Tag Archives: cancer

An unexpected feast

Scripture excerpts from Isaiah 45 and 46

I spent this past weekend with Heidi in the hospital. It was a rough one. She went in Thursday early a.m. with a fever of 105. They quickly found it was a bacterial infection caused by salmonella that had made her body go septic. By the time I got there Friday afternoon, she was stabilized, but far from recovered.

Over the next day, I struggled to see my sister this way: not just very, very sick and miserable, but also in the deep depression that has been plaguing her for the past months.

Heidi is a super caring person. Even during her hospitalizations, when very sick, she thanks the nurses, the custodians, the dietitians. She asks them about their lives. She connects with anyone and everyone who comes through her room. But not this time. This time, she was at various moments completely unresponsive. As in, a nurse would say something and she wouldn’t even answer. I’m still not sure how much of this was the depression and how much was her body still recovering from sepsis or being on a million meds, but it was scary to see.

I cried out to God on my bus ride to Madison, and at the hospital as I watched Heidi sleep, “please give Heidi something–some good news–some enjoyment–it doesn’t even matter what, as long as it means something to her.” And then, because I can’t leave well enough alone (and in case God was short on ideas), I suggested it could be great if she could just enjoy a few bites of something. For a long, long time, not only has she been nauseous, not only has she been on a super restrictive diet, but nothing tastes good. Between the chemo, creatinine and BUN overload from the kidneys’ failure to work, and antibiotics, her taste buds were no longer working and there was always a weird taste and coating in her mouth. Every bite took willpower. Meal after meal. Nothing was enjoyable.

Just give her one good thing, I prayed. Just one thing.

I listened as Heidi expressed to her doctor that she didn’t want to live anymore. She was tired of being in pain all the time. Tired of the bad news that has come blow after blow after blow, month after month, with no good turns. Tired and trapped and ready to be done.

I called a chaplain and prayed with her outside Heidi’s room. I tried to field interruptions to Heidi’s sleep at night. And all along, angry helplessness burned in my chest. Why have you abandoned Heidi? I screamed to God. Why are you far away when she needs you so much? How could you do this?

Then, Saturday morning, as if things weren’t bad enough, Heidi’s nightmare happened: flash pulmonary edema. Basically, within the space of about two hours she went from breathing normally to feeling like she was drowning, coughing up blood, and fighting for every breath. About fifteen medical professionals rushed into the room, and in a flurry of machines and shouted instructions, she was taken to the Trauma Care Unit, head lolling, unable to even speak. I followed, weeping. On oxygen, getting emergency dialysis to clear her body of the excess liquid, Heidi pretty much passed out, hunching forward every now and then to cough up more blood. I sat nearby. I lowered my face into my hands and wept, silent sobs shaking my body.

I was so angry. How dare you let this happen, God. Where are you? I thought you cared about us. I thought we were precious to you. Obviously we aren’t. Obviously you’ve tossed us away and forgotten. Why are you torturing her? Stop. Just stop.

All I wanted was for God to show up, in the flesh, so that I could rush at him and strangle him with my bare hands. I wanted to hit him, and hard. But I couldn’t. There was nothing to do but sit, and wait. Helpless, I remained in my chair, face in hands, tears hitting the floor while the dialysis nurse sat nearby, tapping away at her laptop, as if everything were normal and the world wasn’t falling apart in front of me.

The day went on. Heidi’s lungs started to clear. My Dad and I got a cafeteria lunch together. Heidi was able to get off oxygen and return to the 6th floor. She napped for a little while. I worked on a puzzle with my parents in the family lounge to give Heidi some alone time with her husband, Mike.

In the evening, Mike ordered Indian food for me and him. Heidi was awake, sitting up and looking more alert. The Indian food arrived; it smelled incredible.

“I think I want some,” said Heidi.

Oh. My. God. Heidi wanted food?

We didn’t care that it wasn’t part of her sodium and phosphate sensitive diet. She wanted it, she was getting it. And in what seemed like a blink of the eye, Heidi was back. Cheerful, interacting. The depression had lifted.

I have never seen such a radical turnaround. From that morning, seeing her unresponsive in the TCU, to that evening, seeing her shovel down Indian food and smile, and even laugh–I can’t believe it.

Heidi does ballet stretches Sunday afternoon, after talking to her kids (first pic), listening to a sermon with me, and getting more dialysis.

God didn’t show up for me to wrestle. Or strangle. But he showed up. Give Heidi a couple bites that she can enjoy, I asked. But he gave her more than just a couple bites. He gave her a whole meal. And she had seconds.

Heidi’s still in the hospital. But her spirits are lifted. The Heidi we haven’t seen for a month and a half has returned. In the hour before I left Sunday afternoon to catch my bus back to Chicago, we had a dance party and shook it to some T. Swift.

Me looking ugly to enhance Heidi. Works every time.

And as I feel the painful two-hour distance between me and her, as I feel the fear of another downturn, as I feel the weight of her kidneys’ refusal to recover, I hold on as best I can to the promise I think God made us: that he will heal her. Which I made sure to mention in front of her primary care doc, as he looked on tolerantly–and dubiously. And I thought, show him, God.

Turn to me and be saved,
all the ends of the earth!
For I am God, and there is no other.
By myself I have sworn,
from my mouth has gone forth in righteousness
a word that shall not return:
“To me every knee shall bow,
every tongue shall swear.”

God, we have turned to you. Now save us! Save Heidi! Don’t let the words we think we heard from you fall to the ground with no fruit. Let those words spring up in glory. Let those words cause knees to bow–mine, her doctors’, her nurses’, and everyone who has heard her story.

Only in the Lord, it shall be said of me,
are righteousness and strength;
all who were incensed against him
shall come to him and be ashamed.
In the Lord all the offspring of Israel
shall triumph and glory.

God, I have been incensed against you. I’ve been so angry. I can’t wait to be ashamed of that! I can’t wait to come to you and say, “I was so wrong. Your plan was good. You didn’t cast us aside.”

Remember this and consider,
recall it to mind, you transgressors,
remember the former things of old;
for I am God, and there is no other;
I am God, and there is no one like me,
declaring the end from the beginning
and from ancient times things not yet done,
saying, “My purpose shall stand,
and I will fulfill my intention,”
calling a bird of prey from the east,
the man for my purpose from a far country.
I have spoken, and I will bring it to pass;
I have planned, and I will do it.

Yes God, do it. You spoke to many of us. Now bring it to pass!

Listen to me, you stubborn of heart,
you who are far from deliverance:
I bring near my deliverance, it is not far off,
and my salvation will not tarry;
I will put salvation in Zion,
for Israel my glory.

I know I’m stubborn of heart. I’m weak, God. I can’t look at my sister suffering and take it. I can’t see her in pain and be joyful. It makes me angry–at you. So bring your deliverance near. And soon. Don’t tarry. Put your salvation in Heidi and bring glory out of ugliness.

Glorify yourself, God. Let me be ashamed of my anger. Let me be one of those transgressors who doubted and who is proved so, so wrong.

God’s answer to sorrow

Bad news

Since my baby sister Heidi was diagnosed with cancer last December, I’ve had probably five occasions that I would describe as nights of utter despair. Sure, I’ve been sad before in life–even crushed–but nothing like this handful of times that have sent me to my knees–literally–with sobs that felt like they would tear my bones apart. The trigger, each time, has been bad news. The chemo didn’t work. The second chemo doesn’t look like it’s working. Heidi’s kidneys stopped functioning. Each time, these blows have knocked me down into a pit of darkness.

I’m talking about the kind of sorrow that’s so heavy, and so black, that I’d rather die in that moment than keep feeling it. It’s the hopelessness and anger that drove me to punch the garage. The fire in my spirit that felt like it would consume me alive if I didn’t start running, and keep running, maybe forever. In these moments, I wept and shouted and said things to God like, you don’t even care! My sister is one of yours! Is this how you treat the ones who love you? Is this how you treat one of your most faithful servants? No loving Father would do this. How dare you. Badly done.

Collapsing faith

These are the moments that I described in this post as standing on the edge of my faith, looking into a chasm. A chasm where God doesn’t exist–or exists but isn’t good–or doesn’t care. Where life is sad and there is no justice, and no comfort, just death waiting for us all. Where it’s not just about Heidi dying, but about refugee babies dying in the ocean as their families tried to swim to Greece. About school shootings claiming the life of children whose moms and dads sent them to school hours earlier with a swift kiss and a casual “see you soon.” It’s about the pain and the injustice of the human experience, which overwhelms the world and crashes over my soul in those moments like a tidal wave. Nothing survives that. It leaves you bare, and empty, and alone.

At one point I remember looking into my husband’s eyes and saying, “I don’t know if I can believe in God anymore.”

And yet.

Somehow my faith has not only held but grown. Somehow I’ve woken up the next morning, and the next, and the next, and I have not fallen into the chasm of a meaningless world in which God is cruel and death wins.

Re-reading this post to make sure it makes sense, I’ve just noticed the disconnect. In one sentence, I’m about to lose my faith. The next sentence, it’s growing. One sentence, a tidal wave sweeps me bare. The next moment, my faith is still there. What?

Held

Exactly. What happened between the despair and the “and yet?” I can only say–God. I wasn’t holding on. He was. I wasn’t building my faith. He was gifting it to me. On those nights of darkness, I let go. But he did not.

And somehow–not in spite of those dark moments but because of them–something so incredibly sweet has begun to seep into my spirit. Something deep and rich and so terribly wonderful that I never want to lose the taste from my mouth.

It’s so sweet that I’ve delayed in writing about it because I don’t ever think words could do it justice. So bear with me as I fumble through.

If you’re a Christian, or have been exposed to Christians, you’ve surely heard the phrase “the good news.” I’d say it’s traditionally recapped as “Jesus came and died for your sins so you can go to heaven after you die.” And yes, that’s good news.

But somehow, as I felt myself drowning in the ocean of sorrow, that little definition grew. And grew.

The deepest cries

From the ocean of sorrow, out of my mouth, came the cries of the human heart. The vocalization of my deepest fears. My nightmares. The cries that I imagine are common to many of us.

Is there beauty? Is there meaning? Will all the pain be worth it?

I don’t believe that God has brought the cancer on Heidi. Or even that this is his “will” for her. I believe that sickness and death are a product of human evil and a broken world. But God’s promise to his people is that he will bring good and redemption. That swords will be beaten into plowshares, and spears into pruning hooks. I love that image because the violent tool becomes the tool of good work. God doesn’t bring about the pain in my life. But in his mercy and goodness, he takes the strands of it and weaves them into something beautiful. Meaningful.

I am convinced he will not let a single painful experience go to waste. That at the end of time, my life, and your life, and human history, will be woven into a breathtaking tapestry that tells the story we always wanted to be true. With the ending that our hearts always hungered for. Without God’s weaving fingers, human existence is a chaos of painful threads. But he will not let that lie. He will use it all.

To my heart’s deepest cries for beauty and meaning, God says yes. Beauty and meaning are not intrinsic to pain–quite the opposite. Pain and death seek to blot it out, and to rule, and to drown you. But God relentlessly weaves the beauty and the meaning in, stitch by stitch.

This is good news.

The other clamor of my heart in pain goes something like this: Is God listening? Does God speak to me? Would God change his mind, just because I ask?

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is the story of God and Moses. Essentially, God is like, “Moses, you guys go ahead to the promised land, but go without me.” Moses argues him down and God changes his mind (check it out in Exodus). I’ve encountered lots of people who are very uncomfortable with this idea and try to explain it away. Well, God can’t really change his mind, can he . . .?

Which is funny, because not only does the passage say explicitly that he changes his mind (also translated as “relents” or even “repents”), but why is this idea disturbing? I find it deeply comforting.

One of my biggest fears is that I’ll beg and beg and beg about the things I care about most, but that nothing I can say will matter to him. That God is actually an immutable cliff, and I’m a little wave dashing itself to pieces against the rock.

Don’t get me wrong–he will accomplish his purpose. Which is sovereign, and perfect. But his purpose, it turns out, is to welcome a massive family of people into his kingdom and then live with us forever. And the way he does that is to draw near to us and be in a relationship. And it’s not a relationship if it’s one-sided.

God says, yes.

God changes his mind. Not his character–but his mind. Because we ask. This is good news. God is not an immutable cliff. He is a king . . . but more than that, he’s a father. A brother. A friend. He loves us. He listens, and answers. He won’t always do what I ask. But he might. And to me, that is essential.

We don’t even have to ask in the right way. Or with the right words. Or with the right feelings. In fact, there is no requirement. (Check out Gideon’s story for more on this)

The answers

Chris Tomlin’s song Is He Worthy has been one of my two go-to songs during this time. I weep every time I hear it. Here’s a taste of the lyrics:

Do you feel the world is broken?
We do.
Do you feel the shadows deepen?
We do.
But do you know that all the dark won’t stop the light from getting through?
We do.
Do you wish that you could see it all made new?
We do.
Is all creation groaning?
It is.
Is a new creation coming?
It is.
Is the glory of the Lord to be the light within our midst?
It is.
Is it good that we remind ourselves of this?
It is.
Does the Father truly love us?
He does.
Does the Spirit move among us?
He does.
And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves?
He does.
Does our God intend to dwell again with us?
He does.

 

This call and response, to me, mirrors my experience with despair, when the good news rises up like the sun in the morning and answers that despair with light. When I wake up and realize that my worst nightmares are just that–bad dreams. And that the reality is sweet, and good, and beautiful after all.

I’m glad for each hour I’ve spent in this dark place. Because it’s forced out the most important questions. And as the questions exploded out of my fury and helplessness, I was given in return answers so beautiful as to take my breath away.

Let me take a step back. Because not all of you are going through what I am. But we all go through something. If not now, later. Let’s be real–we’re all going to die. So.

What would be the best news, to you? And I don’t mean getting a nice little bonus at work, though we all want that–I’m talking about the profound best news. Would it be that you’d get to see all your loved ones again? That you’ll get to look into the eyes of the one you lost, again, and feel the warm clutch of their arms? That you’ll meet the baby you miscarried, and hold them to your chest, and hear their precious sighs? That you’ll never have to fear for your safety again? That you will one day be free of the profound trauma of abuse, or rape, or injustice?

God’s good news says yes

All your dearest dreams, and your deepest desires, you will get.

The good news is not just about Christ dying, though that is wonderful. It’s that God will one day pour us wine at a magnificent dinner table where the ones we love will be laughing. Death, gun violence, school shootings, injustice–that will be no more. Every hurt will be healed. Every broken body will be whole. Every mind will be sound. Every longing will be satisfied. And, I’m convinced, every shred of pain we have gone through, God will imbue with meaning and loveliness, so much of it that we will rise up and say, it was worth it. We’d do it again. He has not only redeemed it but, out of it, created an abundance beyond anything we could have imagined.

Things will be better because of the pain we endured. The fruit of it will somehow be more beautiful than a pain-free existence. I don’t know how that will work–but I know it will come true.

This is the good news I believe in. It’s wider and richer than the Sunday school answer. And when the strands of its music play inside me, every fiber of my being thrills and my souls shouts back YES.

Christian or no, liberal or conservative, I dare you to open your heart to it.