cancer

Live Gladly

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“The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love”(Julian of Norwich).

I think one of the biggest turnoffs to faith is people who profess Christ but spend most of their days with sour faces and unpleasant dispositions. If you truly have been made alive by the grace of God, shouldn’t you be filled with joy?

I get that people have bad days, but even on the bad days there is good. Even the worst days have a little bit of good in them. I don’t think people should fake being happy when their lives are falling apart, but I think that people who know the peace of Jesus should live like it and live like it matters because it does.

I knew a man once who was a former pastor and a greeter at a church event I attended weekly. I found out that he was dying from cancer, but every time I asked him how he was doing, he would say he was fine. He never complained or whined. He showed up as long as he was able and served with a smile because he knew that cancer would not have the last word.

Looking back, I feel a bit ashamed because I know I probably complained about my life to a man who was in a battle way worse than anything I’ve ever faced. Still, he was gracious to me. He showed me Jesus in the midst of his own pain and suffering.

My prayer is that I can be like that. I hope I can exude joy so that people around me who don’t know Jesus will want to know where that joy comes from. That’s actually my prayer for all of us. May we be living billboards of grace whose lives preach just as good of a sermon as any words we could ever use. May our words and deeds (not one or the other but both) tell of a good God and a gracious Savior who can save anybody at any time.

Telling Stories

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“Child,’ said the Lion, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own” (C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy).

I’m beginning to understand that we all have different stories. We also have different seasons and struggles. I am in the middle of a career transition. I overheard where someone else has a parent dealing with a cancer diagnosis. Yet someone else I know has struggled within the past year with mental health issues.

Each story is different. Each struggle is unique. It’s no good for me to compare my story with someone else’s and to either think that mine doesn’t matter because it’s not a potentially terminal diagnosis or that I have it way worse because someone else might have an ingrown toenail.

The Bible doesn’t say God never gives us more than we can handle. Often, it’s way beyond our capacity to bear so that we are forced to lean in on the Lord for daily strength. He does give us grace equal to the struggle. He does promise to be with us in each season.

In each story, the testimony is that God is able. I am in as much need of God’s continual grace and strength as anyone else alive right now on this planet. My need is no more or less than theirs. And my God is equally up to the task.

That’s the beauty of intercessory prayer. I enter into your story and you enter into mine. We share each others burdens and magnify the name of Jesus equally. Sometimes, we can speak words when the other has none or believe for the other when they can’t find the faith at the moment.

The best part is that God is always the hero of our stories and we can rest assured that in every case we know that God works all things together for good and for a happy ending.

An Attitude of Gratitude

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I found out that a friend of the family is currently walking through his own valley of the shadow of death in dealing with incurable cancer. To hear the word “cancer” coming out of the mouth of a doctor is scary enough, but to hear it preceded by “terminal” has to be frightening to an almost paralyzing degree.

Yet this friend of mine has faced this diagnosis with dignity and peace and an unswerving faith in the God who is still in the miracle business. While the odds seem insurmountable, I’m reminded yet again that what seems impossible to us isn’t even remotely difficult for God. Just ask any of the blind or lame men that Jesus healed. Or the lepers. Or Lazarus.

My friend said that it all starts with an attitude of gratitude. I truly believe that. A positive mental outlook is half the battle when dealing with a grim medical diagnosis.

Yet it’s more than that. This attitude of gratitude comes from the same place that allowed the Apostle Paul to pen the words that to live is Christ and to die is gain. It’s literally a win-win with Jesus.

Either my friend gets healed here and becomes a witness of God’s healing power or he is resurrected and finds ultimate healing and stands in front of Jesus to hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

When you think about it, we’re all terminal. After sin entered the world, death followed close behind and that proverbial hourglass started on each one of us. Unless Jesus comes back soon, all of you reading this will come to the place where you breathe your last.

Thanks to Jesus death will not have the final word. The grave is only temporary. The resurrection truly does mean that the worst thing is never the last thing and Jesus will have the final word in your story.

I’m praying for my friend for healing here and now knowing that no matter what happens, God is always good and we are always loved and that grace still wins in the end.

 

I’m Sick

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It’s official. I have a fever and I feel bad. I’m sick.

As much as I like to think that I am brave and stoic in the face of illness, I’m not. Actually, I’m a bit of an overdramatic martyr, truth be told. In my own passive aggressive way, I want everyone around me to be aware of the agony I’m in so they can feel appropriately sorry for me and buy me nice things and do nice things for me.

I regaled more than one person with the thrilling tale of how I drove from work with the A/C off and the vent on because of the chills. It was brutal. I didn’t even sweat one drop the whole way, even though I normally would have been perspiring like the pig that’s about to be bacon.

I made sure that people saw how I was shaking and shivering under all that nasty air conditioning when I was clearly not well. Anyone should have been able to tell that just by looking at my poor miserable face.

Yet here I am, sick. Honestly, I’ve felt much crummier and if this is the worst experience I go through, I’m doing alright.

I know several who are worse off than I. I have a friend who has been to doctor after doctor trying to diagnose and lingering illness that causes her to be extremely fatigued and with a weak immune system to fight off infection. I know several who are fighting courageous battles with cancer, including one who recently lost his battle.

Viewed the right way, illness can be an opportunity rather than solely a burden. You can always serve those who are worse off than you (and if you can’t physically serve, you can send encouraging notes or texts letting them know you are thinking and praying for them. Encouraging words tend to have the same effect on those who write them as with those who receive them.

You can use illness as a means to stand in solidarity with those around the world who suffer daily from hunger, malnourishment, disease, and abuse. You can use your aches and pains as a reminder to pray to the Healing God for those everywhere who live daily with chronic pain and diseases.

This just in. I’m not at death’s door just yet. I’ll probably be right as rain in a day or two with hardly a memory of all my dire suffering.

 

A Living Sermon

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There’s an older gentleman that I see on Mondays when I volunteer at Room in the Inn. He isn’t one of the homeless men who get bussed in. He’s one of the many volunteers who faithfully devote their Monday nights to serving these men.

I noticed one night that he was missing part of his right arm. I didn’t think a whole lot about it. I figured it was probably something to do with diabetes. Then I read this and my world got blown up (in a good way):

The Best Sermon I Never Preached

I don’t need to add anything to that. I teared up a bit as I heard one of the volunteers read this tonight at our last Room in the Inn for the season. The guy who read it got choked up.

The lessons for tonight are 1) don’t take any part of your life for granted, 2) appreciate each moment as the rare and precious gift that it is, and 3) remember that worship is still the best medicine there is for what ails you.

 

No More

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It’s official. I’m over celebrities dying. I’m over cancer. So far, we’ve said goodbye to David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Dan Haggerty, and Rene Angelil (Celine Dion’s manager and husband). That’s four too many.

Not even three weeks into 2016, I’m already over the fact that all of us have a terminal illness– that all of us will eventually die.

I’m also over Nashville traffic. Someone sneezes on I-24 and there’s a backup for miles and miles. Seriously? Because my favorite thing in life is to creep down the interstate at a snail’s pace. At least I have good tunes to keep me company in the drudgery.

I was thinking that in heaven there will be lots of no mores.

No more death. No more loss. No more tears. No more sorrow. No more pain.

No more traffic. No more waking up before sunrise. No more coffee pots that are empty because someone else drank all the coffee before I got there.

Okay, that last one is sketchy.

The best part of Jesus’ resurrection is that all the lies and hurt will eventually become extinct. No form of meanness or pettiness or jealousy or any of those other deadly sins will exist anymore.

Only what was best and truest and purest will last.

I like to think that the best things in this life are shadows of what’s to come. They’re echoes of the glories yet to come. All your best moments and memories pale in comparison to what’s coming.

In the meantime, I’m afraid of what I’ll see every time I check the msn.com website. I don’t want to hear of anyone else dying (especially from cancer) for a very long time.

If you have any good news, send it my way. I’m due for something positive these days.

Until then, I’ll drift off to sleep with some good music and hope for the future.

The end.

Something That Spoke to Me

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I read this yesterday and I’m still thinking about it. It’s what C. S. Lewis wrote after his wife died after battling cancer. What spoke to me so much wasn’t as much the grief (although I have known that all too well), but the part of not being able to hear God speak to you because you’re too frantic to listen. We’ve all at some point been stressed and overwhelmed to the point where we can’t hear what anybody else is saying to us, much less God.

Here’s what he said:

“Why has no one told me these things? How easily I might have misjudged another man in the same situation? I might have said, ‘He’s got over it. He’s forgotten his wife,’ when the truth was, ‘He remembers her better because he has partly got over it.’

Such was the fact. And I believe I can make sense out of it. You can’t see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears. You can’t, in most things, get what you want if you want it too desperately: anyway, you can’t get the best out of it. ‘Now! Let’s have a real good talk’ reduces everyone to silence. ‘I must get a good sleep tonight’ ushers in hours of wakefulness. Delicious drinks are wasted on a really ravenous thirst. Is it similarly the very intensity of the longing that draws the iron curtain, that makes us feel we are staring into a vacuum when we think about our dead? ‘Them as asks’ (at any rate ‘as asks too importunately’) don’t get. Perhaps can’t.

And so, perhaps, with God. I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can’t give it: you are like the drowning man who can’t be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear.”

For Those Who Grieve

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“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.

There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don’t really mind so much, not so very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a man’s life. I was happy before I ever met H. I’ve plenty of what are called ‘resources.’ People get over these things. Come, I shan’t do so badly. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this ‘commonsense’ vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace” (C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed).

C. S. Lewis wrote this after his wife passed away from cancer. It is the most brutally honest book on grief that I’ve ever read (not that I go around reading books on grief all the time).

“Then I heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Write: The dead who die in the Lord from now on are blessed.’

‘Yes,” says the Spirit, ‘let them rest from their labors, for their works follow them!'” (Rev. 14:13, HCSB).

“I heard a voice out of Heaven, ‘Write this: Blessed are those who die in the Master from now on; how blessed to die that way!’

‘Yes,’ says the Spirit, ‘and blessed rest from their hard, hard work. None of what they’ve done is wasted; God blesses them for it all in the end’ (Rev. 14:13, The Message).

 

 

So I Have an Old Cat Now

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My cat Lucy turned 15 yesterday. It’s still hard to comprehend that she’s that old because she doesn’t act that old. And if you ask her, she’ll swear up and down that she’s only 9.

I remember picking her out of a litter of one-week old kittens at Vet Pets, a pet store/veterinary clinic, in 2000. I equally remember bringing her home in that hole-y cardboard box when she was five weeks old and how she cried all the way home.

I remember how she got lost when she was three and was gone for two days, the longest two days of my life. But we found her. Apparently, she went up to some strange lady’s door and essentially asked, “I’ve lost my person. Will you be my new person?” Thanks to some lost cat posters all over the neighborhood, the mailman recognized her as the missing cat and she came home to me on Christmas Eve.

Then there was the time she had cancer and it was 50/50 that surgery would get all of the tumor. I cried and prayed and even lit one of those prayer candles like they have in Roman Catholic churches for her. She got better. She’s still 100% cancer-free.

I hope she lives to be 30. That would be great. There’s a part of me that wishes that she’d at least outlive me. But realistically, I know that’s not possible. I know there will be a day when I’ll have to say a final goodbye to my little furry baby (and also to a little piece of my heart). I can’t focus on that but I can cherish every day I get to spend with her.

The same goes to the rest of those I love. I’m not guaranteed a tomorrow. Neither are they. That’s why I can only be thankful for each day that I get to spend with each one of them.

Don’t ever take the ones you love for granted. Don’t ever go to bed angry with a friend or a family member. You never know that you will get the chance in the morning to make it right. Always say the words “I love you” whenever you get the chance. Always.

Bittersweet Memories, Regrets, and Grace

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St Pauls Frank rescan 20001

Today, I found out that a friend of mine who has cancer is in ICU. He’s septic and may not make it through the night. And if I’m honest, I didn’t really know him in high school. Or at least I don’t remember much about him. I regret that.

Lately, he’s been one of my biggest encouragers, even though what he’s going through is a million times worse than anything I’ve ever faced. I’m praying for one more miracle.

I find myself missing my childhood best friend Nathan. I miss my Grandmother Iris and my Granddaddy Bud. I miss both Uncle Bob and Uncle Monty. I even miss my high school homeroom teacher.

I have lots of unspoken words I wish I had spoken and a lot of unfulfilled promises I intended to keep but didn’t.

I can never go back and tell these people what they meant to me. I can never see their faces and hear their funny stories and hear tales of a legacy of faith that’s been passed down. I can never ask those questions that I thought I would have time to get around to.

But grace means that I still have a chance to set that right. I can say those words to the people who are still in my life. I can make good on promises I made to family and friends in honor and memory of those whom I’ve lost and miss still.

Don’t presume that you’ll have tomorrow to say your “I love you”s. Don’t think that anybody whom you love is guaranteed a tomorrow. Whatever you need to say or do, today is the day.

I’ve said before that when you take things and people for granted, what you’re granted gets taken. And I’ve asked the question before: “If God only let you keep what you thanked Him for and were grateful for verbally, what would you have left? Who would you have left?”

There’s an insidious kind of casualness to relationships these days. Maybe it’s because of people having 5,000 friends on facebook. Maybe it’s because no one thinks they’re really and truly mortal. But once someone is gone from your life, you can never rewind the tape. You can never skip back to the last scene. You can only live with those unspoken words and unfulfilled promises.

I know this is not one of my usual frivolous and witty posts. But sitting in St. Paul’s Episcopal Church with tears rolling down my face, I was reminded that sometimes I need a wake-up call. I need to be reminded that life is precious and people are more precious. Right now, have one purring cat in my lap that I must attend to, so I bid you all adieu and a good night.