#cancersucks

I thoroughly agree with this hashtag while at the same time, disliking it immensely -- not because I have some sort of respect for cancer, but because I have some respect for myself. The whole "sucks thing," I know has become part of daily vernacular, even for many faithful Christians. It has become nothing more than a strong version of "stinks." However, I still don't like its origins and/ or its implied meaning. So, allow me to propose #cancerisevil, or #ihatecancer, even #cancerneedstobeeradicated. Lengthy, I know, but A) it allows me to express my point without using words I wouldn't want your five year old to repeat, and B) it goes a step further toward saying it is not something we just need to face, something we need to deal with, but something very real that we need to take action against. And I say all of this NOT for myself. Let's face it, when it comes to cancers, I have one of the most treatable; based on my age, affected area and staging, the survival rate is just shy of 100%. You can't even say that about taking a cruise anymore. Outside of the emotional bummer of having my release from oncological care rescinded based on "just one more test" (if the oncologist ever says that DO NOT believe him), everything else is simply medicine. Like taking an antibiotic or setting a broken leg. Sure, no one wants to do it, but it makes you better, so you do.

The reason I am angry with cancer is because of what it has taught me. Things I would never choose to see or never wish to know. I think we all search for knowledge about something; I don't think anyone is perfectly blissful in complete ignorance. We all want to know what's behind curtain #1, or what would my life had been like if I had..., or how does the "other half" live. But when I see someone, someone really young, or really old afflicted by cancer, a lot of questions begin to gnaw at me. Sadly, I got some answers, and I hate what I've learned.

The first time I came face to face with the possibility of cancer, I sat in an all-to-crowded, very warm waiting room with a veritable Heinz variety of folks. An older woman struck me as sort of sad; she was obviously a repeat customer. But who doesn't expect this to be the face of cancer? She appeared to be in her sixties, thin and frail and pale, a scarf wound tightly around her head. I arrogantly, expectantly closed my hand around the clean bill of health the oncologist obligingly dropped into it, and stepped out the door and back into my life. Not until I returned for my routine check did I see the true character of cancer for what it is. As my tears mingled with the freezing rain falling hard outside the oncologist's office, I'd never felt so alone or so betrayed. Long story short, it was a blip, a glitch, and that clean bill of health proved to be stronger than the threat of anything more. But I learned that cancer is NOT -- despite what they tell you -- an exact science. That it is a liar, a conniving, backstabbing, insidious enemy straight from the pit of Hell. That it can take a warm, sunny day and make it cold and bleak within minutes.

Just a few years later, when that clean bill of health had lost its place of reverence and fallen in cue and value somewhere behind too much to do and too many bills to pay, cancer came calling again. This time it was real, and it was a complete surprise. After surgery for a completely unrelated issue, I found myself in a cancer treatment center asking a question which I'd prefaced, "Now, you say that I had cancer--"

"I don't say it, you did have cancer." SLAP! Cancer didn't care about my denial and, quite frankly, neither did my doctor (thank God!). But on that visit, cancer showed me just how ugly and consuming it can be. Not only did it not care what I wanted to think, it didn't care who it hurt -- and trust me, it hurts more than the physical bodies it chooses to commandeer. As I stood waiting to leave, a man clearly not given to blubbering or sharing personal details was confiding to the receptionist about the deteriorating condition of his wife. He seemed to be searching not only for comfort, but for some sort of reason or order, some way to make sense of it all. But I learned that cancer needs no reason; that it disavows any purposes but its own and defies order. That cancer assaults anyone who even remotely cares for those with it. That it lies in wait and wraps itself in deception, biding its time for likely and unlikely host alike, likely and unlikely moment alike. That, like the antagonist of a psychological thriller, it manipulates the minds and health of those nearby, delighting to steal any hope or hope of hope it can, wreaking further havoc on its target.

Months later when the doctor and I agreed we'd retest, looking for some different result, I was rendered with another truth about cancer: it will not go away on its own, and it will wait as long as need be. This time I wound up in a place called "Nuclear Medicine." Being a child of the seventies, it conjured up all sorts of images of Three Mile Island, cloak and dagger-type espionage, sinister cover-ups, and Karen Silkwood receiving the news "Thelma is cooked!" In reality, it was a place no child should ever have to hear of much less be. As I stood at the Registration Desk one morning I noticed a hospital gurney down the hall. Reminiscent of the ubiquitous ad for hospitals everywhere, a child lay on the gurney, sunlight pouring through doors nearby and casting itself across her face; her mother and a nurse stood at her side, concern bleeding through the upturned corners of their mouths. As I stood there, appreciating this vignette come to life and noticing especially the little girl's full, beautiful, wavy brown locks, it was then the tumblers dropped into place; I realized that, unlike the ad, this was very real. I immediately knew that cancer was hateful. That this little child knew terms and procedures no child should ever have to know. That this child was out of place, and that she was not in class or sitting at lunch with her friends or out playing in the snow. That cancer had inserted itself in her life like some vulgar unchecked pedophile at a child's birthday party. That her family and her friends knew what she knew. That by affecting one little girl an entire segment of society could be changed forever. That cancer steals your "normal" and the normal of everyone else around you.

Now, as a Christian, I have faith that my God is bigger, that my God is sovereign, and my God is love. But I can see the brokenness of people and the world in which we live -- lasting consequences of self-worship. Though I can pray and find comfort, though I can read God's Word and find hope (He does win, by the way), I am not absolved of compassion or devoid of hating all that is wrong with this world. On the contrary, it is my faith which makes me more compassionate, and makes me to hate evil even more. And so it is in this spirit that I write:

#stopcancernow

A Tale of Two Churches (Part Two of Two)

As I looked around the faithful few gathered in the sanctuary, it became more than apparent this body was -- even within itself -- rife with difference: an elderly hand affixed to the arm of youth, pale-skinned feet under darkly shaded legs, eyes touched by poverty and sickness settled within a face radiating sheer joy, health and prosperity. Some worshipped with arms outstretched. At the rear of the sanctuary, some danced with tambourines and flags. Some knelt in prayer as a child beside his own bed. Others cried out in a cacophony of praise and joy, as if they had come face to face with The Holy One Himself. One man -- the man who had first introduced me to this group -- reclined in the pew, his body wracked with the pain I knew afflicted him every hour of the day. Yet, here he was. The lady who had most recently been sent to call us to this place, stood "singing" in sign language to no one in particular, but feeling the emotion of the words she saw projected on an old overhead, allowed them to flow to her hands. The worship band consisted of three, a stark contrast to the first church whose "guitar section" alone outnumbered this group. Offering was taken by children who rushed forward, eager to participate in the celebration of giving. Prayer was not the solemn event we witnessed in the other assembly, but a somewhat noisy gathering of hearts and minds, verbally expressing agreement with echoes and groans. A time of greeting followed: the opportunity to introduce ourselves and to meet those around us. We moved toward folks, anticipating handshakes and pleasantries; what we received were outstretched arms, warm embraces, genuine hospitality, and a Christian fellowship beyond our past experience or current expectations. This body of diversity and apparent deficit was completely unified at its core, and stood strong on a foundation much more than adequate, a Foundation -- with a capital "F" -- that cannot be quantified in earthly terms. Put this same group of people together without the Power that most obviously resided among them, and you would find infighting and discord, imbalance and bitterness that can be traced back for generations. The pastor humbly took his place at the front of the church, calling his friends and pupils to order -- experience some futility at first, but seeing one by one, this somewhat rowdy but happily loving family come to order. The message began. Practical, relevant, and every word straight from The Book which he required us to open as he began: The Holy Bible which he obviously revered but even more so, loved. And that, Dear Reader is sadly where our tale meets its most dramatic divergence.

 

The tale of the first church is one of prosperity and popularity. A church with almost unlimited resources at its disposal. A church heavy with talent and capital, brimming with tradition and education, but void of purpose. A church which has managed to keep the commonality of this world beyond its doors, and cull its own homogeneous, oblivious herd, unwise to the insidious diversions of a more tolerant and seeker-friendly theology. A church afraid of public opinion and striving for political correctness, offering programs and a place of importance for every faction, but offering them little else of any genuine value. How can a church which has worked so hard to ignore the offal outside its very steps have so much of the world and its scraps within its perimeter? On the other hand, how can a church -- our second church -- which throws open its doors to the world, to poverty and sickness, to persecution and pain, to any color or creed, to any age or address have so little worldliness within its loving arms? Truth, my friend, Truth. That is, the Truth of the Gospel of Jesus. The only Truth on which to build a church, a family, a life. To preach any other gospel is to preach a lie. You can preach hospitality, tolerance, kindness, or self-respect, but to preach anything outside the parameters of the True Gospel is to preach relativism and an ideal open to individual interpretation -- an ideal that must be refashioned and repackaged depending on societal changes or the waning and waxing of its appeal.

 

The first church in our tale, so aesthetically appealing has forgone the inerrancy and immutability of the Gospel and its God -- has exchanged the truth for a lie, in order that it might become more than it is and a Holy God less. The second church, the church (or one very similar) which we now, praise God, call our home has stood on the Word of Truth no matter its popular appeal, no matter whom it may offend. The second church is trusting that God doesn't need a bunch of broken individuals -- whitewashed or otherwise -- to make Him look good, that God grants said individuals the privilege and the responsibility of doing His work and bringing to others the tale of His love if we simply trust in Him.

 

A Little More In Touch with Reality

I had a dream. (I hesitate to open with this, as I always hear the voice of Dr. MLK ringing in my head as I'm saying it. Some sort of posthumous warning against plagiarism, perhaps?) But I did. Most dreams escape my memory shortly after I realize I've had them. And very few are vivid enough for me to want to punch Scott right in those perfect teeth of his for flirting with that blonde in Accounting again, and then lying there asleep next to me like nothing just happened! (There is no blonde. There is no Accounting. Except in Dreamworld.) But it happens. Last night's dream was a two-fer. Quite vivid and quite profound:

I was who I am today, I mean, personality-wise. Not nearly as neurotic, and a little wiser I'd like to think. But I was young again -- twenties or so, in my twenties-or-so body. There was some sort of meet 'n greet going on in my mother's living room. A very beautiful, but equally young Asian girl in a black dress was there. She looked fabulous in the dress, but began matter-of-factly pointing out to us small holes that had formed in the lace. And while it was apparent to me I'd never met her before, I knew she was having a party that night and I had been invited. My mother was making pleasant chit-chat with this young woman, asking relevant questions and simply being her charming, forty-something self. Before I knew it, my mother and I were in my truck -- she was driving -- and we were leaving the upper entrance of our development, headed to this party. In the darkness, Mom (who in reality hasn't driven for about two years) navigated cross traffic like a pro. I was putting in my contacts made of boiled chicken (ok, that was the really weird part), when suddenly I remembered I didn't have "the gift" (and no doubt, pants. Aren't most dreams pantless? Not for you? Ok, forget I said anything.) Mom acknowledged that we'd have to go back, yet breezed past the lower entrance of our development. As I started to object, she put her hand up, or shushed me, or said something -- I'm not sure -- but I instantly settled back, trusting that she had it all covered. Within seconds we had come to a stop; she pulled off the side of the road, across the mouth of a gravel drive, the very last place -- and this is where it gets tricky -- I recalled from a previous dream, I'd taken her driving. Somehow that fact was significant to me. As I was coming to this realization, my mom collapsed, sobbing, to the floor and agonizingly confessed, "Sometimes we just need to stay home." I rubbed her back, comforting her, reassuring her. "You did good today, Ma. You had a good day today."

So that was the "vivid," but what was so profound? First of all, I'd give almost anything to be who I am now and in my twenties again. I messed things up so badly back then, that having a second chance at making better decisions with lasting, far more altruistic consequences? Well, let's just say, that would be a dream come true.

And, this raven-haired, size 4 beauty so casually discussing the flaws in her attire? It was her party after all; who wouldn't want things to be perfect? But she was so confident, so in the moment, that all of that superficial stuff was of no consequence to her. She was honest and pure in her desire to be with others.

I'm going to skip Mom's pleasant chit-chat for now, but the boiled chicken eyewear? Yeah, I got nothin'. Not enough iodine in my diet, maybe.

As for Mom driving? That was past Mom. Mom that logged hundreds of miles each year running us to and from school, sporting events, activities, parties. Mom that volunteered for homeroom mother, crafting costumes and cupcakes. Mom that was always there for us. And settling back, letting her be Mom again -- even for a split second -- was such a comfortable feeling from the past -- one I'm sure I never fully appreciated until now.

But that Mom taught me a valuable lesson about what not to do as well. That Mom was all about her kids' lives, choosing to never really have one of her own. She immersed herself in the lives of her children because they were safe. They were her children; they needed her and therefore, couldn't/ wouldn't leave her; they wouldn't reject her. What she settled for was not love but need; it was good enough for her. In elementary school we did an experiment with a seed, placed in a baggie with a paper towel. Water it long enough and it will sprout. Fail to give it soil in which to take root, and eventually it will die. Mom thrived in her role like that seed -- taking off like a shot, brilliant green, but no roots in the world. She had no friends to speak of; she thought less of herself than anyone else did; she put up enormous walls to keep everyone out, for fear they would hurt her. The only one truly hurting her was herself. And that's where the chit-chatting, charming Mom of Dreamworld becomes so poignant: like the young woman in the black dress, this Mom was honestly getting to know others and letting down her guard, and -- the ultimate irony of Dreamworld -- being real. It was nice seeing Mom confident and happy; a sort of fantastical redo for her also.

But the end of my dream is where we are today. My mom is very tired some days. She worries about forgetting, and the stress of that causes her to forget; new situations and environments upset her tremendously. She has trouble differentiating between days, and recognizing family members. My childhood has been all but erased, and except for a couple of intense memories, hers has been as well. Sometimes repeating the same information day after day can be tedious and painful. After all, this is not how this is supposed to be -- a child mothering her mom, grandchildren and great-grandchildren she can't even recognize. But seeing this play out before me as I slept, made me realize just how grateful I am for the opportunity to be there for her on difficult days. And though I can't trust her to always remember to eat, much less use a stove or drive, she remains Mom, if only in the shadows of my dreams.

Are You #Blessed?

I am currently dealing with the reality that I have cancer -- not again, as it seems it never left, but where and how much seems to be the issue at hand. But please, please, please -- that is not the takeaway. I am #blessed. First of all, had I not been diagnosed with Grave's Disease last winter, it could have delayed the treatment and care I have received from some wonderful professionals, at moderate expense, thanks to the job that pays the bills, the job that God gave me over 25 years ago in preparation for this very issue. #Blessed. Secondly, although I am not sure how all of this will turn out in the end, I can rest on a promise made to me in Romans 8:28:

"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose."

All things, for good. All is pretty self-explanatory: every last thing. Good and bad however, are pretty relative terms when we use them. Chocolate ice cream is good. Strawberry ice cream is bad. But ask someone with an allergy to chocolate, and chocolate ice cream can be very bad. When God uses "good," you can bet it's very good for those who love God.

Following Jesus is all about giving thanks in all circumstances and being able to say, "I am blessed" in a completely different way than the world would say it. Matthew 5:2-12 says you re blessed if you are concerned about your moral condition even though your concern is making you look like a loser in front of the guys in the locker room; if you mourn for worldly people who couldn't care if you were dead; if you are humble (you keep it to less than eight selfies each day); if you love to do what's right even when everyone else is doing what's wrong; if you forgive people who steal your stuff or bully your kid or lie about you to get a promotion you totally deserved; or if you take it on the chin everyday from that boorish ignoramus at work who thinks God is nothing more than a fairy tale and Christians are losers. That's some pretty tough criteria. However, it does not say you are #Unblessed if God provides you with a brand new car after you've ridden the bus for the last twelve years, or a set of triplets after you've adopted five other children. Those are blessings as well!

Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary, in her post "#Blessed," says she believes "blessed" is grossly misused and should no longer be part of a Christian's vocabulary. I take issue with this most obviously, because the word is used at least fifty times in the Scriptures; I don't think God would encourage us to desire blessing if we weren't even supposed to use the word. I think it's quite proper for Christians to use it; in fact, I think we should be using it more, and Jamie's argument supports that:

"You would never come across a status update that says, 'Terrible accident killed half my family. Funeral is Monday. #mourning #SoBlessed'

"'Wish I could kick this effing porn habit. I want nothing more than to live a life that honors my spouse and my God and my covenant with them both. #Blessed and #desperateforrighteoussness.'”

Why not? Aren't we blessed in all circumstances? As a matter of fact, I know a mother who recently lost her daughter. She is struggling, she is sorrowful, she is even distraught in some moments, but she has chosen to find the blessing in every day. She knows her Heavenly Father is seeing her through each moment of each day, and she is no less blessed because the days are difficult.

Scott Dannemiller, in his article for Huff Post, "The One Thing Christians Should Stop Saying," echoes Jamie's opinion that feeling blessed because of material goods is an insult to those who are not financially prospering. He also adds:

"[W]hen I say that my material fortune is the result of God's blessing, it reduces The Almighty to some sort of sky-bound, wish-granting fairy who spends his days randomly bestowing cars and cash upon his followers."

So, if Tim Tebow tweets "#Blessed," is that some commentary on my financial status, my athletic ability, my looks, my masculinity, my relationship with God, what? "Oh, woe is me. I am so unblessed because I am not a rich, publicly ridiculed, single dude who is out of a job and has had multiple injuries as a result of a possible bone-crushing, career-ending job." It is God's choice whom and how He blesses; "the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike" (Matthew 5:45). If I am offended by someone else's gratitude, after I re-examine the Scriptures about God's sovereignty, I need to spend a little time getting over myself.

Instead of eliminating the use of "#Blessed," I say we more frequently recognize the depth of our blessing, and show others just what it means to rejoice over those blessings in all circumstances:

"Though the fig tree may not blossom,
Nor fruit be on the vines;
Though the labor of the olive may fail,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,
And there be no herd in the stalls—
Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;
He will make my feet like deer’s feet,And He will make me walk on my high hills." (Habakkuk 3:17-19)