Category Archives: cancer

the ugly side of me…

There is an ugly side to me… two really. One brought about through sin; one brought about through cancer. One remains more veiled—my heart. One exposed for the entire world to see—my flesh. And tonight I hold a candle to them both, and I don’t like what I see.

The ugly me.

Tonight I see anger, frustration, and confusion building up inside my mind, layer upon layer—an indistinguishable conglomeration of yuck not easily identified. I cannot connect the dots to all that I am feeling. There’s an unveiling of a something, and it’s not pretty. It’s hostile and visceral, filled with enough tension to keep everyone around me on edge.

In regards to the other ugly—my flesh—I see a misshapen form of what I used to be. A large scar runs across my chest wall, still inflamed with red and reminders of what was once there only five months ago. I’m bald and I’m fat… thirty pounds heavier from my five months ago. My nails are brittle and yellowed, ready to make their departure at any moment, and my clothes? Well, they’ve gone into hibernation; sweats, t-shirts and duster robes are common fare.

And I’m tired of it all; tired from the inside-out, and wondering if such honest confession of the soul is allowed in this public place. If I can be so real as to tell you that cancer has an ugly side to it. For all the ways it has given back to me, there are a few ways it has exacted its toll on me. And while I wouldn’t turn back the clock and have things live differently, tonight I simply wish it was over. That the ugly parts of me, both inside and out, were no longer, and that I could once again be the woman that I was… five months ago.

~That I could still run.

~That I could sleep on my right side, minus the discomfort of the port.

~That I could have energy enough to get up early and live a busy day and be thankful for the activity.

~That I could take a tub bath without needing help to get out.

~That I could confidently show affection to my husband.

~That I could think, write, and speak clearly the first time around without having to second-guess myself.

~That understanding was my portion rather than confusion.

~That worry would keep her silence.

~That faith would speak her voice.

I know this won’t last… all my “thats”. In time, I’ll get a handle on my concerns. God will replace my frustrations with his peace, his truth, and his hope for my future. He can’t help himself. His character precludes his absence from my pain. He appropriately interrupts my issues with the beauty of his witness, reminding me that for all of the ugly I currently see, a cross was given as the remedy. That what is seen is not always what is true. That sometimes life’s accumulated layers need the benefit an amazing grace that not only salves a wounded heart but that correctly frames the broken fragments together to make a portrait worthy of the throne room of heaven.

Every now and again, I glimpse that beauty, and I am grateful for the reminder. But tonight, what I see in the mirror isn’t easily salved by a few words of well-spoken faith… my faith. Tonight requires something far greater—a faith that holds despite the human condition. The “sure and certain” of those mentioned in Hebrews 11. A settled confidence in the King and his promises.

Friends, faith is where I want to live… all the time. But faith, unchallenged by unsettling times, never anchors at its deepest level. Faith uncontested by adversity simply resides at the surface of the human heart. Mind you, it is enough to carry you home to Jesus; not all of us require a rigorous workout along these lines. And I suppose, on nights like tonight, I’d enjoy a float on the surface of my faith. But that’s not what I’ve been allowed.

Instead, I’ve been allowed a deeper dig into the coffers of what I profess to believe. I get the Refiner’s fire, and I don’t mind telling you it hurts; it burns. It purges and it cleanses. And all I can do is surrender to the heat, hoping that the ugly in me gets gone and that God’s beauty in me returns, from the inside-out.

Oh to be entrusted with the process. To live in the flesh, all the while being transformed by faith. It is a weighty condition, perhaps the reason so many forego the invitation to salvation. Living with ugly is sometimes an easier load to carry than lighting a match to one’s heart. But without the flames of Calvary’s love, we are left as we are… unfinished.

I don’t want to get home to Jesus unfinished. I want to get there complete. Accordingly, I look into the mirror this night. I shed some tears for the undoing of my heart and my flesh, and I confess to my Father (and to you), the ugly side of me. And I pray for healing, for understanding, and for faith enough that will carry me through to the other side.

Cancer is ugly, friends. In its wake, it can leave a soul ugly. But God, in his wake, can take the ugly and transform it into holy understanding, which breathes a beauty all its own. A beauty that moves a soul from despair to celebration. From unbelief to strong conviction.  From being tired of it all to being transformed because of it all. And that is what I’m praying for tonight… my ugly made into God’s beauty.

Even so, come Lord Jesus, and interrupt my ugly with the witness and truth of your beloved cross. I long to move past the seen and visible in order to embrace the unseen depths of a living, anchored, and vital faith. You, alone, are the restorer of my flesh and heart. Come and liberally apply your grace to every fragmented layer of my life, and give me the settled confidence regarding who you ARE and in your love for me. Amen. 

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entrusted {word for 2011}

entrusted {word for 2011}

From my perch on the couch, I watched him trim her nails. Never in her eight years on this earth did I recall him trimming baby girl’s nails. She was caught off-guard as well, looking at me occasionally as if to say, “Daddy isn’t doing this right…” or “What’s with the nail file?” And while I should have been grateful for his willingness to help, instead I was sad. Really sad, and I began to cry.
“I should be doing this, Billy. I always do this for her. You’re doing it wrong. I want to do this.”
He offered his apologies, understanding that there was something greater going on inside of me than just a compulsion for nail clipping. He knew that my mothering heartstrings were pulling hard and that his helpfulness was a direct reflection on just how little energy I have for the small things of life these days. That out of his great love for me, he wanted to spare me the details and allow me room enough to focus on the stuff that really matters. What he doesn’t understand is that nail-clipping really does matter to me; not because I’m an expert. Rarely have I acquiesced to a manicurist’s touch. No, my daughter’s nails matter to me because there are just some jobs that belong to me as her mother. Some things that I’ve always done… still need to do, because in doing them, I feel like I matter. Like I’m needed. Like I belong to something bigger than myself. Like my being here has purpose, even if that purpose seems small to others. Perhaps you understand.
We all need jobs that belong to us… need a focus and a reason to stir our hearts into action each day that we live on this earth. Without our attachments along these lines, we default to couch-livin’ and ample tears. We pass on the duties that are supposed to be ours rather than living out the responsibilities that are within our reaches and tethered closely to our hearts. God made our hearts for good work—for putting our hands to the plow and breaking up the unplowed earth beneath our feet. He understands that faith is best preserved when faith is liberally sown. Thus, he’s given each of us a job.
A similar job. We may travel all manners of terrain to get there, may institute a wide variety of regimens to accomplish our goals, but at the end of the day… at the end of this life, our life’s work really boils down to one, main objective.
To know God and then out of that knowing lead others to know the same. (I wrote about that here).
Accordingly, as I look to the New Year and as I have been reflecting on this one job that God has given me, several scriptures (with one overriding theme) have come into focus to serve as my anchor verses for the year. Read them to discover a common thread:
“You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men….” (Matthew 5:14-16a).
“Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” (Matthew 28:19-20a).
 “So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation… And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us.” (2 Corinthians 5:16-20).
“Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s afflictions, for the sake of his body, which is the church. I have become its servant by the commission God game me to present to you the word of God in its fullness.” (Colossians 2:24-25).
And finally,
“So then, men ought to regard us as servants of Christ and as those entrusted with the secret things of God. Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.” (1 Corinthians 4:1-2).
Entrusted.
My “word” and my focus for 2011; not just with any task, but with the high and holy task of telling others the reason behind the hope that I hold in my heart. A weighty assignment for certain, but one that is required of me because of my status as a daughter of the King. I hold a great Truth inside of me. Sharing about Him isn’t an option for any believer. We think that it sometimes is… that sometimes we get a pass because we didn’t go to seminary and get the professional degree or receive official ordination from a committee. But kingdom work of this kind belongs to all of us. It’s simply time for me to get a bit more serious about it all. Wouldn’t you agree?
As I reflect back to my anchor verses for 2010(1 Cor. 6:19-20), I had no idea at the time of my selecting them just exactly what would be required of me to honor them. My body… a temple of the Holy Spirit? Honoring God with my body because I was bought at a price—the very blood of God’s own Son? Have mercy, I imagine it a good thing I didn’t fully grasp the breadth and depth of what that would mean for me on the front side of 2010. It’s only now, standing on the backside of an almost indescribable year of suffering faith that I’m even able to hold a bit of insight along these lines. I imagine I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make the puzzle pieces fit together neatly, but I am confident that they will… fit. One day… on the backside of my earthly tenure.
Until then, I’m going to be busy with God’s business… with the sacred trust that’s been entrusted to me. No more couch livin’ and ample tears because I’ve handed off the responsibility to someone else. Instead, the clippers are in my hands for the trimming. For the mattering. For the needing. For the belonging to something… Someone bigger than myself. For the only purpose that truly matters on the front side of my living this thing out—
to know God and then out of that knowing, lead others to know the same.
Therefore, I no longer regard anyone from a worldly point of view. I view them from God’s point of view and that, my friends, is a rich perspective from which to anchor a year’s view.
Entrusted. Oh God keep me faithful to the truth I’ve been given. Keep my brothers and sisters as well. As always…
Peace for the journey,
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Chemo #7 {a forward moving faith}

Chemo #7 {a forward moving faith}

Guess who stopped by the chemo lounge today? A necessary piece of the puzzle named “chemotherapy”… I thought it important they come. They certainly were a hit with the other patients in my area.
My video is longer today; my words many, therefore, I’ll not write much here. Thank you for your prayers and for walking this long road with me. We’re not home yet, but we’re getting closer with every passing moment. These are good days to be God’s kingdom warriors. Keep to it.

Peace for the journey,
Merry Christmas {from afar}

Merry Christmas {from afar}

Merry Christmas, friends! Below you will find our annual Christmas letter; a few of you may have received one in the mail, but I wanted the rest of you to have it as well. I hadn’t planned on writing one this year; life got busy and crazy all in one breath, and I was using this reality as my excuse for not having to write one. But then while out walking a couple of weeks ago, God impressed one phrase upon my heart, “from afar.” I had no idea where it would take me when I returned home to put pen to paper, but the following message was the melody of my heart that afternoon. I release it to you today, believing that someone out there might need the witness of these words. Now, off to spend time with extended family and to enjoy the blessings of day. Shalom! (PS: Thanks to Shirley for painting this beautiful landscape for my Christmas cards this year.)
 
                                                                                                               Christmas 2010
From afar.
How tenderly that moment must have unwrapped for the Father as he sat with his Son in contemplation of what was to come. The waters were covered in darkness, teeming with possibility and promise and waiting in anticipation of the spoken word from the Word that would bring forth everything from seemingly nothing. There they hovered together, imagined and created together and thought about all of the ways that events could unfold, would unfold. And in those moments, a single moment came into focus for them. Not the Bethlehem one; the Calvary one.
From afar.
Calvary seemed a long time in coming in those pre-dawn hours before creation; perhaps thousands even millions of years removed from the artistic pulse that stirred within them. Still and yet, as it arrived on the palette of creation’s landscape, it paused their thoughts. Perhaps even pained their hearts, because they understood just exactly how much that moment would cost them both. How much it would break a mother’s heart. A disciple’s heart. A people’s heart. Their hearts. Even still, they pressed forward.
From afar.
And years later when Bethlehem dawned, the angels rejoiced. A mother cradled her gift and cherished the responsibility entrusted to her to love him beyond limits and to raise him in the fear and admonition of Almighty God. Surely there has never been a more sacred birth in history. Love was full and sweet and beautifully captured in that moment… suspended in time for all the world to witness and to remember. And as the earth applauded and all of heaven chorused its approval, a Father watched.
From afar.
But perfect joy was filled with perfect truth. And perfect truth was filled with perfect knowledge. And perfect knowledge dug deeply into the perfect contemplations of the Father, and he held something in his perfect heart that separated him from the perfect joy of the moment—the perfect pain of what was soon to come. Suddenly, that creation moment from so long ago no longer seemed so long ago. And Calvary? Well, just around the corner for the Father and his Son, and I wonder, did they cry…
from afar?
Fathers and mothers get to cry over their children; tears of joy and tears of sadness are allotted to those  of us who carry our sons and daughters as extensions of our flesh. We celebrate the good news of a child’s impending arrival, chronicle it with all the joy and laughter of heaven, only to realize all too soon, that with life comes pain. Not just for us, but for our children as well. And we wonder how it will all turn out in the days yet unseen, the moments yet unlived.
From afar.
Forty-five years ago, a mother carried the promise of new life in her womb. And she, along with her husband, celebrated the gift and cherished the responsibility entrusted to them to love this baby beyond limits and to raise this baby in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Nine months later, Easter arrived, as did their daughter. And love was full and sweet and beautifully captured in that moment, suspended in time… at least for them. And a Father watched.
From afar.
But perfect joy was filled with perfect truth. And perfect truth was filled with perfect knowledge. And perfect knowledge cut through to the heart of the Father because he knew something that these parents didn’t know in those perfect first moments of her beginning. He knew what was to come… about her now, and still he let the moment press forward.
From afar.
How thankful I am that he did… that he let my life breathe into existence and allowed me my tenure upon this earth. How glad I am that he didn’t keep me from it… that he didn’t think it would be too painful for us all, too difficult a road for us to walk. That he graciously allowed me years’ worth of accumulated moments that have birthed into my now. That he didn’t stop the plan, even though he knew the plan would unfold painfully at times. That he deliberately entrusted my care to the life of my parents and then to my husband. That despite all the ways I’ve neglected his perfect truth over the years, he still made a way for me to hold onto truth.
From afar.
From a beginning moment in time when he and his Son didn’t stop the plan, even though the plan would unfold painfully for them in a season to come. For with the Father’s release of his Son to that plan… to a cross… he better enabled me to carry mine. Not nearly as heavy as his Son’s, but heavy enough to cause me to look for perfect comfort from his Son. And I have found it… full and sweet and beautifully enough to see me through this season, regardless of the terrain… regardless of how long or how short the road home to him stretches.
From afar, God watches over me, and from very close by, he walks in perfect stride with me. And Bethlehem is my portion. My advent. My moment by the manger, when I behold afresh Emmanuel… God with me. May it be so for each one of you this Christmas. As always…
Peace for the journey,

kneeling

Sometimes a heart gets so filled to overflow, it’s hard to know what to do with it all. I’ve had that problem all afternoon; not a bad problem to have. Better to be filled than be depleted.
Let me explain.
I began my morning at the cancer center, not for treatment but for a massage. In addition, I talked to my doctor about the persistent tingling in my fingers, especially my right thumb which has now developed blood blisters. As I’ve mentioned before, chemotherapy is not without side-effects. After my consultation, I was on my way out of the center when I noticed her—a sister cancer patient I’ve sat next to on a few occasions. I hadn’t seen her in a while. Chemotherapy and radiation treatments have taken their toll on this precious woman. The physical effects on her fragile frame took me by surprise. I had to stifle my shock.
Alongside her sat her husband. The effects of his wife’s chemo was also evident in his stoutly frame. Tears welled up in his eyes as I knelt next to his wife with words of comfort. He tried not to display his pain, but something released in him in those few moments, and I was undone with the suffering. It was palpable. Tenderly, I expressed to him my acknowledgment for the hard work he was doing alongside his wife and thanked him for his perseverance. I looked them both squarely in the eyes and said, “You can do this; by God’s grace you can do this.” I hugged them both, wished them a “Merry Christmas” and made my way out to my van.
I choked on my tears while driving home. Cancer has multiple victims; not just the ones who are carrying it in their flesh. Caregivers suffer as well, sometimes at a deeper, less communicable level. Their outlets for pain are limited, but it is, nonetheless, very real and tender and true. Sometimes they deserve a closer look from those who sit on the outside of the inner, cancer circle. Sometimes they need our knees, our hugs, our prayers, our compassion… every bit as much as the patient does. They need to know that they are not alone as they walk this road of companionship with their loved one.
I know this one, because I’ve witnessed the need in my own companion… my husband for the journey. Some of you know him as Preacher Billy. Some of you call him friend. Some of you simply realize that there has to be a better half to my household, and in this season, I’m willing to concede the honor to him! I don’t know what I did to deserve such a man like mine, but I believe it has everything to do with grace and God and his Son’s death to self so that I might fully participate in the divine nature. Tonight, I stand amazed at the beauty of such a gift; not just for me but for all of us who know the unmerited, unconditional love of another.
Maybe not through a spouse, but through a child. A friend. A parent. A relative. A neighbor. A co-worker. Regardless of their connection to you, you have known their love in lavish measure as they have cared for you, some days in spite of you. You’ve never had to ask for their love. It simply arrived on time, in time, and filled with enough time to service your needs.
On paper, such love doesn’t compute. Selfless loving makes little sense to a world’s mentality that says “What’s in it for me?” Never once does unconditional love focus on self; instead, this kind of love puts others ahead of self, content to bring up the rear with little fanfare or notice. Caregivers often fall into this role, believing that their come-alongside participation was a role they were destined to play, without condition.
I imagine all of us could think of someone who fits this role in our own lives. If not for us, then for someone we love. This is a good time of year to remember them; to stop in our tracks long enough to kneel down before them and ask a few questions. Wipe a few tears. Offer some encouragement. Acknowledge some of the pain. It’s such a seemingly little thing to do—pausing to notice suffering. But for the one on the receiving end of your concern, it means a great deal. In many ways, your acknowledgment validates their courageous decision to participate in a loved one’s pain.
I don’t know what my kneeling accomplished today; it does, indeed, seem like a small thing in the grand scheme of my friend’s pain. But I know what it means to me to have my suffering acknowledged. And I’ve watched my husband benefit from the same consideration. It means everything to us, and I don’t want to go through the rest of my days skirting around the issue of human pain. I want to be invested accordingly, as the Lord determines in the days to come.
I want to be a kneeler. I want holes in my jeans and dirt on my knees because of my willingness to bend and to bow and to say, “You can do this; by God’s grace you can do this.” Sometimes it’s the best gift we can give to one another.
Our knees, followed by God’s word of grace.
Would you bow on behalf of another today? Would you be willing to notice the pain of those who are suffering in the flesh and those caregivers who most closely suffer with them? Perhaps God is prompting your heart in this very moment to move into action. Don’t wait until tomorrow. Do it now, and tell them, even as you remind yourself…
“You can do this; by God’s grace you can do this.”
You can do this, my friends, and because of God’s grace to you, the suffering souls of this world have now become your charge and keep. They need your love. Kneel now; kneel often. Kneel low, and kneel always in the strong and mighty name of our Lord Jesus Christ. You give to the King when you kneel to his grace. As always…
Peace for the journey,
~elaine
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