several older, and presumably, wiser women. Well, her request stumped me.

WHAT DO I KNOW that might interest a teenage girl? Never wash new black socks with anything else? Crazy glue really will stick your fingers together? Jammed garbage disposal blades can be freed with a broom handle? Transferring experience is impossible, and transferring knowledge runs a close second.

THOROUGHLY HUMBLED, I finally came up with the most important truths I know, and I wrote them down despite my doubts that they’ll mean anything to her until she’s older:
1. True love is a choice, not a chance
2. When in doubt, choose the kindest route, and
3. Keep God close. Let him solve problems BEFORE you’ve grown sick of them, not after.

BEFORE I THOUGHT about it too hard, I sealed the envelope, and resisted the urge to confess all the difficulty I’ve had following this advice myself.

IT’S DAUNTING, REALLY. If this young woman were to see how impatient I can be with God, she might realize how little I’ve changed since I was her age. And that would be a pity.

PERHAPS—JUST IMAGINE THIS!—God has grown a little impatient with me too. Maybe He’s trying to tell me that my life would be far less stressful if only I would learn to wait, to watch, and to remember Who exactly is in charge of my life.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

STRESS BUSTER #5: KEEPING EXPECTATIONS REASONABLE

2006-08-13T15:35:00.000-07:00

REASONABLE EXPECTATIONS, to me, are about flexibility. If I already have a picture of how things should turn out, I stand a good chance of being disappointed. How much more fun life is when I’m willing to wait to see what an outcome might be. When I’m willing to be surprised. When I’m willing to hope for the best and plan for the worst.

WHEN I’M WILLING TO DO THIS, I’m not only more flexible . . . I’m also more observant. When I keep an air of expectation, I have an attitude that allows new ideas to flow more easily into my world. An attitude that makes gratitude feel natural, not forced as if it belongs only in that time slot designated for evening prayers. Instead, it runs willy-nilly through the day, leaving a trail of happiness.

FLEXIBILITY INVITES GOD to take a hand in my life. Lets Him decide how to solve a few of the problems I’m tired of dealing with.

I MUST EXTEND REASONABLE EXPECTATIONS to people too. It’s not my place to decide what my spouse or friends should be or do. I don’t get to decide how people treat me. Early in 1776, George Washington declared, “ . . . we must make the best of mankind as they are, since we cannot have them as we wish.” He had every reason to be disappointed in his ragged and undisciplined troops, but he had no time to waste with how things weren’t. He had too much to do. For more than seven years he pursued a job he hadn’t asked for and hadn’t wanted.

WHENEVER I GET UPSET OVER how things are, or, more often, are not, I remember Washington and his faith that the Almighty was in charge. How much more he accomplished with reasonable expectations than I ever have by concentrating on one of those over-the-top results I sometimes expect.

I REALIZE THIS IS ALL CONTRARY to most motivational speeches I’ve heard, but I don’t care. I prefer being surprised by God to anything I can do on my own!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Stress Buster #4: Making Peace

2006-08-05T14:17:00.000-07:00

AS MUCH AS I HAVE WISHED at times that I could give the responsibility to someone else, peaceful living begins by making peace with myself.

FOR ME THAT MEANS AVOIDING BEHAVIOR I’ll regret. It means choosing the kindest way to say what I need to—especially when it’s unpleasant. It means using my head to think about the results I want BEFORE I open my mouth.

I ALSO HAVE TO AVOID allowing too many A-1 priorities into my life. When I look at my TO DO LIST and see more than three things marked “urgent,” it’s time to rethink what I’m doing to myself. When I let them, others will prod me into a place that’s too stressful for peace to prevail. I have to stop them. Let THEM lose sleep. I need my beauty rest.

SOMETIMES I NEED TO MAKE peace not just with myself, but FOR myself. For example, when I let people whose priorities don’t match my own upset me, I can calm myself by deciding how much, if any, I’ll let them inconvenience me. I only upset myself by expecting someone else to want what I want as much as I do. And that means I need to circumvent them whenever possible—and it’s usually possible.

ANOTHER BARRIER TO PEACE for me is being around those who love to argue or who have a need to have the last word. In his book, HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE, Dale Carnegie said, “A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.” I find it necessary to repeat this mantra when I’m around some people—but only while there’s no way to avoid them!

CRITICIZING AND COMPLAINING chases peace right out the window. While not particularly uplifting, simply remaining silent or, when possible, mentioning what could be even worse (as in, “We may be shipwrecked, but at least there aren’t any sharks!”) is better than starting a thumb-sucking party. Of course, I try not to be too cheerful if everyone else is being cranky. I don’t want to be thrown out of the party altogether!

THE LAST TRICK—and the one I pull out of my bag most often—is remembering that when I become angry I give away any power I may have over myself or the situation. Irritation is an early warning that I am letting someone I don’t want to to have control over me.

IN THE END, I have to remember who I am and WHOSE I am to remain at peace.

You are blessed. Be a blessing!

Taking a Break . . .

2006-07-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

I'LL BE BACK MID-AUGUST. I have to go back into radiation therapy for a while . . . (another tumor has reared its ugly head) . . . and my soon-to-be-eighty-year-old father is having hip replacement surgery, so my mother will need my help.

SEE YOU ALL AFTER SUMMER. Stay well.

You're blessed. Be a blessing!

Stress Buster #3: That’s Enough About You . . .

2006-06-18T15:46:00.000-07:00

BEING LONELY IS NOT GOOD FOR ANYONE. Wanting to be around others, but not being able to, shortens life—and makes what there is of it seem miserable. At the least, it’s a sure route to depression and hopelessness.

A LOT OF PEOPLE think they’ll win friends and cheer themselves up at the same time by recounting their achievements. They reason past successes will make them feel better about themselves. Worse, they think this will show others what is admirable about them and why others should want them as friends. Don’t they know we identify friends by shared shortcomings? Who wants a perfect friend?

THESE POOR, ISOLATED PEOPLE are the very ones who buttonhole me when I least expect it and hammer me with a barrage usually delivered in breathless fashion, as if I might dare to interrupt their flow with a similar experience of my own. Even my very Southern, “how nice,’ doesn’t provide the hint that I am not interested in seeing how long the conversation can remain one-sided.

I WANT TO SAY TO THEM, “Get on your knees. Count your blessings. Quit taking credit for what God has lavished on you!” But, I can’t interrupt them, even when I try.

THEY CAN’T SEE THAT GRATITUDE is the path to friendship. Nothing is more attractive. Envy can’t co-exist with it. Neither can self-aggrandizement.

WHEN THEY’RE THE RECIPIENTS of all these gifts, how can they feel like anything except the beloved child they are? How can any of us?

THIS IS WHAT THE LONELY MISS. We are each God’s most beloved child, and he showers each of us with blessings too numerous to count. We’re brothers and sisters. Family. None of us is more blessed than another in the eyes of our Father. Recognizing that draws to us all the friends we could ever want.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Stress Buster #2: Making Promises I Can Keep

2006-06-11T16:49:00.000-07:00

LIKE A LOT OF PEOPLE, I can do a lot of things. And sometimes that gets me in trouble. Like a lot of people, I like to say yes—and that gets me into even more trouble. I frequently let too many yeses paint me into a stressful corner. If only I could remember that no isn’t a word I should avoid.

I HAVE A FRIEND who is very comfortable with no. When she is asked, she makes it very clear that she will do whatever I ask of her only if I understand that she’ll quit anytime she feels like it. No hard feelings.

WELL, OF COURSE, that is never the answer I’m looking for. I want her to embrace my project as if she’s been waiting years to be asked to do it. But she accepts no part of my unrealistic expectations. She’ll do it until she tires of it or something better comes along. “It’s really not my thing,” she says. No apology. There’ll be no surprises from this lady.

AND I ACCEPT HER HELP, knowing that it may not be for long and knowing the spirit in which it was given means I may be looking for someone else soon. It’s okay. I know to keep my eyes open for someone else who may have a real love for what I need done.

TO MY FRIEND, it’s a business arrangement. As another wise friend of mine would put it: “We’re just dating. We’re not getting married.”

MY FRIEND IS NOT BESIEGED by requests. She hasn’t eliminated personal time from her schedule. Her stress level remains out of the danger zone.

PERHAPS I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD take a lesson from her . . .

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Stress Buster #1: Forgiveness—and Ice Cream

2006-06-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

DURING THE LAST FEW MONTHS I’ve mentioned how harmful stress is to all of us—especially those with an illness. If our bodies are busy figuring out whether to fight or flee, they aren’t busy healing.

LUCKILY, CHRISTIANS HAVE the advantage when it comes to relieving stress. The Bible gives us the tools, and the first of these is forgiveness. For me, it continues to be the hardest to learn.

A GRUDGE IS A BITTER BURDEN. Keeping track of how I’ve been wronged—and by whom—can eat up my day. Whenever I catch myself, like Hamlet, acknowledging the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” I remember Janet.

WE WERE BEST FRIENDS in the weeks just before John Kennedy was assassinated. She was a striking beauty, tall and willowy, and, unfortunately, I was not. Our friendship was based mostly on my willingness to listen to her talk about a popular and handsome young man named Stan.

ONE AFTERNOON while Janet was rehearsing with the drill team I hadn’t been talented enough to qualify for, Stan sat beside me on the bus. I was thrilled and happy to listen to him speak of Janet the several blocks to his stop. He was going to ask her to Homecoming. I wasn’t to say anything. He made me promise. I would’ve promised him anything.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON Janet got on the bus at the corner near the school where the drill team had gathered. She said good bye to her snobby teammates and got on the bus carrying an ice cream cone. I scooted over for her to join me. But instead of sitting down, she smashed the ice cream into my face. “This is for talking to Stan,” she said. I can still taste the strawberries.

THE CONE FELL onto the stack of books in my lap. The passengers settled into an uncomfortable silence. I suppose they were waiting to see what I would do. I did nothing but knock the cone to the floor and take a tissue to my face.

WHEN WE EXITED AT OUR STOP, Janet ran ahead. I called after her that Stan and I had been talking about HER, but she tossed her magnificent mane of chestnut hair and climbed the steps to her porch.

LATER SHE APOLOGIZED, but my family moved in early spring before I forgave her. The friendship was ruined, of course, but worse than that, the resentment I harbored bled into future relationships. Had I admitted my own culpability, I would’ve had more friends. But as it was, I couldn’t give up the expectation that another ice-cream-cone moment was in the offing.

FORGIVENESS WOULD HAVE HEALED ME, but I didn’t understand that. I thought being right was more important. Now I know that Janet and I were both wrong. I shouldn’t have spoken with the very attractive Stan, shouldn’t have been so envious, and she should have kept her ice cream cone holstered.

FOR ME, MOST OF THE TIME, the biggest benefit of forgiveness is forgiving myself.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Mosquitoes or Sunsets?

2006-05-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

THE MAY issue of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC had an adventure of a young woman with a Ph.D. in English literature, Kira Salak, who decided to kayak three hundred of the 1200 mile Irrawaddy River in the country that used to be called Burma. She’d read romantic accounts of the part of the world that Rudyard Kipling and W. Somerset Maugham had both loved and wanted to experience it for herself.

THE GOVERNMENT OF TODAY is a military junta that has renamed the country Myanmar and ripped from it most of the romance the young adventuress had hoped for. Poverty, disease, filth, and political unrest rub shoulders with hardship and near starvation. The perils and disillusionment of the trip notwithstanding, the young woman was able to find a redemptive beauty in the sunset’s reflection on the river she’d set out to explore.

MANY WOULD SAY THIS APPROACH is unrealistic—that this young woman in her kayak should be outraged, disgusted, and discouraged rather than nostalgic and romantic.

BUT I DISAGREE. Even in adversity and disappointment there are pleasures to be counted. Life is not one-dimensional. Wonders survive in the midst of horror, and dreadful circumstances cannot wither the delights of friendship. There is much joy tucked in the corners of life, but it doesn’t always find me first.

MY WELL-BEING IS DEPENDENT on searching for it. I must sort through the grim for the things that give me hope. If I don’t, all is lost; there’s no reason to go on. Like Dr. Salak, I must look for the beautiful sunsets and ignore the mosquitoes.

IT’S A MATTER OF CHOICE—but, isn’t everything?

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

God's Good Promises

2006-05-21T16:29:00.000-07:00

LINDSEY WEBSTER WILL SOON graduate and begin seminary a few months after that. Like all graduates she is commencing a new life--but I think she's already got a corner on hope . . . and joy. What she wrote offers a lot to me. I hope you enjoy it too.

"I don’t know how it happened, but at some point in my youth, I became an overachiever. Maybe it was because I was the younger sister of two successful and popular overachievers—or maybe it was just because I wanted to try everything. And I did: National Honor Society, cheerleading, theatre, student government, school choir, various leadership positions . . . I thrived in the bustle.

But in one short year, all that changed. I lost the Junior Class President election. I was the only cheerleader cut from the JV squad. I botched my play try-outs. I was dateless for Homecoming. I even lost a Sunday School officer election. Failure was all I felt. Everything important had been taken away, and I started blaming myself. I just wasn’t good enough.

I wasn’t skinny enough, so I stopped eating. I wasn’t interesting enough, so I stopped talking at school. I wasn’t smart enough, so I stopped focusing on my studies. And I wasn’t popular enough, so I slept all afternoon when others my age were hanging out. Pretty soon, I had managed my own disappearance.

On one of my lowest days I felt God knocking on my heart. I went home and looked up 'hope' in my Bible’s concordance. And there it was: Isaiah 40:31. 'But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.' When I read it, I knew I had given up on myself because I had given up on God’s good promises.

This truth has led me toward this Christ-centered journey I’ve undertaken. Now I use everyday trials to strengthen my trust in the Lord’s plans. Now I know He calls us all to find our strength in Him daily, so that we might cling to His Will and find this everlasting hope He alone offers."

You are blessed. Be a blessing!

No Bad Days

2006-05-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

WHEN PEOPLE ASK ME HOW I’M DOING, and some still do even after all these years, I always tell them I’m having a good day . . . because I am.

GOOD DAYS AREN’T DEPENDENT on how loudly this stupid cancer I drag around with me snaps its teeth. Good days are a matter of choice.

EARLY IN THIS JOURNEY I decided I had nothing to gain by allowing myself any bad days. Labeling a day bad only intensifies what might be going wrong with it. Why listen to the growl of a disease I’m tired of thinking about? I can’t do anything more about what I have than when I’m already doing. The rest is up to God. So I must rely on faith . . . and trust.

I WISH BOTH WERE STRONGER, of course. How much easier faith would be if I’d heard Jesus on the road to Damascus. How much easier if, like Abraham, I’d walked with God.

YET I SEE EVIDENCE of His grace everywhere. Unlike some, I see His workings even in the things that can be explained by science. He isn’t only in the mystery.

MY OWN CHOICE to follow Him can take me only as far as the edge of my doubt. His gift completes my faith.

AND KNOWING THAT—really KNOWING that—makes each day, no matter what befalls it, a good day.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Am I from Mars? Are You?

2006-05-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

ONE OF THE HARDEST things about being ill for a long time is a feeling of being isolated. Of being different. Even though I’m not.

I WOULDN’T BE AT ALL SURPRISED to discover how many people I know deal with chronic illness, chronic pain, or some combination of the two. It’s a stiff-upper-lip thing. Chronic sufferers don’t like to be thought of as chronic complainers. Most suffer in silence wishing they could talk to someone who REALLY understands how they feel . . .

WHAT KEEPS THEM from coming out of the chronic illness closet? Here’s the top ten list:

10. Exclamations of how healthy they look.
9. Those who confuse their low-energy state with laziness.
8. Those who want to change the topic to a happier one (now there’s a real conversation stopper).
7. Those who tell their own sob story (as in “that’s enough about you, now let’s talk about me”).
6. Those who tell them what they should or should not be doing.
5. Expressions of pity (yikes!).
4. Those who blame the illness on the sufferer (too late for that!).
3. Those who have remedies and cures (BTW most with a problem are pretty savvy about available alternatives).
2. Those who assume they know what and if the sufferer wants to be prayed for.
AND NUMBER ONE!!!!
1. Those who imply (or worse) that a LACK OF FAITH or THE WRONG ATTITUDE is the reason for the condition. (Keep the smug out of my path please, Lord.)

FOR MY PART I have to remind myself that others have serious problems too. Cancer isn’t the worst thing that can happen.

AND IF MY DISease takes me to a place few go, I can’t remain there. I must stay attentive to those around me. I must not let this disease-induced isolation alienate me.

THE APOSTLE PAUL stressed community. He taught that I can’t be a Christian all by myself.

SO AS MUCH AS I’D LIKE TO at times (review the Top Ten List), I’m not going to try.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

What Is This “Wait-and-See” Stuff?

2006-04-30T15:37:00.000-07:00

I HATE IT WHEN MY DOCTOR tells me he wants to wait-and-see what some little suspicious spot on a scan might be. Last week wasn’t the first time I’d heard that from him. When my heart slowed down, and before I began berating myself for my lack of faith (again), I reminded myself that faith—like everything else of real value—is a gift. As the man with the epileptic son mentioned in Mark 9: 23-24 said, I just need a little help with my unbelief.

I HAVE TO DO MY PART. I have to ask for more faith. I have to study. I have to work to pry open my mind and heart enough to let faith in. Jesus called this being “meek” in the Sermon on the Mount. If I can learn to be meek, He said, I’ll be able to balance my life—and keep my eye on the proper target. That’s not always easy when fear is unleashed within the narrow confines of an examining room.

I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW THE PLAN . . . but, now I’m less convinced than I once was that I play much of a part in shaping it. And most of the time I don’t get to know the plan. Uncertainty is just part of the cancer game. And, except for the times my doctor rubs his chin in thoughtful perplexity, I don’t care any more. I’m along for the ride.

SO, I SMILED at the doctor, poor thing. Wait-and-see is all he has to offer, and I can worry about it in the weeks to come, or I can pray that my desire to be in charge will lessen. That I will be helped with my unbelief. That my belief muscles will grow stronger. That I will be granted the gift of faith.

DECISIONS. Decisions.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Finding Freedom

2006-04-22T17:26:00.000-07:00

WHENEVER A PROJECT—or a solution—that leads in the direction of service for others appears in a way I didn’t expect, never would have imagined, can’t do, and am not too thrilled about trying, I’ve learned it’s God asking me to stretch my self-imposed boundaries.

FREEING MYSELF OF OLD PATTERNS, of old ways of looking at things, of inaccurate beliefs about myself, rids me of the shackles I frequently manage to forge for my own ankle. At times like these I must look at what things can be, not what they are.

I HAVE NO CHOICE unless I want to make myself miserable. No reasons, no matter how logical they may seem to me, convince God. And no isn’t an answer He views with favor. I know. I’ve tried it often enough.

I’M ALWAYS REMINDED OF MOSES whenever one of these challenges comes along. Poor man. He stopped out of curiosity to view a burning bush, and as soon as he heard the Voice he began telling God why He’d made a poor choice. Right.

I WANT TO SAY: Moses, honey, stop procrastinating. The LORD’S WILL will be done—the easy way or the hard way—but, it will be done. So, forget how unsuitable you are. Set aside all your excuses. Go put on your best sandals. The time has come for you to do what the LORD wants done.

AND I’M REALLY TALKING to myself.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Cancer Has a Lesson Plan Too

2006-04-15T16:28:00.000-07:00

THROUGH THIS CANCER PHASE of my life, I have discovered what I wish I'd been smart enough to learn when I was twenty.

FOR THE FIRST YEAR of my illness, I grieved for all the things cancer had deprived me of: the food and drink I’d enjoyed, the energy I’d used to carve a spot in my profession, the hectic schedule I’d filled every moment with, the leisure activities I was no longer strong enough to enjoy.

I LEFT THE SCHEDULES and patterns of a life filled with alternatives I thought I controlled and entered, instead, a world where my only choices were to do what I could—or give up. And if I fought the good fight, would what remained of my life be purposeful? Or would my illness leave me with only enough strength to mark time until it overtook me?

BUT I FOUND INSTEAD that cancer provided answers—flares of wisdom in an otherwise dark abyss of unanswered questions.

IF I RECOVER from this—or if I don’t—I will do what God directs me to do. A simple answer that I’m sure I will find challenging enough to last me a lifetime, no matter how long that may be.

WE ARE CALLED BY A GOD who doesn’t barge into our lives uninvited. If we don’t pay attention to Him, He falls into the background of our busy lives. We must bring ourselves to Him. To quote Joan Chittister, a modern Benedictine, “We are part of a holy universe, not it’s creators and not its rulers. . . In fact, everything that happens is God’s call to us either to accept what we should not change or to change what we should not accept. . .” [from her book, How Can I Find God?]

LIFE IS ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS, not achievements. No matter how rocky, no matter how tenuous, relationships form the stepping stones to the meaning of life. When I die my heirs will keep the photographs and throw away all my plaques and certificates. They’ll remember me, not what I did.

THE ONLY WAY TO SHOW who and what I love is with time. I love you is cheap, true service and focused attention may eat into my day, but they are the only effective way to communicate my affection.

FOR MY OWN SAKE, I must forgive as many times as I have to. Forgiveness burns me up if I don’t give it freely, but I shouldn’t expect the person I’m forgiving to behave any differently. Forgiveness has no strings. On the other hand, trust can’t be given, it can only be earned.

EACH DAY MUST BE LIVED as though it were my last. It took me a while to settle down enough after my diagnosis to come to what this means. No cross words can be left dangling, no unfortunate moments can be left unresolved. I love you, must be my parting words—especially if the relationship is long distance.

AND THE MOST IMPORTANT THING? God loves each of us as though we were His only child. I had to discover for myself what that meant, and now I do my best to show courtesy and respect to everyone I deal with. For they too are precious only children.

I DON’T THINK MY WAY of approaching cancer is the right way for someone else. It might be. It might not be. That’s not the point. For me, sharing is the point.

I BELIEVE WE READ so that we will not feel alone, and I believe I write to find the readers who need to know they are not alone. Ever.

You are blessed. Be a blessing.

LIVING Outside the Box

2006-03-26T16:10:00.000-08:00

MOST OF US WOULD like to learn to think “outside the box” of our own understanding, but not Joshua. He knew how to LIVE outside the box. He knew first hand how creative God is.

OVER AND OVER AGAIN THE WORDS “be strong and courageous” are repeated in the Book of Joshua. It seems living in the presence of God is not for the timid.

IF DOING WHAT WE DON’T UNDERSTAND is at the heart of living creatively, I think Joshua, a warrior-leader, was one of the most creative men in the Bible. I admire his absolute faith, but more than that, I admire his obedience.

CONSIDER FOR A MOMENT how the battle against Jericho was fought. What general would instruct an army to lay siege to a walled city by simply having the soldiers and priests bearing rams horns silently circle it carrying the Ark of the Covenant once a day for six days? And how about this? On the seventh day have those same soldiers and priests march around the city seven times—this time to the sound of the rams horns and shouting? And all with the belief that the wall would fall flat . . .

I CAN ONLY IMAGINE my own response to such a suggestion. Uh oh. Lord, I don’t think even a sonic boom, much less a bunch of shouting, would put a crack in that wall. Lord, have you noticed that wall’s fortified? An easy fifteen feet thick in places. And, Lord, I’ll bet the men of Jericho are armed. We could lose a lot of men out there. Begging your pardon, Lord, have you thought about that?

BUT NONE OF THAT FOR JOSHUA. This battle plan bore all the signs of a solution from God—even without the appearance of a man with a drawn sword delivering it. It was something Joshua would NEVER have thought of by himself. It seemed doomed to failure. And finally, Joshua knew he couldn’t do it by himself—and it was obvious he wouldn’t have to.

SO, JOSHUA GAVE A GREAT EXAMPLE of what a creative person does—he opened himself to possibility and just did it. Like a sculpture or an artist might.

DID JOSHUA STOP at Jericho? Nope. He asked for other even more improbable solutions—like stopping the sun and moon. He needed a little more sun light to whip those pesky Amorites. Oh, yes! Joshua is proof that there’s no limit to LIVING outside the box.

AND THAT GIVES ME HOPE that my seemingly insolvable problems will be dealt with—in this life or the next—by the One from whom all solutions come.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Out of My Inbox

2006-03-26T14:30:00.000-08:00

WHEN I FIRST ENTERED the workforce my various employers’ chief complaint was always, “Tamara, you must learn to think outside the box.” Well, frankly, I hadn’t a clue what they meant.

TWENTY YEARS LATER, after I had enough experience to know that, in my line of work, there were many means to accomplish an end, I thought I’d moved outside the box in my thinking. I hadn’t. I’d only learned to be flexible.

A FEW YEARS AFTER THAT I realized what most people are talking about when they say “outside the box” is creativity, which is something that can’t be learned. It comes from the Great Creator and must be heard and obeyed.

IF I REMAIN RECEPTIVE to God’s instruction, creative approaches and solutions rain down on me. How do I know I’m not listening, not learning? When I’m absolutely sure I’m right.

SADLY, THIS IS A SIGNAL THAT ONCE AGAIN, I am confused. Being sure I’m right is not the same as really being right.

WHEN I KNOW I’M RIGHT, I remind myself of Jonah. The militant Assyrians at Nineveh were Jonah’s worst enemy, and he found God’s willingness to forgive them repulsive. God was wrong, Jonah was right—and off Jonah went in the opposite direction.

JONAH TOOK A FISHY SIDE TRIP before he finally proceeded to Nineveh, did exactly as he was told (not one iota more), and waited for God to see things his way. Jonah said he’d rather die than serve a God who would not change to suit him. Oh, Jonah. I’m with you. I’ve been there.

MOST OF MY LIFE I’ve said, “This is where I am, Lord. There’s room for you in this inbox, come on in.” Rarely have I been brave enough to say, “You choose the path, Lord, and I’ll follow.”

BUT OFTEN THE ANSWERS I need aren’t in any box, much less my inbox. And when one of those problems without a solution comes up, like illness or pain, I need to be ready to climb out of that inbox as fast as I can, to run down the path yelling for God to wait up. Or like Jonah I may end my story angry with God and preferring to die rather than give up knowing I’m right.

Your blessed! Be a blessing.

A Laughing Matter?

2006-03-25T17:13:00.000-08:00

CANCER IS NO LAUGHING MATTER . . . or is it?

IN MY FAMILY OF ORIGIN a sense of humor was the best trait to have. Anyone could be smart or pretty, but the ability to tell or appreciate a good joke was prized. I never mastered the timing of a good punch line, but my sister and I are always the first to get one. We’ve been conditioned to laugh.

YEARS AFTER MY SISTER graduated, I met her band instructor. “Oh,” he said. “I remember her. She was always laughing.” I thought that was best compliment that could be given anyone.

I BELIEVE THAT THE WILLINGNESS to laugh is learned. It’s a muscle, like faith, that needs to be exercised. Comics will tell you an audience has to be made ready to laugh. Once they’ve warmed up, anything is funny. I think that’s true of all of us. Once we’ve warmed ourselves up, anything is funny.

IT’S NOT JUST THAT LAUGHTER beats the thunder out of crying, it’s also good for us—especially when illness rears its ugly head. When I’m laughing, I can’t worry. When I’m laughing, I don’t hurt. When I’m laughing, I’m a child again. And when I’m laughing, I’m never lonely.

IN HIS BOOK, Anatomy of an Illness, Norman Cousins wrote that he discovered one hour of laughing gave him two hours of pain-free sleep. He promptly scheduled daily time for the Marx Brothers. He believed he conquered a rare paralyzing illness through laughter. Later, he laughed his way through debilitating heart disease. My hero, he literally died laughing.

AND HOW ABOUT ABRAHAM AND SARAH? They thought it a huge joke that in her nineties, God promised Abraham that Sarah would become pregnant. In fact, although she denied it, she laughed out loud when she overheard Him. As a result, the blessings of the covenant God made with Abraham passed down to us through this child whose birth made his mother, and everyone who heard of it, laugh.

AND WHAT DID GOD tell Abraham to name this son? Isaac. A name that means “he laughs.”

MAKE TIME FOR WHAT you find funny. Condition yourself to laugh. You’ll always be in good company--and you'll have to struggle to be unhappy.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

Getting It Together?

2006-03-14T17:18:00.000-08:00

IN HER BOOK, Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott says if you want to know about living, hang around the dying. Well, she didn’t have me in mind. My life is no more together than it was before I was diagnosed. Very frustrating—having survived this long, I assumed by now, I’d have a wealth of knowledge about how to live that I could pass on to others.

NOT SO. I struggle as much with the same plethora of faults as I ever did: character flaws, leaving undone what I meant to do, the thoughtless comment, the unpolished shoes, the belief that I could do better if only I tried harder. And I must not forget a hardheadedness of epic proportions.

HAVE I CONQUERED my desire to control what can’t be controlled? Don’t ask my children.

CAN I PASS Bible-study-champion Beth Moore’s litmus test for pride? Can I be happy that a job is done well—even if someone else did it? Can I resist leaving my own mark on it? Believe me, when it comes to some things—like moving furniture—I’m not there yet.

WELL . . . maybe one thing has changed. I once believed in making a plan and thundering toward its accomplishment. Now thunder of any sort doesn’t seem to apply to me. I’ve become more of a flexibility-junky.

I FIND I STILL MAKE PLANS, but many of them don’t make it past the thrill of possibility. These days I often find myself helping others achieve their goals, while my own get hung up in the Disciplined Order of Christ request I always put to God: “If this is what You want me to do, increase my desire for it . . . but, if it isn’t, please take away my desire.”

I TRY NOT TO TORMENT MYSELF while I wait for the answer. It isn’t always forthcoming. Did I mention I find staying-in-the-moment challenging?

IT’S PRETTY DISAPPOINTING. Dealing with cancer hasn’t lead me to a greater knowledge of life . . . but it has led me to faith. And for me, I have to say if it were mine to make, I’d make the same choice again.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Happiness Is?

2006-03-13T06:08:00.000-08:00

BY MY KITCHEN SINK I keep a tile on a little easel. On it is painted: “Happiness is wanting what you have.” There is no author attribution. I wish there were, because I’d like to shake the hand of the person who first penned it.

NOW, NEARLY FOUR YEARS after my diagnosis, I have entered that treacherous place in my treatment where taking a breather seems possible. My condition, even to me, has become too much like that most boring of subjects—someone else’s divorce.

I KNOW I MUST FIND my fullness in a life bordered by a restless and dangerous disease, but I want that life to be as normal as it can be. And I’m not alone in wanting to forget about my circumstances. Many of my friends no longer ask how I am with any reference to the “C” word that used to dominate their inquiries. And I want that for them. But I must never relax the discipline that has helped me so much.

WE ALL DO IT. We celebrate the loss of five pounds with a dish of ice cream. Our blood pressure moves into normal range; we stop taking the medication . . . and the diastolic starts creeping back up. So, I must remain cautious of my cancer foe. I don’t dare turn my back on the beast that seems to be asleep for the moment.

WISHFUL THINKING is more my enemy than cancer. Contemplating what-might-have-been will only make me unhappy with what is. And being dissatisfied with a quiet moment in a journey with this pesky companion might lead me to foolishly run after the life I still miss.

INSTEAD, I NEED the reminder of that wise little tile by my sink. I need to turn my entire attention to gratitude. For, at least in my case, wanting what I have is even more than happiness. It’s life itself.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

All or Nothing

2006-03-06T18:00:00.000-08:00

AFTER A SEVERAL-YEAR HIATUS, my friend’s cancer has come raging back into his life. What has worked to control it in the past no longer seems effective. The doctor who has treated him for years, and who my friend trusts and respects, suggests a more aggressive form of the same treatment.

MY FRIEND, weakened by the disease, and profoundly unhappy with his situation, hears the words, “This will be rough.”

HE LOOKS NEITHER TO THE RIGHT nor to the left. He seems to accept the plan with the same courage that got him through the early battles of Viet Nam. “When can we begin?” he asks, and makes the appointment.

I WANT TO SHAKE HIM. The government estimates more than one hundred American cancer patients die each day needlessly—-simply because they failed to receive state-of-the-art treatment. And the treatment can easily be researched at http://cancernet.nci.nih.gov/ or by calling 800-4-CANCER.

WHEN I WAS STRUGGLING to make the changes in my life that I believe have since led to greater health, I hit a wall of self-pity one rainy winter day in New Orleans. Crossing Loyola Avenue near Poydras Street, my eye was drawn to the Cancer Survivors Plaza. Annette and R. A. “Dick” Block (he was co-founder of H&R Block) have erected these in most large cities across the U. S., and that day I found out these monuments are worth a close inspection.

ONE OF THE PLAQUES said, “You must, on your own, make the commitment that you will do everything in your power to fight your disease. No exceptions. Nothing halfway. Nothing for the sake of ease or convenience. Everything! Nothing short of it.”

THE NEXT ONE SAID, “To give up requires no commitment. You can stay in the comfort of your own lifestyle. Fighting means a complete change of lifestyle, absolutely leaving your comfort zone . . . You must decide that the end is worth the means . . . No one else can do it for you. There is no half way . . . Go for it with no second thoughts or regrets.”

ONE OF THE LAST PLAQUES said, “Fighting cancer is not a simple matter of thinking positively, wishing it away and saying, ‘Hey, doc, cure me.’ It is a matter of knowledge. It is a matter of educating yourself about every detail and mustering all your resources. Use every drop of energy in an organized fashion to constructively concentrate on getting rid of cancer . . . if you don’t do everything in your power, often there is no second chance. This is why no cancer patient can afford the luxury of looking back and saying, ‘I wish I would have . . .’ Never look back. Concentrate on this movement forward and do everything in your power.”

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU LOVES HAS CANCER, read Dick Bloch’s letter at www.blochcancer.org. I wish my friend would.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

The List

2006-02-27T19:32:00.000-08:00

I MAY HAVE FELT I was on to something when I decided to measure success by listing my acts of service at the end of each day, but, frankly, I would rather have continued measuring success in the ways I had before my diagnosis. My return to the office was frustrating, not only because of what had changed in my absence, but also because the people I worked with knew my limitations far better than I did. They were kind, concerned, helpful, and solicitous. It was irritating and a blow to my pride.

AND THIS IDIOTIC NOTION I’d come up with—counting my acts of service . . . Did it mean I had given up on me too? Would I no longer be able to prove myself in the grind of the work-a-day world? Did I believe this list was all I was capable of? Each mid-afternoon when I dragged myself home, I knew it might be true. Making this list might be all I was equal to. Maybe it was more important than I wanted it to be.

I DIDN’T LIKE IT, but it wasn’t as if I had a choice. I desperately wanted to feel useful again, and I couldn’t think of any other way, so I worked on the list.

I COUNTED EVERYONE I helped. I counted everyone I prayed for. I counted everyone I offered so much as a moment’s focused attention to. When I was too tired to do anything else, I sent notes of encouragement and signed them, “The Crazy Old Lady.” And I added these to the list too. It seemed sad and futile, as if I were fooling myself, but still I did it because not doing it seemed worse than doing it.

THE LIST GREW LONGER, and I grew stronger. I began to look forward to each day. I was flexing a spiritual muscle I hadn’t know I possessed, and it was sustaining me. Who would I help next? What opportunity would come my way? It was an adventure. It was exciting . . . It was a blessing to me.

I HAD ONCE BELIEVED that time wasted could never be recovered, and that productive time resulted in items crossed off my “to do” list. I was driven by the belief that I could do more if I hurried, and in the rush, any sense of accomplishment had been crushed by a “to do” list that had no end.

NOTHING FROM THOSE DAYS made sense in my new world. In my tightly managed former life where I had believed my timeline to be unlimited, every second counted. Now that I could no longer hurry, and my time seemed short, I’d discovered how to be generous with it.

AFTER A FEW WEEKS, I was able to work most days without wearing out. I managed to do the things that were important and occasionally see to those things that weren’t.

SOME DAY I MIGHT AGAIN be able to complete the lengthy “to do” lists I once prided myself in, but maybe not. I don’t care whether I can or not. I have no need to prove myself. That’s no longer success to me.

I FEEL BETTER NOW about what I do to earn my living than I have during any of the previous thirty-seven years I spent in the work force. And I have the list to prove it.

WHAT’S THAT if not job satisfaction?

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Blooming in a New Way

2006-02-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

AFTER SEVERAL WEEKS’ absence from work, I began to feel the pull of the office. I missed my colleagues and my clients, so I mustered as much energy as I could and reappeared. Everything looked the same, but nothing was the same. Over twenty-six hundred years ago Heraclitus said no one could step into the same river. I could see his point. Life had rolled on, and the well-oiled machinery of the place where I had spent much of my adult life had continued without me—very well indeed.

I WAS SOMEWHAT PLEASED. I’d been a good team player if my absence could be worked around, but mostly I was disappointed. Did I make so little difference to an organization I’d doted on for so many years?

WORSE, WHEN I COMPARED MYSELF to that formerly efficient self whose memory was never fuzzy, whose energy never flagged, I was even more deflated. By noon I had that leaden sensation exhaustion brings. I went home feeling that the race was passing me by, feeling I’d been kept in from recess without quite understanding how the punishment could have been avoided. In a world I’d once believed was governed by “Can he?” and “Will he?” I could no longer answer either with a yes.

I WAS IN DANGER OF FEELING USELESS. It doesn’t take a read of the first two chapters of Genesis to know man was meant to work. Uselessness would not lead me anywhere I wanted to go. I needed to redefine success for myself. Using accomplishments as a yardstick was only going to frustrate me.

I HAD TO LOOK TO SOMETHING that gave a rebirth to my sense of self-worth, and I found it in Colossians 3:23. “Whatever your task, put yourselves into it as done for the Lord and not for your masters . . . You serve the Lord.”

I’D NEVER paid much attention to this verse before, but here was an answer. I began to list the things that, at the end of each day, I could count as serving. A kind word. A smile. Encouragement. Willingness to accept help. Showing gratitude to others. Now I was on to something!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Going It Alone

2006-02-19T13:58:00.000-08:00

WHEN CANCER COMES CALLING, I don’t know how anyone can make the journey without God. But I have a friend or two who try.

ONE FRIEND HAS LET SUFFERING, pain, and anger separate her from God. As if He hadn’t suffered or didn’t know pain. Still she blames Him. If He’s in charge, she says, He’s not doing a very good job—as if He’s the one making the mistakes, and the rest of us, including her, are blameless.

SHE POINTS OUT HUMANITY’S SORRY LOT and thinks she’s alone in her suffering, abandoned in her time of need. And who of us haven’t felt that way—with or without cancer? She shakes her fist at God and refuses to worship Him. I want to ask her Dr. Phil’s question, “How’s that working for you?”

SO WHY DO I THINK WORSHIP is the answer? Does God need to hear her praises? No. Not at all. Worship is a reminder that she is here for His good pleasure and not because she deserves to be here. (If merit had anything to do with it, I wouldn’t have made it past my eighth birthday. That was when I discovered boys, and it was downhill after that.)

SHE MAINTAINS CHRISTIANS are hypocrites. Well, of course we’re hypocrites--with the best of intentions perhaps, but hypocrites nonetheless. The problem is she’s looking at the sheep and not the Shepherd. Christians can’t stand up to the ideal she expects of us. Even with the best of intentions, we all pave our way to error.

MY RESPONSE TO HER? Get real. Church is a hospital for sinners, a refuge for fellow sufferers. It’s a means for us to offer a little comfort to each other as we stumble along together. Attending church is a sign we need help, not a sign we’ve figured everything out!

BESIDES, I like the music.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

God's Deadline

2006-02-16T16:10:00.000-08:00

PALE, HER ABDOMEN DISTENDED by her illness, my dear friend cast her sweet brown eyes in my direction and said in a listless voice, “If I were to get better, of what use would I be?” I cried all the way home, knowing I had just said goodbye. My friend had lost her purpose and with it her will to live. Suffering and a sense of being overwhelmed had taken their toll.

BUT, AS I EXPERIENCE the same disease, I find there is something I didn’t see before. Life, even my own, seems to go on with the beat of an implacable fate. Sometimes I stand on the curb and shout at the parade of my life as it seems to pass me by, and other times I find my place and manage to fall into step as if everything were perfectly normal.

AND IT WAS THAT WAY from the very beginning. After eleven years of diligent writing crammed into every spare moment (resulting in two 500-page manuscripts), I was offered a five-book contract as a novelist. Two days after that, I was diagnosed with almost certain death.

I WAS NEAR TEARS as I prepared to meet with the publisher. How could I let this kind man—who of the countless submissions I had made was probably the first person to actually read one of my manuscripts—squander resources on a woman who might not have the energy to do the required edits and who would certainly not live to promote a book?

AFTER I EXPLAINED to him why I couldn’t sign his contract, the publisher gave me a thoughtful look and pushed the papers across his desk to me. “You ought to go ahead and sign it,” he said. “I’ve seen publishing help a lot of sick writers get better.”

FOR MONTHS I had drifted from doctor’s appointment to doctor’s appointment. I could no longer drift. I didn’t know what cancer had in store for me, but I did know God wanted me to finish this book. The publisher’s words made that clear.

FROM THAT MEETING on, no matter where I was, every moment I could squeeze out of my day was now focused to the task of making this first book—which would likely be my only book—the very best it could be. I was in a race. While editing and fact-checking I put my disease and pain aside. The publisher’s deadline for me wasn’t as much my worry as was God’s deadline for me. And I had to finish first.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

You Haven't Got a Hair!

2006-02-14T06:24:00.000-08:00

WHEN I WAS A TEENAGER, the ultimate challenge was, “You haven’t got a hair,” and the phrase raced through my head as my friend spoke of the chemo she would undergo that would rob her of what she prized as her best claim to beauty: her lavish, blonde, shoulder-length hair. I haven’t had to endure that experience yet, and I had no words for her, so I had found a friend who had and arranged a meeting.

I LISTENED as they connected, the experienced one now sporting a cap of curls. My friend said very little, but when we met for lunch the following week, I almost walked past her. She had transformed herself into an alluring red head. She gave her hair a toss that reminded me of a movie star popular in the days of black-and-white movies and laughed.

“WOW,” I SAID. “You should have done this years ago.” I sat down beside her to wait for our table.

“I ALWAYS WONDERED what life as a red head would be like, and now I don’t have to worry about the dye ruining my hair, do I?” She laughed again and told me she had chosen to do the chemo first to get the thing she dreaded most out of the way. I marveled at the strength of this woman I knew so well. She was proof of my personal definition of bravery—overcoming fear.

WE LAUGHED over lunch about all the photographs her husband had taken of her when she’d come home from the salon. “When he got over being stunned, he ran for the camera.”

I KNOW THERE WERE DARK DAYS for her as she paced herself through chemo. Losing one’s hair is only worsened by the loss of eyebrows and lashes, which in her case followed soon after. Keeping a sense of humor must’ve been a challenge more than once, but in all those times she had the photographs of herself as a look-alike of Veronica Lake, and the knowledge that she would live and that she might choose to do again something she’d never expected to do even once!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing.

Mind Over Disease? Or Only Mind Over Illness?

2006-02-10T07:10:00.000-08:00

DISEASE IS WHAT MEDICINE concentrates on; illness is what the patient deals with. They’re related, but they’re not the same.

IS IT REALLY ONLY MIND over illness? Or could it really be mind over disease? Could how we think really affect the disease itself?

THOSE OF US WHO KEEP OUR PRAYER muscles well exercised certainly have a different illness experience than those who don’t. By reframing our mind’s references, we affect the way we experience disease. But, it goes further than that.

THOSE WHO STUDY psychonueroimmunology (PNI)--and they’re a pretty impressive lot--tell us that the immune system can be taught. To prove the point, PNI studies have found that under stress the body uses energy to prepare for survival. If stressors remain too intense for too long, the energy that the body would normally use to fight disease is misdirected to the fight-or-flight response. In time, the immune system is suppressed.

CANCER PATIENTS, AND OTHERS who are ill, are desperately in need of a well-tuned, “smart” immune system. They have to reverse this suppression, and those of us who believe God have an edge. When doctors tell us we mustn’t give up hope, we know what they mean. Fear dwells in hopelessness, and fear—a major trigger for survival instincts—is the immune system’s enemy.

WELL, I’M NO SCIENTIST, but I do know how to send fear out of my life and bring hope in. . . on my knees.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Radial What?

2006-02-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

DISAPPOINTINGLY, results from the trial I completed in March 2003 would prove inconclusive. I remained a candidate for the second trial, but during the five long months that I waited for that trial to be approved by both the FDA and the hospital board, the lower of the two tumors began to misbehave. Painfully.

ANOTHER CANCER “ADVENTURE” was on my dance card, and so, in late June 2003 I began a course of Novalis shaped beam surgery. Radial beam surgery. High energy radiation. All names for the new kid on the radiation block. It had an incredible record of remission for various forms of cancer, but almost no history with melanoma.

ONCE AGAIN, I, WHO HAD always had an aversion to finding new frontiers, would try something few had tried before. Six times I was arranged on a glass table and fired upon by the arm of the Novalis body machine. The pain the tumor caused stopped for several days, and then returned to become my constant companion.

ON HALLOWEEN the radiologist who had assisted with the Novalis treatment told me that it had not been effective. My tumor was still evident. He was very sorry.

HE WAS SORRY, but I was devastated. Another door had slammed shut. That left the second trial, and I prayed that the FDA would approve it and that the hospital would find the funding.

SIX WEEKS later they did.

EACH PARTICIPANT was thoroughly tested and scanned for a baseline. When the results came back, I was told that the radiated tumor no longer appeared on the scan. The Novalis had worked after all! I couldn’t believe it. It was the first good news Tom and I had had in eighteen months.

THERE WAS MORE, however, and it wasn’t good. A new area appeared showed signs of cancer. It was spreading. Was this the news that announced the beginning of the end? Was this the first inkling that the cancer was going to take over my body? Was it going to win?

MY HUSBAND REMINDED me that this kind of thinking wouldn’t take us where we needed to go, and I made a decision to take the good news to heart and not let the new tumor tarnish it. After all, we laughed, two tumors were gone. What did it matter that two were yet to go? I hadn’t lost any ground.

THAT DAY I also decided to think of this disease as a search-and-destroy mission that would remain a constant, though unwanted, companion in my life. Setting my goal on a cure and crashing down with each setback would be too hard on me and the people who loved me. Any advances the cancer might make couldn’t be allowed to determine whether I was having a good day or not. I didn’t have the luxury of bad days. Period. I simply couldn’t allow myself to get discouraged. I had to remain hopeful, and I began to read the best source about hope I knew of, the Bible.

IN ROMANS 5:3-5, I found the answer. “. . . suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit . . .”

THERE IT WAS, in terms simple enough even for me. Suffering→ endurance→ character→ hope.

I HAD BEEN LOOKING at my circumstances all wrong. Suffering wasn’t the beginning of the end as I feared, I had simply made the first step toward hope.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Being Number One Isn’t What It’s Cracked Up to Be

2006-02-02T06:30:00.000-08:00

BEING A PIONEER has never held any allure for me. I prefer the tried and true, but I’d never before encountered a medical problem without a known solution. It was time to try the untried.

MY APPOINTMENT WAS with a man with a formidable international reputation and a very responsible position who seemed uncomfortable indoors. His rugged physique was restrained by a pristine lab jacket. His steel-gray hair looked to be the tool by which he pulled ideas out of head. His explanations flew over me like starlings before a storm. Seemingly lost in the joy of his hopes for melanoma patients, he energetically tapped a puzzling microbiology rendering on the flip chart behind him with his pen, resumed his seat at the tiny conference table in a room that his entrance had made seem even smaller, and gave me yet another outpouring of vernacular. When he finished, he fixed intense coffee-colored eyes on me.

I NODDED MY ENCOURAGEMENT but understood almost nothing he said. I was certain I was dealing with an intelligent being from another planet. Someone understood what this dedicated scientist was saying but, unfortunately, that wasn’t me. “Let me see if I understand you, I said. “This is an experiment designed to awaken my own immune system to the presence of the tumors I have. If awakened, my own immune system is capable of consuming these tumors and possibly making my body free from cancer for the rest of my life. Is that it?”

HIS HEAD BOBBED up and down. His student was grasping the idea. He attempted to refine my understanding and to warn me of the unlikely but potential dangers: vitiligo, lupus, auto-immune disorder. He sobered. I would be the first to undergo these vaccinations. There might be other problems that he had no way of predicting.

HE HANDED ME A SHEAF of papers with frightening disclosures, but in the last few weeks I’d signed so many similar difficult-to-contemplate pieces of paper that I did not hesitate. I followed Yogi Berra’s advice. When faced with a fork in the road, I took it.

SOME PEOPLE ARE OPPOSED to clinical trials. They turn, they point out, an already ill person into a guinea pig. I don’t feel that way. I’m careful, of course, about choosing what I’m willing to undergo, but the standard treatment for what I have is just that. Standard. And in my case, the it didn’t have a good track record. Initial remission rates were sometimes good, but recurrence rates were not.

OUR MINISTER WOULD BE PLEASED to know how far his advice had taken me. I had become equally comfortable with living and with dying.

I DIDN’T HAVE TO BE BRAVE to sign on the dotted line because I wasn’t afraid.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Friends Indeed

2006-01-31T06:28:00.000-08:00

BEING SELF-SUFFICIENT had been a source of pride for me before I was diagnosed. I was always ready to lend others a hand, but when it came to me, I preferred handling things myself. I hadn’t counted on my husband’s wisdom.

TOM HAS ALWAYS BELIEVED in the power of friendship and in the need friends have to be useful in a crisis. It was the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one in the barrel with cancer. Tom was in it too, and he needed the support of our friends—perhaps even more than I did. After all, I had him, but who did he have?

SO, WHILE I MAY have wanted to creep into my cave until the winter of my illness was over, Tom knew he needed the encouragement and attention of those we loved, and he was wise enough to ask for it.

WHEN WE FOUND OUT I would be in the hospital for weeks, he flew into action. Now, I’m not proud of this, but I’m terrified of the hospital at a level that reason cannot soothe. Tom didn’t try to talk any sense into me. He just asked for volunteers. A paper was passed around our Sunday School class, and fourteen women volunteered.

I NEEDED MY FRIENDS more than I ever would’ve believed. More than they would’ve believed. They lay on a hard cot in my hospital room and had their sleep interrupted with each blood pressure check. They were alert when I was too groggy to know what was happening. They waited outside the bathroom door at two in the morning. They badgered me with breathing exercises and fed me ice when I wasn’t allowed water. They kept my IVs untangled when I trudged the hallways. They told me stories of friends and family members who’d survived impossible odds. Brave stories filled with hope.

I WAS COMFORTED. I knew I was loved.

AND I CHANGED from someone who didn’t want to bother anyone to someone who had to accept help from everyone. I changed from someone who had once done favors with the hopes that one day they would be returned, to someone who knew a lifetime was too short to repay what I’d been given.

THE BARREL WAS even more crowded than I’d realized. My friends were in it too. It was humbling. It was uplifting. And most of all, it was a reminder that God works through others and through us to perform his wonders. The secret to receiving good is the willingness to accept it.

IF YOU FIND YOURSELF in the position I found myself—and I pray you never do—be ready with a way for those who care about you to help. You owe it to them.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

Being Brave?

2006-01-26T07:15:00.000-08:00

NOT LONG AGO I RECEIVED AN E-MAIL from a frightened friend who asked me to pray for her. Her mammogram had raised questions. She was to be screened again, but a holiday had slowed scheduling. She had two weeks to wait. “Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to worry my husband,” she said. “I’m only telling you because I know you’d understand.”

WELL, I WANTED TO TELL her I don’t understand, even though I’d like to. No two cancer scares are alike. Instead, I told her to stop being brave. It wasn’t necessary; it wasn’t expected.

SHE NEEDED TO TELL HER HUSBAND. Right away—without waiting for the right moment. This wasn’t the time for stoicism, and were the situation reversed, how would she feel if her husband decided to take on the process without her? He needed to share her burden as much as I did. We all needed to worry together, to soothe one another, to pray for one another, to suffer together. Marriage and friendship aren’t only for the good times.

MY FRIEND FELT no one but another cancer patient would understand, but she was wrong. God understands. He knows suffering more than any of us. After all, He suffered too, and, worse, He actually knew He would die horribly.

WE, ON THE OTHER HAND, don’t know what will happen to us, but at moments like these, we need to be how we are and not how we wish we were. We need to bounce around emotionally, if that’s how we’re feeling. We need to admit our weaknesses.

SO I TOLD HER TO FORGET HER DIGNITY. She should call the clinic where she was to be rescanned and tell them she was frightened and how much she wanted to be seen. Let them think she was a nut case, a coward.

IN FACT, THAT MIGHT BE AN ADVANTAGE! They might see her sooner if they thought she was coming unhinged.

THE WORST THING ABOUT WAITING IS INACTIVITY, and doing something like begging the clinic—daily if that made her feel better—was better than doing nothing.

BRAVERY JUST DOESN’T FIT. My dear friend needed to fall apart. To shake her fist. To come unglued. To ask God for strength.

PUTTING UP A BRAVE FRONT IS WAY TOO LONELY for a time like this.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

The Nitty-Gritty of Facing Death

2006-01-23T16:16:00.000-08:00

AS I WENT IN SEARCH of potential treatments and consulted with specialists, I remained aware—even though I didn’t always talk about it—that I had only a few months to live.

ONCE AN ADMITTED “CLOTHES HORSE,” I couldn’t bring myself to buy new clothing. So, in spite of the fact that my wardrobe would now do someone thirty pounds heavier better justice than it did me, I bypassed the sales racks that would have lured me to several moment’s browsing in the past. Why should I want something that I would only be able to wear when it turned warm again?

SHOPPING FOCUSED on groceries and home repair. Things that could be consumed within three months were all that interested me.

WHEN A CAR HAD TO BE REPLACED, I insisted it be registered in Tom’s name. I gave away my wool business suits to a teacher colleague of my step-daughter’s. I made a list of all my belongings and put beside each one the name of the person I thought might want it. I was erasing ownership from my life. The burden of guessing what I’d want done with my possessions would not be on Tom.

I MADE A LIST OF THE MUSIC I wanted played at my memorial, and a list of the casseroles I planned to freeze for Tom so he wouldn’t have to go hungry while adjusting to life without me. I openly agonized over whether I wanted science or the crematorium to have my body.

TOM SEEMED TO BE WONDERING where his old wife had gone.

WELL, I WAS BURYING HER to give rise to the new me that has since taken her place.

I’M A WOMAN WHO FINDS HERSELF ON THE WINDING ROAD of living for today. Of observing the little gems of beauty and serenity I raced past in my former life. Of giving up worrying about things I can’t do anything about. Of believing God and what He says. Of looking at where I’ve come from more often than where I might have to go.

NOW I RUN THROUGH THE LEAVES with my grandson when I used to worry about getting mud on my shoes. How odd that now when logic tells me my future may be very short, I have learned to bask in time. To take what pleasure I can from each moment. I no longer look for what is wrong as much as I look for what is right.

TODAY I RARELY STAND on the front of the boat peering at the troubled waters I may have to enter. I spend more time contemplating the wake and relishing a sense of the small joyful accomplishments—like a freshly cleaned kitchen or a dryer of warm towels—that in my former life I missed altogether.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Never Underestimate the Power of Good Health

2006-01-16T07:48:00.000-08:00

THE NEXT DOCTOR we saw was a radiologist in Ft. Worth, Texas. His specialty was prostate cancer, as is the case with many radiologists, but he had been recommended to us by a friend, and when he agreed to talk with us we made the appointment. He stood in front of a blank flip chart of white paper and showed us what radiation treatment would do to me. Basically, it would cook one kidney, much of my liver, and cause my large intestine to stop functioning. Radiation was out.

HE HAD SPOKEN WITH A MELANOMA EXPERT in the clinic, which was attached to a prestigious medical school. He told us his colleague felt that chemotherapy did not have good results for melanoma patients with existing tumors. Sometimes there was an early response, but the recurrence rate was very high. The patient was weakened by the therapy and if every bit of the cancer was not destroyed, it overtook the body.

HE TOOK A CHAIR ACROSS THE TABLE from us. “If you want my advice,” he said, “I will tell you to be practical.” He opened his hands palm upward. “They have no cure for what you’ve got. They don’t even have an edge on it, but there are many experiments—trials.” He dropped his hands to the tabletop. “Since they can’t cure you, find those things which do you the least harm. Keep your immune system intact. Don’t let any treatments do anything to harm your natural system.

“YOU ARE THE PICTURE OF HEALTH. Very unusual in a melanoma patient.”

“I’VE BEEN PRACTICING GOOD NUTRITION,” I said, “exercising, and taking herbs and vitamins.”

“WELL, I WOULD KEEP that up.” He smiled. “You look good, and that’s important. Never underestimate the power of good health or the resilience of the body.” He stood and reached out to shake our hands in dismissal. “Good luck.”

TOM AND I BEGAN the long drive back to Dallas, knowing that we had received excellent advice. I would keep doing what I could to improve myself physically and spiritually, and I would continue my search for help. I knew exactly what to look for now.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Window Shopping

2006-01-16T07:24:00.000-08:00

TOM AND I WENT TO M. D. ANDERSON, a large cancer research hospital in Houston attached to the University of Texas. Two doctors, each with grave expressions and impressive credentials, examined me. “I believe,” the more senior doctor said, “you could survive our treatment.”

THEY EXPLAINED A SIX-WEEK COURSE of chemotherapy with cheerful enthusiasm. Provided the cancer hadn’t spread to my brain, I would be checked into the hospital the next day. They had no treatment for the brain, he explained, handing me a consent form.

“JUST A MINUTE,” I said, “I’m here window shopping. I need more information. For starters, what are the remission statistics?”

HE PAUSED IN THE PROCESS of pulling a pen out of his pocket. “We have about a sixty percent response rate.”

RESPONSE WASN’T REMISSION. He hadn’t answered my question. “And remission?” I asked again.

THE PEN WAS STILL ANGLED toward me. “Well, it’s too early to tell. Patients must survive five years for us to be able to declare remission. And . . .”

“SO, WHAT IS the recurrence rate?”

“UNH.” HE BEGAN WRITING on the paper sheet that covered the examination table. Sixty percent—response. Seventy percent—recurrence.

“AND THE SIDE-EFFECTS?”

HE DESCRIBED PAIN, nausea, the inability to eat, and shrugged. “It’s pretty rough.”

“BOTTOM LINE. How long are you able to prolong the life of a patient with my stage cancer?”

“ON AVERAGE about nine months.”

“OKAY,” I SAID. “It’s August. With this treatment you’re saying I’ve got until April?”

HE NODDED.

“AND SIX WEEKS of that I’ll be sick as a dog?”

HE OPENED HIS HANDS in a gesture of defeat. “There are alternatives, but they aren’t much better.” He began to list the others along with their dismal statistics on the paper sheet. “That’s about it.”

“YOU’VE BEEN VERY KIND,” I said, “but I think I want to keep looking—and use your therapy as a last-ditch effort.”

BOTH DOCTORS NODDED.

“I WILL PRAY FOR YOUR PROJECT and your research. I think you’ll find a cure for melanoma in the next five years. All I have to do is stay alive long enough for you to do that.”

THE MORE SENIOR DOCTOR smiled. “Keep in touch. If you need me, call me.” We all shook hands.

HAD I BEEN DESPERATE, I would have been heading for the hospital instead of heading for home. Being able to face death without fear had let me ask questions and let me say no when I didn’t like the answers.

SOMETIMES THE MOST YOU CAN PRAY for is the courage to exercise choice.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

Bureaucracy And All That Jazz

2006-01-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

TO GET APPOINTMENTS with specialists, I had to deal with brisk clerks, uncaring telephone operators, and too much “hold” music. But I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of frustration.

SOMETIMES I DEALT with nurses who didn’t speak English as a first language, and I was left confused and uncertain. Many times I wanted to give up, to rest, to put off until I was stronger what had to be done, but I didn’t have that kind of time. Instead, I put aside my own feelings and plowed ahead.

I OFTEN HEAR CANCER PATIENTS complain that they have so much trouble getting through the bureaucracy of the doctor’s staff that they just put their treatment off. I can understand that.

WE GET SUCH MIXED MESSAGES. While the doctor referring me emphasized how important it was that I act quickly, the receptionist at the specialist’s office frequently told me I’d have a six-week wait.

AS MUCH AS I HATED that I might be the object of anyone’s pity, I decided to be honest. When I was next told I’d have to wait for an appointment, I said, “I’ve been told I have six months to live. I’m in a race. Can you please help me?” And the door opened. People became my heroes when I gave them a reason.

SURVIVORS OF CANCER tell of synchronicity, of feeling guided. I have my stories too. Stories of people who went the extra mile for me when they themselves were overworked and over-tired. Of their finding a way when there was no way. Stories of appointments and operating theaters I got because someone else canceled. Of kind words whispered and prayers shared with strangers and with nurses whose names I never knew.

I FOUND MYSELF STRUCK with awe by prayers swiftly answered in ways that left me no room to doubt I was being propelled along by God.

EVEN TODAY THE RED TAPE (and, yes, the occasional fumbling) sometimes makes me weary, but the people I deal with remind me I’ve got a friend in Jesus—and He’s sent me plenty of help!

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

The Notebook

2006-01-09T18:57:00.000-08:00

THE KIND HUSBAND OF THE FRIEND I’d lost to melanoma came to call. His was a visit I dreaded, but he put me at ease by telling me, “No two people have the same cancer experience, even when they both have the same kind of cancer.” I nodded. He was telling me not to give up. Not to feel guilty if I survived when she hadn’t. The progression of the illness and my body’s response to treatment were bound to be as different from hers as our fingerprints were.

HE GAVE ME A CASE used by architects to carry blueprints. It was for films, he explained. I would need it as I traveled from expert to expert. This was the moment I realized that what I had couldn’t be managed as though it were a bad case of the flu. I had to rethink my role as a patient.

THEN HE LAID OUT FOR ME what I think of as the rules of advocacy for cancer patients and set a three-ring notebook on the coffee table. “Keep your medical history up to date in this.” He thumped the notebook. “You’ll be dealing with a lot of doctors. You’ll have to be in charge of your history. Get copies of everything and keep them.” He pushed the notebook. “Don’t forget. It’s important.”

I WATCHED THE NOTEBOOK slide toward me. I’d always been a passive patient, counting on my doctor to keep my medical records. Those days were over, I realized, and the idea seemed horrible.

BUT THIS KIND MAN had experienced what I hoped Tom would not have to, and I respected his willingness to do what he could to help me. I put dividers into the notebook for scan reports, blood tests, the diagnosis and pathology report, and for a medical history that I still keep in date order.

I COULD SEE THE WISDOM in my friend’s words. The better organized I was, the sooner the doctor could be brought up to date, the sooner he could treat me. Wouldn’t a doctor be more receptive to a patient who cared enough about her own treatment to be prepared, knowledgeable, and upbeat? If I had to take this journey, and it seemed I did, then I would look for specialists I could like and who could learn to like me. If I was fighting for my life, I wanted whoever was in the trenches with me to be a friend.

GRADUALLY I ASSUMED the responsibilities I could. If a scan needed to be done in three months, I was the one who called to remind the nurse. (And if you think doctors are busy, imagine how busy their poor nurses are!) If a follow-up appointment was needed, I scheduled it.

AS A PATIENT I’ve become prompt, informed, inquisitive, and alert. It’s the least I can do for a coworker.

AND THAT’S HOW I’ve begun to think of myself—as coworker. After all, aren’t we all “employed” by the same Great Healer?

You're blessed. Be a blessing!

The Valley of the Shadow—Not a Bad Place to Visit, But I Hadn’t Planned to Live There

2006-01-03T05:57:00.000-08:00

THE MEDICAL EXPERTS WERE OUT OF IDEAS, and Tom and I were out of our spiritual depths. Too much coming at us too fast. Bolstering was the next logical step. We needed a man with a professional connection to God.

OUR MINISTER, ROBERT, listened with a sympathetic expression, and when we were finished, he offered the strangest prayer I’ve ever heard. “Father, we’re mad at you. We don’t like what is happening to Tamara, and we don’t think it’s right. You’ve closed off every possibility for her, and we don’t know where else to turn. Neither, it seems, do the doctors. We want more from you. We want your guidance, and we need it now. Amen.”

ROBERT HAD SUMMED IT UP, and I felt better. The three of us talked. This was a lousy deal. Two months before I’d been full of energy, symptom-free, and, bam! I needed to shop for a coffin. How could this happen?

ROBERT OFFERED ME A TISSUE BOX and the advice I needed. He told me to begin talking about living and dying until I could manage either with equal ease. Tom was to allow me to do this, and I was to do it as much as I needed to get comfortable with my own mortality. I think it was harder on Tom to give me that permission than it was for me to exercise it.

TALKING ABOUT MY DEATH started out with practical plans. Wills and funerals. Never was it about giving up. I began reviewing the promises in the Bible. I began learning to really believe God. Learning to leave fear on the devil’s doorstep.

I WOULD DIE IF THAT WERE THE PLAN, but if I were to live . . . I only knew how to go at life one way—and that was full-throttle.

THEN IT DAWNED ON ME. No matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much I might mourn it, my old life would not come back. Change so big I couldn’t grasp it was staring me down. And I would have to learn to live within a different set of restraints or give up.

AND IT HAS NEVER BEEN my nature to give up.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

What is Your Fighting Weight?

2006-01-02T10:09:00.000-08:00

“THANK YOU,” I SAID, although I didn’t mean it. I had just returned from the visit with our minister, and all I wanted to do was lie down with my tape recorder of affirmations. I didn't want to hear what this kind man had to say about a mushroom. I got off the phone as soon as I could.

WHEN THEY HEARD OF MY DIAGNOSIS, many well-meaning people came up with bizarre cures and treatments. Things I wasn’t prepared to try. Things that sounded as though the ones offering them had found a way to capitalize on the final illness of a lot of desperate people. I put on my headphones.

THE NEXT MORNING, a friend from Florida called. “What can I do to help you?” she asked. “You need some help. And I’m going to give it to you.”

“WELL,” I SAID, thinking I was being droll, “You can see if you can find the Reishi mushroom cure. That’s the only positive thing I’ve heard this week.”

“YOU’RE ON,” she said and hung up before I had a chance to tell her I was kidding. Three hours later she called back. “I’ve got you an appointment with an oriental practitioner. Call this number. He doesn’t suggest the mushroom cure, but he’ll see you right away.”

HOW HAD MY FRIEND managed to get me an appointment with a doctor in Dallas that very day? Specialists were difficult to see. Later, on the way over to the doctor’s office, I told my husband, “This sounds crazy coming from me. You know I’ve always been very tolerant of other people’s beliefs.”

HE NODDED.

“BUT, THIS TIME I WANT A CHRISTIAN treating me. I’m looking for a miracle. I want someone who would recognize one if they saw it.”

“OKAY,” HE SAID, but I could tell by shrug in his voice he thought I was looking in the wrong place.

THE AROMA OF EXOTIC SPICES filled the doctor’s offices. The man was not much taller than I am—very tidy, his shirt heavily starched, his tie properly rep, his belt buckle lined up exactly with the last button on his shirt. Only his cheerful expression and his sock-and-sandal-shod feet made me realized I was dealing in a dimension that was totally foreign to my Western thinking.

HE SAT VERY ERECT ON A SMALL STOOL and read my history while I waited on a low, padded bench. “This is very serious,” he said, scrutinizing me with eyes the color of smoky tea. “Never cross your legs,” he said, in what seemed a non sequitur. “It’s bad for circulation.” He tapped the report. “Circulation is key for your condition.”

HE GAVE ME A THOUGHTFUL LOOK. “I cannot promise to heal you. Only God can do that.” He seemed to watch for my reaction in a way that made me think he’d had trouble with previous patients in the area of faith.

HE WOULD NOT HAVE TROUBLE WITH ME. His were the words I’d been waiting to hear. “I believe that too.”

“TOGETHER,” HE CONTINUED with a dismissive wave of his hand, “however, we can work to do as much as we can. If you’ll follow my instructions. I cannot promise you’ll live, but I can promise you will feel as well as anyone with your condition can feel—far better than you do now.”

TO FEEL GOOD was as much as I could ask for. I agreed to begin treatments.

FROM HIM I LEARNED a great deal about herbs, nutrition, digestion, organic foods, exercise, clean water, clean air, and massage therapy--Eastern style. I learned that Occidental practitioners were licensed as acupuncturists even if they did not use needles on their patients. A Seventh Day Adventist who took seriously Paul’s admonition that our body is a temple (I Cor 6: 18-20), my doctor had studied for many, many years. He was an herbalist who believed in the power of prayer.

I ACHIEVED MY “FIGHTING WEIGHT”—the ideal weight for my body’s immune system. I lost thirty pounds and was rewarded with more energy than I’d had in decades. Nearly all of the surgical pain left. Ironically, given my diagnosis, I felt better than I had in years.

EVERY CHRISTIAN AFFLICTED WITH CANCER I know who has survived has told me they felt their path to wellness had been directed by God. I was learning what they meant. I, who had hooted at the idea of oriental medicine in the past, now hungered for the knowledge this man fed me, drop by drop. And my body flourished under his care.

I HAD PURSUED A MUSHROOM as a joke and had, instead, found just what I needed—a guide to excellent health habits. What better first step was there for healing?

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

A Page Out of Ethel Merman's Book

2005-12-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

MY APPOINTMENT with the oncologist six weeks after surgery was to plan my treatment. Radiation would be followed by course of chemotherapy, how much and how long dependent on my response to radiation.

I MET WITH THE RADIOLOGIST the next day. He studied my history and gave me a long face. Given the location of the tumors, radiation was impossible. Several vital organs would be damaged, and the blood flow to my right leg would be impaired. My face grew hot enough to melt my self-composure.

LATER, THE DOCTOR’S REPORT said that I became too emotional for him to continue. He was being polite. My stomach surged, and I bolted for the restroom, trying to contain the sound of my sobs with a wet paper towel pressed over my mouth.

I CALLED THE ONCOLOGIST that evening after I’d gotten myself together. He gave me the next piece of bad news. Chemotherapy for melanoma had been most successful as a preventative for patients who were tumor-free. He’d planned on the radiation killing the tumors. The response rate for cases like mine was not good. The face of the friend I’d lost to melanoma floated in front of me, and I decided he’d downplayed the results. The oncologist told me to check if the surgeon had any answers.

I BEGGED AND BULLIED my way into the surgeon’s schedule the following morning. He slapped my file on the examining table and said, “The good news is you’re healing nicely. The bad news is I’ve consulted with a preeminent oncologist-surgeon, and he and I agree, any more surgery at this time would be more likely to kill you than help you.”

“SO, THERE’S NO HOPE?” I asked.

“YOU CAN TRY the cancer research centers.”

I HAD ALREADY SEEN what they’d done to my friend, and I had more concern than confidence.

MY HUSBAND, TOM, and I made it on the elevator before tears started spilling down my front.

HE PATTED MY ARM. “This reminds me of my favorite song,” he said, “Everything’s Coming Up Roses. I can hear Ethel Merman right now.” He began to sing the words.

HE HAD A POINT. I was putting too much stock in the doctors. I had pinned my hopes on them, and they weren’t in charge of hope. They weren’t in charge of healing either. Only God was.

I GAVE TOM A SMILE. “If this means I’m worth more to you alive than dead, then I’m glad I don’t have more life insurance.”

“SO AM I, SUGAR.” He gave me a hug. We laughed. It was time to call in a professional. We made a phone call and headed to our minister’s office.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

The Sound of My Own Voice

2005-12-26T17:30:00.000-08:00

THE SURGERY WAS ONLY PARTIALLY SUCCESSFUL, and my doctor’s words to me as he signed the forms to release me from the hospital were, “Keep a positive attitude.” Right.

I BEGAN TO READ everything I could about people who’d survived cancer.

WHILE THERE ARE MANY ACCOUNTS written by the grateful and the jubilant who were able to use their positive attitude to survive, darn few told the reader how to put a winner’s slant on life. So I decided what the world wouldn’t deliver to my doorstep, I would have to create for myself.

ONE THING WAS CLEAR, I needed dwell on what was possible. Fear triggered stress. Stress retarded healing. I had to find a way to substitute hope for fear. And I had an idea how to do that.

FOR YEARS I HAD SUBSCRIBED to a prayer guide that was filled with affirmations. Over the years I had accumulated several that seemed especially hopeful, and these I recorded. I had forty minutes of positive thoughts and healing commands, and every night and every afternoon I listened to them.

SOON I FOUND that the ideas on that tape were so ingrained that when someone said something thoughtless (like “it’s God’s plan, or you can’t deny your fate,” etc.), I would respond with one of the thoughts on my tape.

WHEN YOU HAVE CANCER, there are many, many dreadful places your mind can carry you. Tumors seem to be sending out deadly missiles to all parts of your body. You wake up in the early hours envisioning cancer taking over all your vital organs.

I REFUSED TO ALLOW MY MIND DWELL in those dark places. A positive attitude was all that I could do about what was happening to me, and I had to develop a way of thinking that left no room for doubt. From what I’d read, it was the thing most likely to keep me alive.

AT THE FIRST INKLING OF FEAR, the earphones would go on my head, and the play button would take me to a place of healing and love. I had a future to look forward to. God loved me. He was with me. I had no reason to be afraid. Healing and restoration were going on in my body every moment of every day.

THE CANCER DID NOT BELONG TO ME. It represented only a tiny part of my otherwise well and beautiful body, and would, in time, be ushered out by the health that was increasing in me each and every day. No matter outward appearances, I would be healed. I would move forward in confidence even if I could not see the way.

AND I LEFT BEHIND THE ME who had doubts about her faith. The me who had difficulty staying in touch with God. The me who often only went through the motions.

THIS WAS A TEST, and I would turn all my energy toward it because failing was not an option. And somewhere along the line the old me would be left so far behind that later I would have trouble remembering her.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

When Frogs Hop Out of a Friend’s Mouth

2005-12-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

EVEN BEFORE MY SURGERY, the phone calls and casseroles began to overtake our home. If Methodists could cure cancer with food, the disease would’ve been eliminated long ago.

I WAS REMINDED OF JOB’S FRIENDS. Although sympathetic at first, a few managed to say all the wrong things. “What could you have done to cause this?” one asked.

“YES. IT IS SCARY, isn’t it?” I said.

HER SAD EYES CONFIRMED IT ALL. If melanoma had struck me without warning—as healthy as I appeared to be—why, it could strike her too! Where was the order in the universe? How could a person who didn’t play with carcinogens be roasted in the fire of cancer?

OTHERS FOLLOWED. Some hinted that I was paying for some sin. “Well, there are certainly plenty to choose from,“ I admitted, “but, I’ve asked for forgiveness, and I think I’ve received it.”

THEY ALL MISSED THE POINT. The question isn’t, “Why did you get this?” but rather, “Why have you been so lucky up to now?”

MERIT HAD NOTHING to do with my previous escapes from illness, and the wages of sin hadn’t given me cancer. If God were only about justice, believe me, I’d have been taken long ago. The cause-and-effect my friends are looking for just doesn’t exist. The simple truth wouldn’t comfort my friends—I have this because it’s my turn.

AND I WANT TO COMFORT them because they are my friends, and they face fear and loss just as I do.

FEAR HAS DISCONNECTED THEIR BRAINS from their hearts and caused frogs to hop out of their mouths. They don’t realize how condemning their questions are, and I prefer to leave it that way.

JUST THINK. Job’s friends asked those same froggy questions nearly three thousand years ago, so I think I’ll just cope in the name of friendship—like Job did.

You’re blessed! Be a blessing.

Sticking My Head in an Oven

2005-12-20T07:27:00.000-08:00

LATE THE AFTERNOON of July 2, 2002, Tom and our minister, Robert, and I waited in the doctor’s examining room, joking to keep dread at bay. It was time to hear the diagnosis from the biopsy, and we were all nervous.

EARLIER THAT JUNE my physician had sent me for a sonogram. He’d thought I had ovarian cancer, but the sonogram indicated liver cancer. A CT scan after that showed a pattern the radiologist thought was lymphoma. But, when I came out of the biopsy, the surgeon had said he thought it was melanoma—the disease that had, in rapid progression, taken the life of a good friend before I’d had time to prepare myself for the grief of her departure.

TODAY I WAS TO FIND OUT MORE, and I had trouble keeping my hands still.

AT LUNCH, Tom and I had decided what our reaction would be if the news were terrible. I’d sat at my friend’s hospital bed through repeated courses of chemotherapy that had left her a burned-out shell of her former vibrant self, her smile and encouraging ways lost to painkillers and antidepressants shortly before she too was gone. I didn’t want that for me or for Tom--not without the assurance of some darn good results.

WE WERE BOLSTERED WITH PRAYER and with our minister’s presence, but tears were jabbing my throat, and I knew I would not be brave if the news were bad.

THE ONCOLOGIST ENTERED the room and shook everyone’s hand. He fumbled with the pages of my file, as if he were buying time.

LITTLE BLACK DOTS danced in front of my eyes.

“IT’S MELANOMA. Stage III or IV. We can’t tell yet.” The doctor rested his gentle eyes on me. “I’m so sorry.”

THE TEARS I’D ANTICIPATED evaporated. Instead I felt a wave of air surround my face as if I’d thrust my head into an oven hot enough to bake a cake. I’d expected something more dramatic to a sentence of death. Screaming, fainting. But there was none of that. Only this arid heat blowing in my face. “How bad is it?” I asked, using someone else’s voice.

HE BLEW OUT A LITTLE BREATH, which seemed to combine frustration with sympathy. “It’s pretty bad. But there’s much we can do.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “I want to do surgery right away. Next week if possible. We’ve got to excise all the cancer.”

“AND THEN?”

“RADIATION AS SOON as you’re able.”

“AND THEN?”

“CHEMO.”

“AND THEN?”

“AND THEN, we’ll see.”

I MANAGED TO EXHALE. The memory of my friend’s face floated in front of me. She seemed to disapprove. “How long do I have if I don’t get treatment?”

“I DON’T LIKE to say.”

“I UNDERSTAND. But I need to know. Tell me the statistics.”

“STATISTICS? Melanoma is very aggressive, particularly internal melanoma like yours, and when it shows up without any preliminary skin lesions . . . Three months, maybe six. But, you must keep a positive attitude.”

I LOOKED AT TOM. All the feelings I couldn’t manage for myself showed on his face. Now my tears gushed. I’d long ago given up believing life was fair, but this seemed too cruel.

SURROUNDED BY THE PRAYERS of my friends and ministers, and concentrating only on a positive outcome, I was rolled into surgery on the fifteenth.

Waiting

2005-12-15T06:55:00.000-08:00

DURING THE THREE WEEKS that I waited for test results and waited for specialists to schedule the next battery of scans and tests, I became someone I didn’t know. I sat in the back of church at services so no one could see me cry when the choir sang. My journal pages were splotched. I couldn’t handle myself at the office so I quit going in. At times my chest was too tight to draw a breath. None of that mattered. The waiting went on.

IN THE RESTROOM OF ONE OF THE CLINICS a woman was talking on a cell phone, fussing with a curly crop of strawberry blonde hair. She seemed to be trying to wake up someone. She put the phone in her handbag with a snort, pulled the curls off, and set them on a shelf of wigs I hadn’t noticed before. She turned to me. “Teenaged boys. Bah.” She gave me a once-over. “What are you in for?”

MY EYES WELLED UP. “I don’t know yet.”

“OH,” SHE SAID. “That’s the worst part.” She tapped her chest with a finger. “Breast cancer. I’m an oncology nurse, and I nearly went crazy with the waiting.” She pulled a scarf out of her purse and draped it over her head. “My family too.” She eyed her handbag. “Not that you’d know it now.

“THERE’S A LOT OF WAITING in this game,” she tied the scarf behind her head. “Most of it because the doctors are over-committed and therefore never on time, and then of course, we’re dealing with more of them than usual.” She shrugged. “Get yourself a nice hobby.” She opened the door for me. “What’s your name?”

I SWIPED AT THE TEARS that seemed determined to embarrass me. “Tamara.”

SHE HUGGED ME. “I’m going to pray for you.”

I NEVER SAW HER AGAIN, never thought to ask her name, but I took her advice. Cancer patients just do a lot of waiting. The ones who knit could outfit the Swiss Army with socks.

MAKE THE WAITING COUNT. Find something you’ve never had time to do, that you’ve always wanted to do, and do it.

I DON’T ASK FOR THE PATIENCE OF JOB, I ask for the patience of Abraham. He waited ten years for the birth of Isaac. (But, I'll bet he wasn’t in the doctor’s waiting room that long!)

You’re Blessed. Be a Blessing!

Hope Has A Lesson Plan

2005-12-13T16:43:00.000-08:00

SEVERAL TIMES I'VE BEEN ASKED if I were going to write about my "cancer adventure," though none of those who asked me were crude enough to put it quite that way. Most of them referred to my current situation as a fight or a battle. I'm sure that's how they felt it would be for them, had they been the one to receive the diagnosis. It's difficult to put yourself in someone else's position and imagine how you would behave or feel. And so it is with cancer. Everyone who doesn't have cancer thinks of it as a struggle. Those of us with it know it's more about carpe diem. Every day should be seized and the maximum wrung from it.

ALL OF US HAVE OUR MOMENTS in the barrel of life's adversity--we climb in and hope that the ride won't take us over Niagara. But climb in we do--mostly because we have no other choice. The barrel turns and bucks, and we ride in the dark--sometimes fearful, sometimes thrilled. And at a rare and intensely personal moment in that careening and spinning we are given the unmistakable understanding that we are not alone.

IN DISCOVERING MORE AND MORE of those moments, we find we are never alone, we just think we are. And we--muddling along in our self-constructed cocoon--miss most of them. More importantly, we miss out on a firm relationship with God.

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN GIVEN to introspection but, unfortunately, rarely to insight, and so I can't promise you a front row seat at an earth-shattering revelation. I can only share an ordinary woman's road to faith, and in the process, her road to hope.

I MADE THE TRIP with almost no tools and too much of the wrong kind of baggage, but I made it. Hook elbows and walk with me. We have much in common. Our only real difference is that I know what will probably take me away from this world, and you may not have discovered it yet.

AND, WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, that's not such a big difference.

You're blessed! Be a blessing.