Back in the Fire

I think there is a delusional (perhaps hopeful?) perspective you have after you’ve gone through great tragedy. It’s something along the lines of, “I’ve had my major personal catastrophe. No more.” 

After you bury a child you want to believe you now walk around in a bubble of immunity. Surely I’ve paid my dues. Proved my faith. Now the Lord will protect me. 

Well, this side of eternity doesn’t work that way.

Anthony went in for his standard now-I’m-50 colonoscopy. No big deal. He figured he’d drive himself. Maybe Uber home. I of course insisted on taking him. I tend to overdo it like that.

As I sat there, my other waiting room companions were eventually notified they were good to go and could retrieve the car. Their loved one was all finished and they’d meet them at the entrance with the required wheel chair exit.

I knew something was up when they called my name. Instead of delivering the standard message, they invited me back behind that heavy, ominous door.

“I wish I had better news,” was what the doctor led with. 

Me too, sir. Me too…

The weeks that followed have involved questions about oncology and surgery and blood work and scans and all kinds of not knowing what in the world is going on. 

Oh, and waiting…

Cancer is basically the longest waiting room known to man. Waiting, waiting, and more waiting. And you know what? The chairs aren’t even comfortable.

Weeks consist of more questions than answers and too many what-ifs rolling through my mind. Lots of kind and generous offers from loved ones, “Let me know if there is ANYTHING at all I can do…”

(Um, can you teach my children to stop complaining and train them how to keep the kitchen counter clean?)

I’ve ventured through several stages of shock on this cancer journey. Disbelief, overwhelming stress, sleepless nights… Oddly, not unlike my grief journey which commenced almost exactly 9 years ago. (Yes, the irony of this consuming my September is not lost on me…) 

I trust in God’s sovereignty. And by his grace, I generally don’t struggle with the why’s of life. I learned those painful lessons years ago. There is much peace found resting in the hand of the great Author who writes our stories with or without our permission.

But I do struggle. With many things… The bills? And the kids? And a daughter at college on the other side of the country? And which doctor? And all these responsibilities? And schedules? And what if…? What if…? What if…?

 “For this very reason, make every effort to supplement your faith with excellence…” 2 Peter 1:5 

Excellence. 

I guess I always sort of thought faith was one of those check the box sort of qualities. You either have it or you don’t. 

Yes, I believe in God. Check. 

Yes, I trust in his sovereignty. Check. 

Yes, I know he will never leave me or forsake me. Check.

I feel like I’ve been through the fire here on this earth. It doesn’t get much hotter than watching your 6 year-old child take his last breath. And even though I came out limping and gasping on the other end, I still came out trusting in an Almighty God who redeems all things.

But then I read this verse and realize faith is growth and sanctification. An ongoing and continual process. And I have not arrived. It is never complete this side of eternity. My faith continues to need supplementing. I still have a goal. It’s excellence. And I certainly have not achieved this. 

So I keep pressing on. 

So when the doctor says its cancer, and the schedule for the week and the things to manage are piling up, and the weariness threatens to suffocate me… what is my faith in? 

I think the big things aren’t hard for me to trust God through. He’s taught me more than all the words in this world could articulate. My confidence is in his sovereignty.

But when the mundane begins to numb my senses? When the logistics of finances and commitments roll through my thoughts at night? When I have the emotions of four sweet children to navigate and process. I mean should a freshman in college have to struggle through the reality of a dad with cancer? Should a 6 year-old? 

The reality is, my faith needs a strong dose of excellence. And the harsh truth is, those doses come when the fire grows hot and the road feels weary. 

Choices need to be made in these moments. Because it always is, in fact, a choice. 

What is my hope in? Clear test results and happy children who never argue? Good doctors and a freezer full of meals for the hard weeks? Organized plans for a class I committed to teach back before Cancer shoved his ugly head into our world? Circumstances that are predictable and manageable and peaceful?

My hope is in eternity. And the reassuring truth that every weary road on this earth will one day end in a destination better than I ever could have imagined.

My faith is in a sovereign God, who doesn’t turn down the heat of our trials, but walks with us in them. Who strengthens and fortifies and shapes us into something excellent. 

A God whose presence will always be enough.