A Survivor’s Interlude

30 06 2010

“The difference between school and life? In school, you’re taught a lesson and then given a test. In life, you’re given a test that teaches you a lesson.“

Tom Bodett

I haven’t posted in almost three weeks. In the beginning I was posting two to three times each week. It’s a bit of writer’s block, I suppose. I seem to have said most of what I had wanted to say on this subject, plus my life is in a constant state of flux so I’m in the process of thinking through where I want to go from here with this blog.

Photo by Clint Spencer Photography

There are really only so many ways to say that painful experiences have a profound effect on us, and that there are ways we survive and get through them with a new hope. I’m sure I haven’t exhausted them all, but I’ve covered many of the aspects of survival that I had intended for the encouragement of others.

As I’ve stated, we are all survivors, so hopefully readers have been able to identify with some of what they’ve read here.

I started this blog experiment with an explanation of some of the defense mechanisms we survivors use when life hits us with disappointment, disillusionment, and pain. I did this with the hope that fellow survivors would recognize some of these traits in themselves and take some comfort in knowing that many of us go through similar feelings and behaviors.

I also chronicled just a few of my experiences including the end of my ministerial career and first marriage. I’m still working through all of that and probably will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I will always be a survivor. Although I’d like to think that I’m well on my way to thriving rather than merely surviving, I often find myself slipping back into some of those survival instincts. So, I guess you could say I will always be a work in progress, too.

As I’ve mentioned, I believe I’m in pretty good company, biblically speaking. From Abraham to Jeremiah to David and beyond, God used many flawed individuals. They struggled with life around them, getting angry or depressed at times, but in the end, their faith and hope prevailed. That’s where I’ve been and where I am.

One doesn’t have to look far in this world to find struggles and concerns. But also, faith and hope continually rise above it all for those who seek them. “God is in control” is an unchanging fact of our existence, whether it seems that way all of the time or not. And whether we like what we see at times or not.

I am forever changed by some of the events in my life. Surviving and thriving isn’t always about “getting over it.” Sometimes our way of thinking about things is profoundly changed. And that isn’t all bad. It’s part of the personal “growth” that can result from life’s problems.

M.D. Anderson will be scanning my wife for years to come, always looking to see if there are more concerns to deal with. That’s the thing about cancer; it’s always in the shadows. But, we’ve elected to live our lives in victory, always aware, of course, that the monster might step out of the shadows back into the center of our lives.

Nevertheless, victory is always ahead of us. Always.

That’s what true hope is all about.

What do you think?


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When Does Surviving End?

6 05 2010

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, nor touched, but are felt in the heart.”

Helen Keller

(Copied from nurses’ station board at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center, Houston, Texas)

The short answer to the question, “When does surviving end?” is that it never ends. Not completely. However, we can reach a point when we begin moving on with our lives in a positive, healthier manner.

If surviving is a state-of-mind, at what point are we actually moving on? I believe it begins when we start to really care about something or someone besides our own issues and ourselves. Otherwise, we are just going through various shades of surviving. Caring is a huge move up from the self defense mechanisms of surviving.

Consider, however, that it is quite possible to demonstrate some caring behavior out of habit even when we are merely surviving. In other words, caring behavior and actually caring is not necessarily the same thing.

For example, you might give to your favorite charity or the church just as you always have but without that inner spirit of caring. It’s habit or a perceived duty. But, when you are truly touched within to do something outside of yourself and your situation, you are beginning to move on.

The key is a crack in The Fortress wall—a small opening in your defenses that can lead to caring again.

Photo by Ricardo Bissaco

In time, you might actually find that your life is somehow enriched by your experiences rather than constantly burdened by them. Suffering colors our lives with its own distinctive palate. And that’s not all bad. We can become a different person with a different outlook. Perhaps we might give to that favorite charity or even volunteer with a strong new feeling of compassion rather than out of a sense of duty.

I’m not sure this caring—the crack in the wall—is something you can put on your “to do” list and plan for. In fact, it is not something you “do” at all. But when it happens, when you start caring, you can know that God is using your own experiences to do a work within you.

If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember that a turning point for me was when I met someone whose situation shook me out of my personal issues. I knew something was different the minute I was touched by a woman I met who had cancer. Little did I know at the time that she would be my future wife. I had an unexplainable and powerful touch of compassion when I met Jane. For several years, I hadn’t cared much about anything, and suddenly a total stranger with cancer moved me. I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t trying to care. But it happened.

Something had changed. I was less defensive and concerned about what I had been through, and more concerned about this new friend and her fight against cancer. For some reason, which I attribute to the work of God, I wanted to go with her in her struggles. The feeling was made more intense as I got to know her and God began to use her to encourage me. Now isn’t that something! Here was a woman with a rare and deadly form of cancer encouraging me.

I’ll confess to you, however, that the almost two years of dealing with her cancer have caused my survival instincts to stay very active. The whole cancer thing lends itself to survival mode.

Now that Jane has had the major surgery recommended by her oncologist, and her latest scans are still clear, we have to actually start thinking about life without cancer. What a change!

Of course, she will have more scans every three months for the next couple of years and there is always the possibility of a recurrence, God forbid. Plus, the cancer left its marks—physically on her and emotionally on the two of us. But for a sweet time we are living without the cancer and all the treatments and issues that surround it.

The truth is that I am so used to living at some level of survival mode, that my mind and body are still working on instinct rather than reality. I have to somehow train them to see that everything is all right. Back off on the knee-jerk reactions to everything and live. Live fully. Abundantly. That’s what moving on to thriving is all about.


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Cancer on the Big Screen and the 18th at Augusta

12 04 2010

Cancer was front and center in our household again over the weekend, but in a very positive way. On Saturday evening, Jane and I went to see a movie called “Letters to God” (Possibility Pictures), and on Sunday we watched Phil Mickelson win an exciting victory at the Masters followed by a very touching embrace between Phil and his cancer-stricken wife, Amy.

“Letters to God” is a movie—filmed in part at the Arnold Palmer Hospital for Children in Orlando—about a 10-year-old boy with terminal cancer who writes letters to God during his illness. His spirit provides the redemptive path for numerous people in the movie including the mailman, but the most fascinating part of the movie to me, were the letters themselves.

His letters reveal how this kid copes with his imminent death and how that might impact his friends and family. It is humbling to watch no matter your circumstances.

The movie was a little “churchy” for my taste, but I was shedding tears along with everyone else in the audience. I identified with much of what happened in the movie. Mostly with the frustrated and angry mom and brother (Robyn Lively and Michael Bolten). Both reach a point in the story where the weight is just too heavy to bear and they lose it. At one point, Mom rebukes her own mother’s attempt to console her with Bible verses. I could sure relate to that.

The boy, Tyler (Tanner Maguire), and his young friend, a girl named Sam (Bailee Madison), are heartwarming. And the boy’s letters are amazing. No wonder Jesus said that unless we become like a child, we couldn’t enter the Kingdom of Heaven. I don’t think he had whiney, screaming childishness in mind when he said that. As you hear the letters of the dying 10-year-old, you will get a pretty good idea of what he does have in mind.

It would be hard for me to watch any movie about cancer without identifying with much of it. It’s the life Jane and I have been living for almost two years. The hurt, the anger, the doubting and pouting, I’ve been through it all. Little Tyler thrills me as he demonstrates faith with a sublime innocence. It makes me want to have that sweet and simple childlike faith again. I’m not sure I can find it. I think it’s in a box stashed away somewhere behind my collection of disappointments.

And then there is my wife Jane, who has awed me as she has faced down this cancer thing over and over again—tumor after tumor, surgery after surgery, chemo after chemo, radiation after radiation—with a faith that has a certain quality that’s rare and exquisite.

And that brings me to the Masters. Last year, Amy Mickelson was diagnosed with cancer and evidently underwent surgery in the summer. I don’t know much more about it than that, because it’s a private affair and I don’t really trust much of what I read about it on the Internet. Whatever she’s been through, it isn’t over. She was too weak to follow Phil in person during his play at the Masters and appeared only as he finished his last hole on the way to victory.

Evidently he was surprised to see her as he walked off the eighteenth green and embraced and kissed her in a very touching moment that couldn’t be hidden from the television cameras.

I was shedding a few tears as I watched the scene and sensed the rush of emotion go through them as they stood there holding on to one another. Perhaps only someone who has been where they have been could fully appreciate that that moment wasn’t about winning the Masters.

Go Phil. Go Amy. You da man!


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“Making Cancer History”

25 02 2010

The slogan for M.D. Anderson, the mega cancer research and treatment complex in Houston where Jane is now receiving her cancer care, is “Making Cancer History.” It is such a great line that I wish I had written it. I happen to like good lines with double meanings and this is one of the best I’ve seen.

M.D. Anderson is making cancer history daily in so many ways that it would be impossible to be aware of all of them. I’m pretty sure they are making cancer history with their research, the number of patients treated, the size of staff, and more.

The complex is so big that it feels almost like an international airport when you first arrive. Thousands of people from all over the world are congregated there on any given day, and they have one thing in common: they are carrying the weight of cancer. You can see it on their faces everywhere—the coffee lines, the food lines, the pharmacy lines, the physician waiting areas, the surgery waiting areas, the hallways—every place on every floor. I would describe the look as a strange blend of concern, cautious optimism, and restrained hope.

One day Jane and I were sitting in the waiting room of one of her surgeons. I watched a young woman sitting by herself. Waiting. Like everyone else, she had the look. I wondered about what she might be thinking and feeling. She reminded me of that first day I met Jane, and I wondered if she was facing this thing alone. I think she probably is. No one should have to carry the cancer weight alone. It’s heavy enough with help.

During our most recent stay at M.D. Anderson, I watched the very large surgery waiting area, down the hall from Jane’s room, fill up every day with families and well-wishers. Everyone waiting and wondering how all this is going to turn out. I repeatedly had this overwhelming sense that I wanted to make it go away for them. I wonder if the doctors and nurses there get that feeling once in awhile.

I found myself thinking about the other meaning of M.D. Anderson’s line. What if somehow M.D. Anderson (or anyone else) made cancer history by making it cease to exist? I thought about how that huge complex and all the people working there would suddenly have no purpose. We made cancer history, now what do we do?

It would be a miracle on such a grand scale, that as far as I’m concerned they could turn the whole complex into a huge place of worship. More practically, I suppose, they could move on to any number of other diseases and make them history as well.

In fact, what if we made divorce history? You say, “That’s impossible!” Well, they haven’t found a cure for cancer either, but it doesn’t stop M.D. Anderson from saying they are all about “making cancer history.”

What if we could make abuse history? Or, make addiction history? What if I could change this blog project to just “Thriving” and forget the surviving part? For that matter, what if we could make all sorrow, pain, and tears history? What about if we could make death itself history?

I’m getting carried away here, to be sure. If we could do all that, we wouldn’t need places like M.D. Anderson anymore. We’d be in heaven.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.[i]

[i] Revelation 21:4


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Surgery update… back to the top on the cancer roller coaster

22 02 2010

I mentioned at some point that I don’t intend for this to be a “journal.” Yet, since I posted about Jane’s major surgery that took place on Friday, I feel that I need to post an update. So many have expressed their concern and prayers for her.

Jane “sailed” through the surgery as she always does. She was in the OR for about 10 hours. Now, she is recovering very well. There is no word yet on when she will be home, but most likely she will be in the hospital for at least a week.

To say that we hope this will be her last surgery would be an understatement. On the other hand, in the cancer world “last surgery” can have more than one meaning. What we hope is that she is through going in for tumor removals and can get on with life as a cancer survivor rather than a cancer patient.

The expression “roller coaster ride” has probably been overused, but it certainly applies to our lives dealing with cancer and probably the lives of most others. The cancer is always at the forefront of life and depending upon the current situation, you are either high or low. When you find out about a tumor, you are low. When you get through another surgery successfully, you are high. When chemo makes you sick, you are low. When you are done with chemo, you are high. The cycle repeats itself, hence the “roller coaster” effect.

It’s difficult, but not impossible, to find an upside to the cancer. If I could change it, if I could make it go away like it never happened, I would do so without hesitation. Having said that, it has had a profound effect on the way Jane and I look at things. So much in life that seemed so damn important at one time just isn’t anymore.

When I observe people around me and the things that are so very upsetting to them, sometimes I just have to chuckle. When I read some of the posts on Facebook complaining about something, I have to resist the urge to comment, “But you don’t have cancer.”

The cancer has also had an effect on my faith—in a way that I can’t quite explain. In the past, I would pray for healing for someone, with cancer for example, and when it didn’t happen, I would accept that as the way it was meant to be and my life would move on as before.

Now, when I pray for healing, and instead Jane gets another tumor, I take it a bit more personally. I can’t tell you how many times after a moving time of prayer, we have said, “How can God not answer that prayer? Then, we get the news of another tumor.

I no longer accept these things simplistically. It’s not as simple as a problem, a prayer, and a God solution (or not). The journey—the roller coaster ride—seems to be part of the plan. God’s answer isn’t always an end result, but rather it is the getting there.

That doesn’t mean I like it. It doesn’t mean I don’t take the “answers” to my prayers personally. But I do have to look at things outside the box we tend to put God into. Otherwise, I would go crazy. So, I try to make sure I’m strapped in for the ride.


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God’s Plan for the Survivor – A New Hope

17 02 2010

There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.
That will be the beginning.
Louis L’Amour

Two years, ten months, and five days after I left the ministry, my eyes began to open. The hard survival instincts of my senses started to soften and my desire to have hope and purpose was rekindled. I met my wife, Jane. I met her in church.

I walked, with trepidation, for the first time into a Bible study class for older singles (it was in a room down in the church basement set aside for the old divorced people because we didn’t really fit in anywhere else) and there she was. She requested prayer that day, telling the group that she had been diagnosed with cancer and was beginning chemo and radiation treatments.

My connection with her was instantaneous, which I later attributed directly to God. At first, it wasn’t a romantic thing. But instead, I actually felt compassion. I hurt for her. Here was a divorced woman who was on her own (with a thirteen-year-old at home) who had been told she had cancer.

Would I have been so moved in any other context? If I had met her at the grocery store or in some pool hall would I have been touched? I’ll never know. But of this I am sure, it was part of God’s plan, his new hope for me, and I was certainly in the right place to be open to it.

God, who had comforted me in spite of myself, was now about to remind me that he had called me according to his purpose. And he would use a woman greatly struggling herself to do it.

Jane and I almost immediately sensed that our relationship was a gift from God. We were both pretty beaten up by life, and like two shipwrecked survivors clinging to a life raft, we were holding on to what God had sent us.

As we encouraged one another, this verse of Scripture came to mind for both of us: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”[i]

On any given day, that verse might not have moved either one of us in any extraordinary way. But for a woman with a serious form of cancer and a down-and-out preacher it seemed to be God telling us why we were together.

I’ve never known Jane without cancer. Not one single day. She had it the day I met her. She was going into her first cancer surgery the day I proposed to her. She had surgery the week we returned from our honeymoon. She had brain surgery the Monday before our first Christmas. And she has had multiple surgeries and treatments ever since.

In fact, she is going in for major surgery (an eight hour operation with several surgeons) this Friday at M.D. Anderson—surgery that was originally being done for the sole purpose of reducing the chances of further recurrence. This week, however, her surgeon, doing a routine pre-operative exam, discovered yet another tumor, so the surgery is now more than a preventative procedure.

Why did I ask her out in the first place? Why did I ask her to marry me for crying out loud? There is no adequate human explanation. God knew I needed someone just like her and she needed someone just like me. She was part of a new hope that God had for me, and I was God’s plan for her.

I will confess that the new hope and future we have embraced has been thoroughly tested. Friday will be her fifth cancer-related surgery and her sixth extended stay in the hospital in a year and a half.

Whatever the future holds, it is a good thing to know that the traumatic events of life, whether the result of our own doing or not, don’t eliminate us from God’s purpose. On the contrary, he takes our mistakes, sorrow, and suffering and uses them, usually in a whole new way.

There is a hope and a future for the survivor. Unfortunately, we are usually too pre-occupied with our circumstances and our pain to sense it. Be ready. You might discover it in some unlikely place like a basement. And she might have cancer.

[i] Jeremiah 29:11


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