Category Archives: cancer

surviving…

Funny how life seems to be laughing at me sometimes. Trust me when I tell you the hilarity is a one-sided affair. I don’t find anything remotely amusing about the predicament I’m in—a responsibility given to me months ago and one I willingly embraced when called upon. Little did I know back then what would be required of me to follow-through in the “right now.”

This coming Sunday.

Me, the keynote speaker for Cape Fear Valley Hospital’s annual Cancer Survivor Picnic.

And here’s the funny part—the moment where the joke cycles back on me. Where the taunting begins. Where the fullness of my previous “yes” weighs heavily upon my back and filters through my mind like shrapnel released from an exploding cannon.

It doesn’t seem that I’m doing very well with my surviving… cancer or otherwise. Some days are just getting through days; some days just pushing through days. Some days just wondering and wandering through days. And I feel so ill-equipped to say much of anything on the topic of survivorship. Certainly, I’ve had a few ideas over the past several months; I’ve chronicled a great many of them before you. But today, just a few days away from Sunday, words fail me.

And that is a very hard thing for me. Why? Because I don’t want them to be just any words. I want to mean them when I speak them. I don’t want to waste this occasion with my “blah, blah, blah” breast cancer dialogue. I want my words to speak better. To lift higher. To raise a toast to hope, not to the current getting through, pushing through, wandering through I’ve been feeling as of late. More than anything, I want to be a hope-giver, but friends, in these recent days, my heart has been living apart from hope. My heart has been simmering just above survival. And it’s been a confusing, confrontational mess.

I’m not sure what’s to blame. Maybe hormones, or lack therein. Maybe the summer heat. Maybe a full house and no room to think. Maybe an accumulation of a great many things. Regardless of the agitators, the end result doesn’t look much like hopeful survival. Rather, more like a gradual surrender to a deep wounding—to a healing process that is going to take far longer than what I had imagined.

Is survival really survival when so much hurt exists inside? When getting through, pushing through, and wandering through is the best you can do? Is that survival? Is that enough to move a day’s doing into the win column? Shouldn’t survival be based on more? Shouldn’t the qualifiers read better? Part of me thinks so; the other part of me, perhaps a lesser part, is willing to cut me some slack.

I’m having a hard time deciding about my days, friends, and I’m having a really hard time reasoning out the hospital’s choice for a speaker this year. I want to rise above the current confusion to deliver a strong confirmation about the hope that I profess to believe. I want this coming Sunday to count for heaven’s sake, not mine. Otherwise, what is the point? Really, what is the point?

Platforms are meant for Jesus; not me. Still and yet, there’s one awaiting my presence this weekend. A grace so undeserved, especially for one who’s just getting through, pushing through, and wandering through these days… wondering if my wrestling brings enough credibility to the discussion of true survivorship.

I know what most of you will say, my kind readers, and I appreciate your affirmation in advance. But I don’t want to just receive your words; I want to firmly believe them. I’ve come to depend on them, for we are the body of Christ. We are pilgrims together on this road of faith, walking side by side and held together by our strong foundation, Jesus Christ. You will be standing with me this Sunday when I step before the microphone and speak my story. You are part of my story, and even when words have failed me, you have not. You share in my survivorship, and I will carry your strength with me throughout this week.

Thank you for not laughing at me when I cry; thank you for not crying when I so desperately need to laugh. But mostly, thank you for giving me a safe place to release my feelings. I’m in a vulnerable position right now, a raw and uprooted place, but I’m still here… getting through, pushing through, wondering and wandering though.

Perhaps in the end, maybe enough of a definition of true survivorship.

Peace for the journey,
~elaine
PS: Winners for the notecards will be picked with my next post. There’s still time to join in; see previous post “PS:” for details.

relying on a miracle… {growing a boy into a man}

relying on a miracle… {growing a boy into a man}

“One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.”

So says Dr. Barbara Walker, commencement speaker at my eldest son’s college graduation this past Saturday.

It was a beautiful day; one of the best days of my life. Over the past twenty-two years, I’ve often wondered if we’d make it here—to this one moment in time where ABC’s, 1-2-3’s, and 16 years plus of learning would culminate into rhythmic chorus to “sing” to me this mothering refrain that I shall never forget. The depth and witness of this memory has seared into my soul and birthed in me a fresh perspective about my remaining days, mothering days and otherwise.

One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.


Where would we be without the daily, miraculous intervention of our God? Miracles come to us, most days without our ever acknowledging their worthiness. Certainly the big ones get the press—miracles of physical healing, relationships restored, prodigals returning home, financial blessing prayerfully sought after and received. But is that it? Are miracles limited to sacred flashes of light and bold strokes of God’s heavenly paintbrush? Can miracles birth outside the limelight of the spectacular and yet still hold the potent witness of the Divine?

Yes, I think that it is in these lesser staged moments when our reliance upon miracles bares its witness most profoundly. Our everyday living serves as the backdrop for some of the most weighty miracles ever given to us as God’s children. We may not recognize them as miraculous when then arrive on the scenes of our lives, but they are holy relevant and deserve a moment of prayerful, thankful, and humble recognition of the One from whom all miracles initiate. Accordingly, I take a few moments today to give praise for the miracle I witnessed over the weekend.

 

Some of you might not think that a child graduating from college is any kind of a miracle. I might agree with you if I wasn’t the parent who had lived out these last twenty-two years with my boy. But what would you say about this?

What about a child graduating from college whose parents are both cancer survivors? A boy whose father’s initial prognosis nine years ago didn’t grant him much hope beyond two years? A boy whose mother heard the devastating news that both of her breasts would be removed because cancer had taken up residency within her body? A boy who, at age five, navigated the critical, stinging pain of his parent’s divorce and who has, in recent days, navigated the pain of their life-threatening illnesses? A boy who’s changed addresses nine times in twenty-two years and who changed schools eight times before graduating from high school? A boy whose anger at an early age had his mother wondering if he’d ever cycle around to kindness? A boy whose strong willfulness would have James Dobson writing a second book on the matter? A boy who had to adjust to a step-dad… to live by his rules and to learn by his love? A boy whose bent toward perfection might have crippled his growth? A boy whose introversion might have kept him behind closed doors?

What would you say about him, especially if you knew him now?

No longer a boy, but a man named Nick. A man who, now, has cycled around to immense kindness. A man whose anger has turned into humility. A man whose will is tempered by his Father’s. A man who moves outside his introversion to skillfully function in an extroverted world. A man who is willing to live with one “B” on his transcript despite the “A’s” that surround it. A man who lives, loves, and laughs with all of his parents—biological and step. A man who honors his father and mother, his grandparents, and who actively invests his energies into the shaping of his younger brother and sister. A man who loves the Lord, serves the Lord, and wants nothing more than to be a man after God’s own heart.

Would you call that a miracle? Would you say that, despite all odds, his daily reliance upon God has given him a miracle? That his mother’s daily reliance has given her one as well?

I would say so. I do say so. I’ve relied upon the miraculous, keeping, daily grace of God over these past twenty-two years, and my heart tells me that I’ve just witnessed one of the greatest miracles I will ever know as a human being—

the miracle of growing a boy into a man.

There were days and seasons when I didn’t fully believe it would happen; but always did I rely on the greater heart and hands of God to get us here.

One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.

How is your reliance in miracles living this day? I pray that the witness and abiding treasure of my recent miracle will be more than enough to buoy you along in your belief. Rely on God with your everyday understanding and trust him for the outcome.

This one really blew me away!

Congratulations, son. I love you.

As always…

Peace for the journey,
Mom, aka ~elaine

standing near…

“The Spirit of the Lord told Philip, ‘Go to that chariot and stay near it.’ Then Philip ran up to the chariot and heard the man reading Isaiah the prophet. ‘Do you understand what you are reading!’ Philip asked. ‘How can I,’ he said, ‘unless someone explains it to me?’ So he invited Philip to come up and sit with him.’” 
(Acts 8:28-31). 
I returned to the chemo lounge this week for my bi-monthly port flush. While many of my cancer contemporaries have their ports immediately removed after their chemotherapy has ended, per the urging of my doctor I’ve decided to leave mine in for the next couple of years. The odds for my cancer’s reoccurrence are greater in that time frame, and I certainly don’t want to have to go through the surgical process of re-inserting the port. It was a painful experience for me (think of knives poking themselves into your neck); accordingly, I’ve decided to live with the inconvenience of my port for a while longer. Thus, the need for a bi-monthly return to the cancer center in order to prevent an infection in that area.
The last time I went there, I became physically nauseated when I made that left turn into the hospital parking lot; this time I did a bit better as I made the usual trek to my usual chair and waited for Nurse Angie (Sarah has since moved to Montana and is expecting her first child!) to prep me, poke me, flush me, excuse me—a process taking about ten minutes. This isn’t on par with my previous five hour stays, so there is little time to absorb my surroundings. But with this brief visit, I did notice one thing—one singular reality that struck me afresh and forced my heart to deal with one of the cold, hard truths about cancer.
It’s everywhere.
As I looked around the lounge at the twenty some faces that filled the chairs with their ample suffering, I realized that they were strangers to me—a whole new crop of cancer patients with whom I had no connection. Some asleep. Some dehydrated. Some reading. Some requiring the immediate attention of the nurses. Very few of them engaging with the process. Most of them keeping to themselves. And it made me tearful… made my heart hurt all over again for the reality of cancer and its debilitating effects. I wanted to hug each one of them; sit alongside of them; strike up a conversation, and leave a little bit of Jesus joy with my passing.
But I didn’t; really I couldn’t. I’ve passed the ownership of my chair onto others, and the hospital wouldn’t take kindly to my just “hanging out to be an encourager” especially since, technically speaking, I don’t have authorization to be there. So I left the hospital feeling sad; feeling lost; knowing that my cancer journey has made a huge mark upon my soul but has, also, left me feeling “hung out to dry” as it pertains to the days ahead. I don’t know what to do with it all, how to process its worthiness, how to take the lessons I’ve learned and how to graciously bestow them upon others… those cancer “others” who might benefit from having a “come alongside” kind of Philip at their side—someone who is willing to “step up” and help with the reading of life and truth and Jesus’ role in it all.
While re-reading the above passage of scripture last night (one of my favorites in all of the book of Acts), I was reminded again about the nature of the learning process—about what it is to be a teacher in the classroom of life and what it is to be student. Really, there are two types of learners when it comes to spiritual matters and otherwise.
The first learner is represented by the Ethiopian eunuch—a person longing to learn the truth, yet unable to fully grasp its meaning because of language barriers, historical barriers, familial barriers, religious barriers, traditional barriers. His upbringing hadn’t allowed him the privilege of first-hand knowledge. Thus, when it came to his understanding and the grasping of truth, he began at a deficit. It wasn’t his fault; it simply was his reality. Accordingly, he could have chosen to settle for current understanding—for the “reading” of the story without ever really engaging with its witness. This kind of thinking represents the first type of learner—a learner that never makes his/her way past the print on a page. A learner that chooses ignorance over understanding. A learner that never progresses past the first grade and that is willing to spend a lifetime reciting the ABC’s (a comfortable education) rather than moving onto writing those ABC’s into a meaningful manuscript (a sometimes less comfortable, more laborious and struggling education).
The second type of learner is also represented by the Ethiopian eunuch—a person longing to learn the truth and who is fully willing to accept the teaching of one more knowledgeable, more experienced—a teacher who is willing to come alongside, to step up into the chariot of elementary understanding, to invest personal energies, and to unfold truth in the light of practical, first-hand knowledge and experience. The student-learner who is willing to receive a helping hand as it pertains to furthering his/her education recognizes that, without the help of another, he/she is likely to remain stuck in earlier perceptions that will never really advance personal education. A wise student is willing to share the chariot with a teacher who has previously walked the desert road and who has leaned into his/her own personal learning as it pertains to all of life.
I have been as both learners on my journey through cancer. A student longing for truth but unable to fully interpret it because of never “having been this way before.” I’ve also been a student willing to allow a couple of teachers to join me in the chariot, because I understood that their previous learning would be invaluable to me in my own quest for truth. Like Philip, they have graciously “stayed near my chariot” and, per my request, jumped on board to answer all of my questions and to gently point me forward toward personal application of truth. I am a better learner and survivor because of their generous investments into my understanding. And I am grateful that when they, like me, looked around the “rooms” in their lives and saw a whole new crop of cancer patients, they didn’t shrink back from God’s calling to “stay near my chariot.”
It is my heart’s desire to walk in that same calling, for I have, like them, have walked this desert road. As I look around my “room,” I want to follow God’s promptings toward a chariot or two where I might invest this heart-hurt of mine—a stepping up and into the lives of other cancer patients who need the benefit of my previous education. A few people who might be willing to allow me some personal investment into their personal quest for the truth. It’s not always easy to find them, those who are willing to move past elementary understanding and into the struggling strains of furthering their education. Harder still, is finding someone who is willing to trust my desert heart with the teaching, but I believe that this is what God is calling me to—to stay near the hurting and to gently offer God’s grace, peace, and understanding for the journey ahead.
We’ve all been called to the same… to the “staying near” to a few chariots where we might be used by God to reveal his truth. Not everyone will invite us into their private confusion. Some are content to live within the parameters of their well-recited ABC’s. But every now and again, there will be a few who will bend to their learning, those who want to further the story and who will need the benefit of your previous desert walk.
They are everywhere… a whole new crop of confused and suffering patients in desperate need of our nearness to their pain. How I pray for eyes to see, ears to hear, hearts to listen, and then feet to step up… to stay up until the work of the cross is done. Even so, keep to it friends, and if you’re so inclined, let me know what chariots God is calling you to “stand near” to in this season of living. As always…
Peace for the journey,
~elaine
when "less" receives a helping hand…

when "less" receives a helping hand…

I’ve been feeling “less” today.
A lot less.
I think it has something to do with the seemingly “more” going on around me… in others’ lives. Maybe even in your life. I didn’t think anyone could talk me out of my feelings. They were pretty strong, fairly steadfast in their obedience to keep watch over my heart. But then I called her… told her I needed to talk to another survivor. And she talked me out of my lesser estate.
She reminded me about our enemy and his wicked intentions. His schemes. His craftiness. His willingness to tailor-make a trap for me. And then she said this…
The next time the enemy comes knocking with his lies, you rip open your shirt… you show him your scars, and you remind him of the price that’s been paid for your faith’s cultivation. There’s a story in your scars, Elaine. Write it before the Lord.
Her words stunned me, lifted me; challenged me and released me to the greater work of my faith. My heart is lighter now than it has been all day. A few well-spoken words from a sister survivor has made all the difference. She understands about faith’s scarring; she carries a few of her own. We’ve known a similar pain. We’ve walked a comparable path, and we serve the very same Lord.
And tonight, my heart is profoundly grateful.
For friends who know Jesus.
For friends who understand scars.
For friends who speak the truth.
For friends who answer their phones, despite what the Caller ID indicates.
Thank you for picking up the phone, friend. You didn’t have to, but in doing so, you’ve been God’s strength and love to me.
May we all, each one of us, add such strengthening and love to a friend in need this week. Never underestimate the power of a few well-spoken words on behalf of the King and his kingdom. He intends for his words to release their witness through his children.
Keep to it. As always…
Peace for the journey,
~elaine

 

PS: I plan on taking a bit of a blogging break this week, but I’ll be around to visit you as I can. Shalom.

a Word for all seasons…

I remember the day he broke my heart. After a week long vacation of exploring his neck of the woods and getting to know his family, he told me we were “over.” The next morning he drove me to the airport and put me on a plane headed north, back to my parents. I was devastated. Nothing… no words, no Kleenex, not even the kind nun sitting next to me could absorb my grief.
Some pains need some time to work themselves out of a heart. Perhaps you understand.
This particular pain would be no different. I spent the rest of my summer licking my wounds, even having thoughts of transferring to another college. My parents were wonderfully supportive. I don’t think they’d ever seen their baby girl cry so many tears. They loved me back to functioning health, and when September rolled around I made the one mile trek back to college (a hometown school) with a stiff upper lip and a gaping wound.
Asbury College was and still is a relatively small campus. Everybody knew everybody, and everybody knew—almost before returning to the fall semester—that I was suffering with a broken heart. There was a huge “elephant in the room” walking through the campus grounds that semester; everywhere I turned, he was there… not the elephant, but the boy that I loved. He quickly moved on to loving someone else. My heart’s pace walked a bit more slowly. And I never thought my tears would end.
But they did, and now some twenty-seven years down the road, I reflect on that season of my first heartbreak and just exactly where the turnaround began.
It began with the Word of God.
I’ve been a church girl all of my life… loved Jesus, known Jesus from the cradle. I’ve heard his stories, sung his songs, claimed his love, and walked some faith from the earliest of articulations. Along the way, there have been strong moments of clarity regarding my commitment to Christ, and my sophomore year in college would prove to be one of them.
As a teenager I began to lightly study the Bible. My youth pastor and his wife beautifully depicted for me what it meant to walk in discipleship with Christ; as a youth, I memorized a lot of Scripture as a requirement for participation in various missions’ trips. But rigorous Bible study wouldn’t happen for me until my late thirties. Up until that time, it was a gradual “heating up” of my heart and my developing a rich appreciation for what God’s Word could do for me.
In the fall of 1984, God turned up the heat a notch, and I found a scripture (perhaps it found me) that would become my saving grace for that painful season. I don’t know how I happened upon it, but as I did, I was sure that God had penned it into holy writ as a postscript just for me. I didn’t know what to call it then—“it” being when the Word (Logos) of God becomes a personal, spoken word (Rhema) to my heart. Thankfully, my lack of understanding didn’t get in the way of my receiving. Instead, I let it wrap its blanketing warmth around my heart. I quoted it over and over again until it became my certainty, and today (ever time I think on it or hear it quoted by another), I cannot help but attach a memory or two from that season alongside it.
It was the anchor that held me…
“Therefore, we do not lose heart; though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. Therefore, we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Cor. 4:16-18)
Twenty-seven years ago, my heart was in trouble. At eighteen years of age, that break-up was the largest “momentary trouble” I’d ever faced. I’m so glad that God doesn’t weigh out our needs before giving us his Scripture… as if some verses are reserved for those more sorely troubled. We’re blessed to receive the entirety of God’s Word as a personal anchor for all seasons, whether the heartache is perceived to be big or small.
My heart has moved on from the summer of 1984. My light and momentary troubles have changed over the years. There were more heart “aches” to follow that initial one, and as they arrived, even more of God’s Word to comfort and anchor my weary soul. But I’ve never forgotten that beginning “word” that helped me through that rough patch, and friends, I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the current “word” that has helped me through this recent rough one.
It “found” me in much the same way as 2 Cor. 4:16-18 did in 1984… almost as if God had penned a postscript into Scripture just for me. Even though I had read it before, I’d never read it through the eyes of personal suffering. It gripped me seven months ago. It grips me still. It has been and will continue to be the anchor that holds me in the days to come…
“And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen.” (1 Peter 5:10-11).
God himself… restoring me. God using the best of what man has to offer me, but in the end, God himself… restoring me. Renewing me. Making me strong and firm in my footing and steadfast in my faith. Father God laying brick upon brick between mortar mixed by his own hands, making sure that the broken walls before him are restored to a beauty not yet seen. A loveliness not yet imagined.
Many doctors, nurses, friends, family members, and even strangers have held my hands in recent days, speeding me on toward my recovery. But only One has held my heart, making me his priority and making sure that I arrive safely there. Only God is capable of such healing. Only God knows when enough is enough. Only God holds the words, writes the words, and speaks the words that can truly tether a soul to eternity.
Perhaps today you need a word from God as well. Perhaps you’ve already claimed one as your personal postscript from his hand. Perhaps you’d like to use one of mine. God’s Word is a foothold for all seasons, including all manner of heartbreaks, heart “aches.” If your heart is filled with ample tears in this moment, then God’s Word is you answer. It’s filled with truth; it breathes everlasting. Dig in and take hold.
To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen.
Peace for the journey,
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PS: A special thanks to Sheri for starting a scholarship fund for my attendance at She Speaks this year; I am humbled by her kindness.
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