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What Message Are We Declaring?
Continuing on thoughts from yesterday’s post… I read this today on Of First Importance.
“Jesus’s teaching consistently attracted the irreligious while offending the Bible-believing, religious people of his day. However, in the main, our churches today do not have this effect. The kind of outsiders Jesus attracted are not attracted to contemporary churches, even our most avant-garde ones. We tend to draw conservative, buttoned-down, moralistic people. The licentious and liberated or the broken and marginal avoid church. That can only mean one thing. If the preaching of our ministers and the practice of our parishioners do not have the same effect on people that Jesus had, then we must not be declaring the same message that Jesus did.”
– Timothy Keller, The Prodigal God
(I’m going to have to get my hands on this book!)
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The Impact Of The Word Stunning
The Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life In America released a survey of Americans last summer. This is what they wrote:
“There is a stunning lack of alignment between people’s practices and their professed faith.”
Thoughts?
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“Danger Will Robinson!”
That’s what I shout every time I am exiting my bedroom to go put dishes in the sink or head to the bathroom. Then my parents scurry away and maintain a safe distance from me in hopes that they won’t become irradiated. (It’s a Lost in Space reference for all you young readers out there.)
Yes. I am at my parents’ home. I was never admitted to the hospital, because they kept my dosage just under the federally regulated amount for hospital admission. My sweet hubby came down tonight to see me and get my laptop working. Then he sat in the doorway to my room and ate supper with me, and we joked about how this is what our life will be like when we are old. I should have turned on Wheel Of Fortune. Then he headed home so I could video chat with my littles, and we blew kisses and I tried not to cry.
When I was home on Tuesday night but unable to touch my children, it was agony. And I realized how each of my children are handling it. Bella has no understanding, just that she wants Mommy and Mommy can’t hold her. Bear followed me around the house at a 3 foot distance, saying, “I’ll just stay right here, Mommy, so you can see me all the time.” Before bed, he hugged me (a quick hug is allowed) and said, “Mommy, I’ll never, ever forget you.” Okay, break my heart to pieces. My buddy understands, and all he told me over and over was how much he was going to miss me, but at least he understands why, as evidenced by this conversation they had yesterday with Bri’s mom.
Bear: This is bad for Mommy.
Buddy: No, this is good for Mommy.
Bear: No, this is bad for Mommy.
Buddy: No, this is good for Mommy. It will make her better.
Bear: This is bad for Mommy.
Buddy: No, this is good for Mommy.
And so it continued until Bear finally said, “No, this is bad for Mommy for me.”
Sigh.
I keep grasping at perspective. There are soldiers overseas who don’t see their families for months, people hospitalized who can’t be visited by their children for weeks, parents who are divorced and share their children, and so many more. No, it doesn’t minimize what I’m going through, but it helps me get through it.
I am doing well.. some physical side effects and pain, but I am fairly comfortable, and it is good to be at Mom & Daddy’s rather than in some hospital somewhere. I am reading, praying, resting, watching TV… and soon I’ll be playing Scrabble online with Nat…not too stir crazy yet.
Over the next few days, I’ll be MIA for a bit other than some quotes and fun things I have in my queue all ready to be posted.
Please know how much I appreciate your prayers. God is ministering to me through you.
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Quick update…
Yesterday Angie and I spent the day over at The University Medical Center again… this time it was a much better experience. All of the folks we dealt with were very helpful! I’m sure she will write a more comprehensive update later, but the short story is they were able to run the second part of her iodine scan from Monday as well as a CT scan and a sonogram of her neck. They did find more remnants of the thyroid cancer in the thyroid bed, wrapped somewhat around her trachea where it would have probably been hidden by scar tissue when she was in surgery. Armed with good pictures of her neck and the tumor cells they went ahead with her treatment dose of radioactive iodine yesterday afternoon.
I dropped her off last night at her parent’s house where she will have to be isolated from adults for 6 days, and from our kids for 3 full weeks. That’s going to be very hard on her. At the moment the plan is for her to stay down there until a week from Sunday and then come home and we’ll confine her to the bedroom for the duration. The good news was that they aren’t being as stringent as we thought they might on what she’s allowed to come into contact with, so she has her cell phone (and can use it) and her laptop. I’m taking a wireless router down tonight so she can be online– her lifeline. When I had the kids call last night they were complaining that we weren’t using the computer so they could see her… so it will be great for her to be able to video-chat with the kids. (spoiled by tech? not our kids!)
Thanks again for your thoughts and prayers!!
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The Rose & The Rock
“You will never find Jesus so precious as when the world is one vast howling wilderness. Then he is like a rose blooming in the midst of the desolation, a rock rising above the storm.”
[Robert Murray M’Cheyne, Letter: 9 March 1843]
(Making it’s way to my inbox from our friend, John. Check out his piano works here.)
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The Good News About A Bad Day
Today was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Let me just say put it in sports terms. If I am ever watching a certain University play any sport against any other team, I will not root for them. In fact, if college could meet professional in sports, and a certain University played against the Redskins. I would go for the Redskins. And I’m a Cowboys fan. ‘Nuff said.
It was long and it was hard for a number of reasons and let’s just say the quality of care wasn’t up to par.
To be fair there were things out of the control of the hospital like the fact that my port is blocked and cannot be accessed for blood draws. And the doctor I was supposed to consult with was out with food poisoning. Communication was lacking and I still have not consulted with any doctor on the treatment I am to receive on Wednesday. I did consult with a very nice tech, though.
And I have not had my MRI because the doctor was out and she has to read my other scan before I can have the MRI. So that has been added to my list on Wednesday.
Okay. No more.
The good news? I can have the Good News.
I will take my Bible with me to the hospital and can even probably have my cell phone and laptop (video chats, yay!) provided they wrap them in saran wrap. I am thankful. So very thankful. After I use books I can put them in a bag outside for a couple weeks and they will decontaminate, so I will take my old Bible with me. And it makes me so thankful that I live in country where I own multiple Bibles. I’m not having to soak in every word of it because I am going to or living in some foreign country where I could get harmed or worse to even own a Bible.
After today I feel like the psalmist who said he had cried until his tears dried up, and I am under intense spiritual attack. I am convinced that Satan knows my heart and my longing is to go into this isolation and commune with God and pray for others. The last thing Satan wants is for me to pray, and he is seeking to destroy. I felt a lot of his fiery darts as I walked through this short dark day.
But, although my armor is dented and my body is injured, I am still weakly wielding the shield of faith and I will carry with me the sword of truth. I will go forward. I have no other way to go. And I will walk in the strength of the full armor of God for this battle that I face.
I just wish this little soldier could stand by my side.
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MIA
So I’ll be MIA for a while, but I will have Bri update here as we know more, unless of course the SNOW hits and I have to reschedule everything. Oh, and my mom is coming down with the flu (please pray for her.) Sigh. I am reminding myself God is in the details.
Today is my long day at the big hospital, and I’m overwhelmed and fearful and don’t even want to think about those vampires with their calming grins and foot-long needles as they start walking toward my veins. I have a radioactive scan AND an MRI today. Because of the radioactivity, Bri has to sleep on the couch tonight, and I won’t be able to touch the kids. Tomorrow I will be able to hug them good-bye before I leave on Wednesday for a week or so. Would you like to know how I feel? I HATE this. I ache inside with an incredible ache that wants to burst through, and I want to scream and kick and pitch a hissy fit.
There. That’s all I have to say about this.
The wheels in my mind keep turning over the upcoming events of today, and the one that plays over and over is seeing a doctor come in with my MRI report and tell me they can’t do this treatment, because they’ve found something else… a spot on a lung, a mass in my abdomen. I am terrified of hearing the word “cancer” again. I’ve heard it too many times.
My friend, Stat, reminded me of two promises last night. That a day is coming where there will be no more tears or crying or suffering, only immeasurable joy in His presence. And until that day, my Savior lives and loves and is always there for me.
Amen.
Thank you, again, for all your prayers and encouragement. Everytime I get a comment telling me how someone is praying, I sit and cry because it is overwhelming to see how this bloggy community works, and to be loved so well by the body of Christ, many of whom don’t even know me. I am humbled.
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Isn’t It Wonderful?
My Little One,
You have been such a cuddler today, so I’ve held you non-stop. Somehow it still seems as if I haven’t held you long enough. Time is passing by too quickly, and I can’t believe you’re already two weeks old. I tell your daddy every day that you’re growing up too fast…
At 3:44 p.m. there you were–all 7 lb. 14.5 oz. of wriggling, crying, adorable baby boy!! Daddy and Bethy both said you were a boy at about the same time, and I started sobbing… I was in love with you before you came, but to finally meet you was beyond description! Our son.
Our SON! What words those are–and what joy fills my heart to say them. You are a beautiful expression of the love your daddy and I share. I am so glad you are here, so very glad and so very thankful.
Isn’t it wonderful? You are an answer to prayer, little one, and you fill our lives with more joy than I ever could have imagined. Yes, you do.
(excerpt from my journal to my Buddy written seven years ago.)
Happy Birthday, my little man. I am so amazed by every exuberant, determined, sensitive, thoughtful, intelligent and loving part of you! You fill my days with LIFE.
As a side note: I am celebrating one year chemo free today, too. Yes, there is much life to celebrate!
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Isolation
I have spent the last week cuddling and snuggling and holding and praying with these little ones who are so sick. I’ve rubbed feet that fall asleep, massaged legs that ache, kissed fiery foreheads, rocked sleeping bodies, scratched backs, snuggled under blankets, watched movies with three heads on my lap, and slept in beds with them.
Starting Monday night, I will not be able to touch them.
I am undergoing treatment next week for my thryoid cancer recurrence. Because of the nature of the treatment and the high dosage I will be receiving, I will have to be isolated from my children for 2 weeks.
Yes, you read that right, two weeks!
For the first part of my dosage (beginning next Wednesday) I will not be able to be in the same house as they are. For the second, I will not be able to have any contact with them, but I will be able to see them.
This treatment will give me a 96% chance of full recovery, as in, no recurrence again. Because of the high dosage they are giving me, I will have to go to a different hospital than here. We will spend Monday there getting labs run, scans done, consulting with the doctor and I will have a full body PET scan to be sure there is no other cancer in my body before they move forward with treatment. Monday night, because of the radioactivity of the scan, I will be sequestered from contact with my family, but I can at least be home.
Wednesday morning I will return to the hospital for another scan and then dosing. Dosing is scheduled for 1:00. I’ll swallow a pill of radioactive iodine (given to me in a shielded cup), and then most likely be admitted to the hospital for at least 2 days. I will be in a room completely isolated even from nurses. I can only bring in items that can be thrown away (e.g. paper back books that I will toss after reading). After my stay at the hospital, I will go to my parents’ house for the remainder of the first week. I will also continue to have scans periodically over the next few days.
Once at my parents’ house, I will be able to have limited contact with adults, but not children. Brian’s mom will come live with Brian and the kids to give them as much normalcy as possible in routine and life without me. I will return home for the second week, but I will basically be confined to my room away from the children.
That’s the plan as I know it right now. All of this could change if my thyroid levels are not low enough for treatment next week, so it still feels like a bit of limbo.
As you can imagine, this is breaking my heart. This forced isolation. How can I be away from this for so long? Imprisoned away from my family.
I know that it can be done. During her pregnancy, my friend, Monica, spent months in the hospital away from her daughter. She has been real with me about the agony, this emotional isolation that enjoins the physical. But she has also been real with me about the strength of Christ to get her through.
I do not want this, but I am choosing this.
I am choosing to suffer so that I might have a future with my children and husband.
(I still don’t know all the details, but if you have questions or want clarification, just leave a question in my comments. Then I’ll try to address them all in another post.)
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Tunnels Revisited
Over a year ago as I walked through the dark tunnel of chemotherapy, I wrote about my tunnels. Months later I entered that blog as a possible submission to Proverbs 31 Ministries to be used in their radio broadcast. It was one of several selected, and last week it aired as a short encouragement on the radio waves all over the United States. You can listen to it here. And while you’re there, go to Proverbs 31 Ministries and check out the wonderful encouragements they offer.
The following post was originally published on November 1, 2007
Corrie ten Boom wrote:
“When the train goes through a tunnel and the world becomes dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through.”
At some point in life, our worlds become dark. I look around at my friends and family. I read and watch the news. I hear stories from old college or high school buddies. I walk into a store or onto JMU’s campus or even to church. I look at faces and it hits like a brick wall. We all have tunnels in our lives.
For some it is a short tunnel where the light at the end is clearly seen. For others its long and dark. Some might find their lives are one long tunnel while others have frequent short ones. For some there are lights in their tunnel; for others the darkness is suffocating.
Just because I am going through my tunnel and my darkness doesn’t mean the train stops. It doesn’t mean other trains aren’t running. Others are in pain, too. In my own life–my sweet Audrey with her broken arm, my grandfather hospitalized earlier this week, Brian trying to manage with his wife’s cancer, Micah’s fear of darkness and nightmares, even Asher’s allergies…that is their pain; their tunnel.
There is so much pain as I look at the world surrounding me–chronic health problems, the loss of parents or spouses or children or siblings or grandparents or cousins, depression, conflict, family members suffering, couples unable to get pregnant, miscarriages, singles longing for marriage and still waiting, unexplained tragedies, job loss, financial struggles and so much more. We all have our tunnels, even if it’s just one week in bed with the flu.
My gut reaction is to run from pain–run far away from it–whether it’s mine or someone else’s. Being real about my pain means being vulnerable. Being real and caring about someone else’s pain means taking a risk. Pain is real. Pain is hard. Pain is ugly. Pain is isolating. Pain is the result of living in a fallen world. Pain is one of Satan’s tools to try to destroy us.
I have learned much about pain by experiencing my own, and I have been convicted, blessed, astonished, hurt, encouraged, and overwhelmed with it all. We all handle our pain differently, but one thing is certain–we all need relationship in our lives. We all need to know someone cares. It is so comforting to hear a simple “I care” from others, and it is such a blessing to say a simple “I care” to others. Ultimately, though, I find the real peace comes in knowing that God cares even more than I can begin to comprehend. He whispers it every day to me in His Word.
I would be foolish to jump off my train into the darkness. Although there are days when I think in my sinful self-reliance that I can do this on my own, one step off that train into the darkness would lead to confusion and chaos. I would lose my way so quickly, unsure of which direction to head, wondering what lay at the side of the tracks, and the fear would consume me.
So I cling to the seat in my train, and I know my Engineer won’t make a mistake. He knows right where I’m heading. My train won’t crash or derail. In fact, some days I make my way to the dining car, and on the menu I see Psalm 16, “He has assigned me my portion and my cup; my lot is secure.” And I feast like a hedon from the portion and cup He has given me–a very full plate of blessings. Other times I go to my sleeping berth, and I find that His “yoke is easy and his burden is light”, and there I find rest for my soul. There are days when I just sit in my seat, holding on for dear life and weeping as I watch the darkness outside the window. Sometimes, I go and I sit in the engine at the feet of the Engineer, and I listen to His voice reassuring me that He loves me and “nothing can separate me from that love”. And I stay on my train.
I have fear, yes, but I have no doubt, because He who promised is faithful, and one day I will reach my destination safe in the arms of my Engineer. It will be a place where there will be no more pain, no more suffering, no more tears… and there I will rejoice with all the others who’ve ridden through their tunnels in Christ alone.
No guilt in life; no fear in death.
This is the power of Christ in me.
From life’s first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand.
Till He returns or calls me home;
Here in the pow’r of Christ I’ll stand.
(Keith Getty & Stuart Townend)
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A Spring of Joy 