Your time of testing is over

Sometimes I have a hard time discerning God's voice. And sometimes God gives me a phrase, a word, a thought or as I put it in teacher terms, a writing prompt, that I need to wrestle with and work through.  This is why I write.

 

And right now it would be one of those times.  Thursday's appointment at the University of Chicago was none like we've experienced.  It was impressive to talk to so many doctors and nurses that were specifically trained in Galen's cancer.  I wasn't talking to textbook trained doctors (nothing wrong with that by the way), or doctor's who learn second hand, but physicians who work in the laboratory themselves doing research.  It was unreal.

 

Anyway, our appointment went so well, and I'll spare you the loads of details, but I walked away feeling like God said, "your time of testing is over". And as quickly as I felt that, it went away.  And I've been wrestling ever since.

 

Galen still has cancer.

He will still remain under close supervision.

He still needs another bone marrow biopsy.

He still...

He still isn't healed.

 

But there was some unexplainable closure.

A weight was lifted.

Our proverbial flight had finally risen above the turbulent thunderstorm which is how our takeoff started.

 

Galen and I didn't talk a lot the whole way home.  We both felt that leaving that appointment, something was over. What?  That I don't know.  As we left the University of Chicago, something in my soul closed.

 

But after our consultation and appointment, Galen and I decided we no longer needed to be at Chicago.  It was great that we went, but there was nothing so unique about Galen's situation that warranted us to continue there.  It was decided by us, and agreed on by Dr. Larson, that our local oncologist is more than capable of overseeing Galen's care.  The way Galen is responding to treatment shows promise for the best possible outcome, outside of a miraculous cure.  In 18-24 months, they predict Galen's cancer could be reduced to 99.95%.  That last .05% is where they don't have enough research to fully understand why 50% of people will relapse, and 50% experience what you'd say, cured.  We got the best possible news though.  Galen is responding incredibly well to his treatment.  It seems unfair to call what we've gone through cancer because it's only signs have shown up on CBC reports And that's why we have every reason to be thankful.  They have been able to locate the source of Galen's cancer through research done over several decades ago.  They pinpointed it's root in his DNA and then they figured out a successful way to prohibit the cancer from continuing to grow by the treatment of a prescription.   We have been blessed to not have experienced the weightiness of the physical toll cancer can wage on your body.  It hasn't been smooth sailing, but to call what we've gone through cancer doesn't seem fair.  Anyway, to get Galen to 99.95% disease free it will take a while to get there.

 

And for some weird reason, with all this information, that day I felt a release.  I felt I could breathe.  I felt like I could say, yes, okay.  Not that my faith rests in science or medicine, but for some reason I felt this season of "testing is finished".

 

But even as all these statistics floated around our minds, I felt I had reached the end of a chapter.  And as anything ends, it is an invitation to reflect.  For the remainder of the drive home, I found myself lost in my thoughts.  Glancing in the mirror, to see what I had learned. Did I pass the test, God?

 

I still don't know what I heard originally.  I just don't know.  Did God really tell me my time of testing is over?  Am I done fasting?  I had been praying about that last week, just really needing God to reassure me that He wanted me to continue to fast.   The last thing I want to do is to be disobedient or even worse... just break God's heart.  I know I disappoint Him anyway.    I know I make mistakes.  I fall short of God's holiness every single day. I certainly don't want to deliberately do it.

 

And I know God's grace covers me, but I just want to do the right thing. 

I just want to make Him proud. 

And I just don't know what making Him proud looks like right now.

 

 

Choices

I think about it everyday.

 

Like a lurking beast, it's always there.  Caged, yes, by the powerful treatments, but nonetheless....

 

There.

 

Because of its' presence, all our decisions have to consider the fact of "its'" presence.

 

We take off work.

We alter our meals.

We make appointments.

We consult experts.

We read.

We ask questions.

We pray.

 

Praying is just about the only thing that relieves my soul from the anxiety or worry of cancer. And I sit here, feeling full well the peace of God, but coming to a new realization.  It's a choice. I can choose God's peace or I can become a captive and live with fear and anxiety.

 

At home, at work and just about every place I am content.  However, I find myself so easily frustrated with the medical world.  It can be tangibly seen as we start our drive to the next appointment.  The office is the place where my frustrations reside.  I get frustrated because I have to make choices I don't want to.   Not one choice we've made has been easy.  The road is gray, bleak and full of complications.  It's not easy to discern the "right" treatment path. There is no correct answer. ONly a best guess or attempt. There is no cure. And even if there were, and Galen was cured, the shadow of its' tombstone still exists, reminding you what once what caged beast lived.

 

And I find this unacceptable.

I hate it.

I hate "this".

Cancer, just go away.

 

We wonder about expanding our family, God-willing, and will I be left to raise these children as a single mom at some point?  Will this treatment and care deplete our funds in a way we cannot support our family? Ugh.  Why do I keep going there? 

 

I know I keep saying it, but it's not a one and done deal.  I don't experience peace once and I'm "good to go" for the duration of this journey.  Every day is a choice.  Every moment.

 

And the battle wages *every*single* day in my mind.  Peace or fear.  Contentment or anxiety.  Gratitude or complaining. What will it be today? What will it be now?

 

I go to the doctor's office, often times, more aggravated than not and that's frequently the time I forget about my "choice".  Despite whatever went wrong (and it has), whatever didn't happen (and it hasn't) or whatever question remains unanswered (and void they linger), I have an option.  And the act of choosing peace seems so easily lost, derailed by all the medical jargon, time spent waiting and unchangeable circumstances.

 

Yes, I need to exercise wisdom.

Yes, I need to be educated about this disease.

Yes, I need to be proactive and an advocate.

 

But sometimes I need to stop thinking it's all on my shoulders, that it's all my responsibility or that we have complete control of the unknown. And sometimes I just need to trust God and silence the what if's.

 

My God is greater than this disease.

He can heal if He so chooses.

And His wisdom is far more supreme than the greatest amount of medical knowledge out there.

 

At some point, we will all make our exit off the grand stage of life.  It is a fact.  And realistically, Galen (or I or you) could get hit by a bus tomorrow and what will worry have brought to my life?

 

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

 

I cannot add a minute to my life by allowing worry into my life.  Only it will have robbed me of joy, peace and a heart of gratitude.   I have been keeping a journal of thanks recently.  A dear friend gifted me the book 1000 Gifts by Ann Voskamp.  She challenges her readers to have a heart of gratitude in spite of your circumstances.

 

In spite of your 28 year old husband of having cancer.

 

 

And I wish I could insert some amazing spiritual wisdom here.  But I don't know what that is or what it looks like.   But I do think I can relate to Paul in the New Testament when he says this, "I have learned how to be content with whatever I have.  I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything.  I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little" (Philippians 4:11-12).  C.S. Lewis even said, "If you think of this world as a place intended simply for our happiness, you find it quite intolerable: think of it as a place of training and correction and its not so bad."

 

And I hear the theme so loudly ringing in my mind.  I need to learn.  My situation doesn't need to change. I do.  I need to learn to trust, to be joyful, to accept the peace I am given and be thankful.

 

So I will choose to trust, in spite of every thing I don't know.

I will choose peace, in spite of living out one of my greatest fears.

I will choose to be thankful, because God is good. 

 

He is so, so good.

Amen.

 

"It is well with my soul"  

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

Refrain

My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought—
My sin—not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

Refrain

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

Refrain

But, Lord, ‘tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh trump of the angel! Oh voice of the Lord!
Blessèd hope, blessèd rest of my soul!

Refrain

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so—it is well with my soul.