In just under three hours, I’ll be strapped down inside of a very large plastic tube surrounded by techs who basically just want me to take it easy, both because that’s their job and, also, it’s probably really stressful for them when people freak out. They’ll offer the choice to listen to music through their very bulky, 1980’s headphones and, sometimes, there’s even a pretty picture to look at. The music is always rubbish, and you can barely hear it anyway. The picture is only pretty for the first five minutes, then gradually becomes an emphatic mockery for the remaining 40-50 minutes. When you’re done, you’re done. You walk out of the room and wonder, and wonder, and wait.
Waiting is like being lost at the bottom of a canyon, without the fun of being in a group tour. It’s dark and cold. The path is narrow and jagged. The walls that encompass you block out the light that would otherwise pour in. Your fear of not finding the way out echoes back and forth against the stone. And this just goes on and on.
I’ve never been in a canyon. Did that analogy work?
There’s a new spot on my liver. For some reason, it’s harder to talk about this than it was when I was first diagnosed with cancer. Maybe it’s because of what I’ve been through - what I’m still going through. I know what recurring cancer means. I know what it entails. I know that if it’s back, I have to “be strong” all over again and, honestly, that’s an exhausting thought because I never stopped being exhausted from everything that happened last year.
Usually, this is the part where we jump in and shout, “but God!” and yeah, that’s true. “Duh.”
The transparency I reveal here does not negate God’s amazing grace or that He’s the Great Physician. If you know me, you know that by the end of this post, I’ll be pointing you to Him and to His goodness. But here’s the thing: God also gives us space to feel all the feelings. Just ask Job. Well…I guess you can’t, but you can read about Job and get the gist. God fully expects me to have this time to grieve the life I dream of having, the completely cancer free Mom who doesn’t have to leave her children and be taken captive by a relentless, blood-thirsty disease. So, if God expects me to have this time, you can too. And we’ll all be better for it because the more empathy and understanding we have for one another, the more grace we can share, and the more Christ-like we can be.
You guys, I’m tired. I’ve spent the last three weeks in the Canyon. I’ve been downing anti-cancer supplements and drinking anti-cancer smoothies, which are NOT the same as the smoothies you get at Tropical Cafe. I’ve been cooking and cleaning and getting up with my daughter multiple times a night, and wondering how to help my anxious, ADHD son overcome his endless worries while creating space for his Spectrum needs (aka, being a mom). I’ve been praying and not praying. I’ve been meditating and I’ve been yelling. I’ve been singing worship at the top of my lungs and staring out the window, completely numb. I have even laid down with a castor oil pack over my abdomen and literally talked to my liver, telling it that we are healing. We do not have cancer again. There is no new spot. I even talked about how I am feeding it with the best nutrients I can. Cancer doesn’t have to happen again because we’re doing the right things.
Cancer doesn’t have to happen again because I am working so. damn. hard.
Cancer doesn’t have to happen again because we have a mighty God.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. I’m angry that cancer robbed me of my relationship with my daughter. I’m angry that she cries out for her dad while I rock and shush her and rub her back and tell her I love her over and over and over again. All while I remember when I nursed her day and night, when she would cling to me with her arms around my neck and the two of us were something special.
I’m angry that cancer made my son’s anxiety so bad that he runs into my room after having nightmares multiple times a month, made his ADHD almost impossible to handle (at times), and significantly heightened his hypochondria.
And I’m angry that there’s a chance I’ll have to do it all over again. I had just gotten the confidence to tell people - no, to tell myself, that I’m in remission. Was three months it? Was that all I get? Life had barely begun again.
I make my son repeat after me every single day: “Fear has no power over me because Jesus is greater than fear, and Jesus loves me.” I send him to school with that saying in his mind, praying it helps him. Is that ironic?
Do you know how many times the question has creeped into my mind? Like acid that devours its prey, burning and hot and all consuming: “But does Jesus love me?” “What did I do wrong?” “Does He know my heart is breaking? Does He care?”
Well, of course He does. It’s just that, when you’re in the valley - or the canyon - sometimes you wonder. Didn’t Jesus even have that moment, ever so brief as it was?
“Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land until the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:45-46 ESV.
Our Lord and Savior, fully God and fully Man, felt in that moment of despair the ultimate and most painful separation from His Father. It is right that we, at times - ideally, briefly - feel it, too. And now, we’ve reached the point where I can point you to my good, good Father. Yeah, I’m angry. I’m furious and I’m broken and I’m falling apart. But I am not without. In an hour I’m going to walk into that MRI room and I’m going to lay down on that cold, hard bed and I’m going to give it to God. What else is there to do?
He is my eternal hope. I can be on pins and needles with fear and anger, but always His hand is on mine. You guys, there is every chance that the MRI will find nothing. There will be no spot, no cancer. And what a testimony that will be.
But if it is cancer, if I have to go through it again, God will pull me from the depths of the canyon where I am lost in the cavern of what comes next. He will take care of my children when I cannot. And He will heal me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - my story is not about the battle, it’s about the victory. My story will bring Him glory. My story will help others see His glory. And His goodness, oh His goodness, my friends - if you don’t know Him, is like nothing you’ve ever known.
My Father God, I love You. I trust You. I abide in You. Let the flames of my anger only stoke the fires of Your Glory. If You will it, rid my earthly body of cancer and let me live to praise You and tell everyone how good You are. How unfathomably amazing You are. And if You will not, if the cancer continues to be a part of my story, then give me the physical and spiritual strength to move forward in faith and bring others with me so that, in the end, we can only see You. In Jesus Name.
“The Lord’s mercy often rides to the door of our heart upon the black horse of affliction.”