Sunday afternoon. Church services attended. Noon meal consumed. Momma & Daddy napping. A beautiful spring day and I am in no need of rest. I am young and love to explore, walking randomly as my mind fills with dreams as beautiful and airy as the clouds waltzing their way across azure skies.
I tell no one where I go, not knowing this myself. The family dachshund, Buster, follows. Being full of energy and nosiness, he loves an adventure as well as me. I say nothing, enjoying the silent comrade as he swishes through the growing brush; watching as he jumps above vegetation taller than him. I know he searches for rabbits.
We make our way across the pasture behind the house, then, across plowed fields further west. The exercise feels good. The sun’s heat is like a gentle hand placed on my shoulder, urging me toward the tree line that follows the Middle Sulphur River. Back then, it was a creek to me. It seemed too narrow and shallow to be a river. Rivers were big and dangerous; swift of current, gurgling up debris swallowed up by recent storms. This river was humble and boasted no such excitement. It’s debris consisted of trash thrown off a nearby bridge. Shallow pools separated by dry earth were its bottom. It was here that my brother and I sometimes fished for the mud catfish that survived in meager waters.
The trek through the thick brush to get to the banks of the river was something only the determined would attempt. Mesquite trees with long, dangerous looking thorns and innocent-looking vines with needle-like stickers reached out and grabbed at my sleeves and pant legs; often penetrating and leaving hair-thin red scratches on my skin. My arms reached out and bent tender limbs as I made my own path. I ducked my head and sometimes felt the pull of my hair as it got caught.
Finally, we reached the river. We made our way down the steep bank and headed north. I knew this direction would lead me to the wooden bridge that spanned its width, where the trees bowed their heads together above and filled me with awe. I did not take into consideration the winding course the river took. What seemed to be a short distance, took much time to cover; like a winding road up a mountain. I had not counted on the pools of water, either, that I would have to skirt which meant climbing up and down the steep banks of dirt, holding onto tree roots and vines to keep from rolling back down again. Buster was not bothered with this, but simply splashed his way through; cooling off and enjoying a good shake as water sprayed around him.
A sense of fear came over me. I felt that it was taking too long to reach the bridge. The darkness of the wooded area fueled my imagination. What if I got bit by a snake? What if I fell and broke my leg? No one knew where I was. They wouldn’t even be alarmed until supper time if I didn’t show back up at the house. The joy I had felt at being on my own had been overshadowed by the fear feeding in my head. Not wanting to go back through the brush, I trudged forward, carefully watching each step, although trying to quicken my pace.
Finally, the old wooden bridge came into view and the fear left my mind like a window had opened up for it to pass through. I climbed once more up the steep earth and made my way to sit on the edge of the bridge, dangling my feet over the side to take in my victory. Buster took it all in stride, ever hunting and scouting. He came to my side panting his happiness. He knew we would be fine all along.
I used to run. Not this attempt I call “running”, now. Real running. Real racing. Legs pumping, goal reaching, side-stitching powering forward. Definitely not the fastest. Certainly not the best, but I loved it.
There were fears I faced: not winning, not pleasing Coach Felty (whom I wanted to please like a father), not doing my best. The thing I feared more than these was the handoff; that part of the relay when it was your turn to hand the baton over to your team-mate. What if I dropped it? What if we lost precious seconds because of me?
We all have a handoff moment in our earthbound journey whether we run, or not. There comes a time when we pass what we know, what we learned, what we feel to those whose turn it is to carry on the race.
I remember when my father was on his last stretch of the track. I spent hours with him, caring for him, watching over him. He sat in a chair at the table, unable to find comfort, afraid to lie down. He wanted a cigarette in his hand and a piping hot cup of coffee in front of him to sip on. It was never hot enough and the cigarette was rarely puffed on. The weight of his sickness didn’t allow him to enjoy even these vices that used to bring him pleasure. I wanted him in these moments to speak to me. As I sang hymns to him in the dark, I waited for his words to me. They never came. He did teach me to play a domino game called Moon. To my shame, I can’t remember how to play it. I don’t know why it was ever important to him to teach me.
This thought came to me in the middle of the night, while I should have been sleeping. It nagged at me until I got up and dealt with it. I think we didn’t have a handoff moment. I think Daddy was more like someone in the crowd, cheering or a teammate, running along-side me to encourage me to do better. Daddy was a dream-chaser like me. He taught me that I could learn to do anything I wanted by reading a book or finding someone to instruct me. He taught me this by example. He also taught me to love God. I saw his struggles with being a christian. I know he wasn’t perfect. No one is, certainly not someone who loves life as much as Daddy did. There is always that fence waiting to be climbed, torn down, or simply sat on.
Being the control freak that I am, I want to take charge of my handoff moment. I want to tell my children now, while I am full of life and not distracted by pain or death some things that I need them to know.
I love you. I love you all and I love you all the same. I know children think that is something parents just say, really having a favorite, but this is my truth. From the time I knew you were in my womb, I was thrilled. When they placed you in my arms, they placed part of my heart right there were I could touch and care for it.
I know I made mistakes. I’m sorry. I’m also sorry that you will make mistakes with your own children. It is part of what makes us one of God’s creatures. I hope that you know that even so, I never wanted to do anything, say anything to hurt you.
If you don’t learn anything else from me, I hope you learn this: God loves you. Yes. You will screw up and make a mess of things from time to time. It is never too late to turn to your Maker and ask for forgiveness. He is never further away than a prayer, a earnest cry.
I tried to keep your ancestors alive for you through the stories I told. You may have tired of hearing them, but I hope you will remember. I hope that you will carry them forward like a treasured heirloom. Keep them and pass them down.
This is your baton. Hold tight to it while you run your race. Don’t forget to release it when it is time. Your children are standing there, panting with excitement, waiting for their turn. Their “track” may not be as easy as yours was. The world is a scary place. I don’t envy the environment they are being released to. Let them see that you will meet them where they are and that you will be there when it counts. I see you, standing there waiting for me. There are not any hands that I would want to pass my baton on to, more. God blessed me with three beautiful souls. I know you will run faster than me. That is why God put you where you are. A good coach always puts the fastest runner last. Now, go!
“…and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus…” Hebrews 12:1-2 (NKJV)
To others that may read this, other than my own children, I hope you take some thought about passing your own baton. Maybe there is someone’s forgiveness you need to ask. Maybe there is someone to whom you held a great love, but never told them. Maybe you know a soul that doesn’t know Jesus and your heart aches with the Spirit’s urging to speak to them, to share the story of your Savior.
Not long ago, my mother told me that she, like me, had waited for some word or instruction from my father. She honored his request to be cared for and to die at home. This was at great cost to her. In the 1980’s, hospice came about once a week. My father’s cancer was quick in its work and my father suffered much because there was no one there who was qualified to monitor his pain medicine. He was never put on morphine. His pain was excruciating and Momma did the best she could. They spent all their final time together. She never got the words she craved.
After his passing, she searched the house, going through books and papers, drawers, everywhere she thought he might have hidden a last letter to her. It was never found. It was never written.
I believe flowers are better appreciated by the living than by the dead. All the money we spend on funeral flowers to ease our own suffering could have just as easily be spent on flowers that they could have enjoyed. Imagine your loved one receiving a beautiful bouquet of their favorite flowers with a note written in your own hand. See, in your minds eye, them smile as they read your words, as they press their nose in to the soft, velvety petals knowing that they are loved.
We have the power to spread so much joy. I pray that we will all take the time to honor that gift while God lets us hold it. How do we best honor it? By giving it away.
“And remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Acts 20:35 (NKJV)
“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” Proverbs 25:11 (NKJV)
I recently found out that someone close to our family has been diagnosed with lung cancer. This information, on top of my own mother’s battle with leukemia, lymphoma, and lung cancer over this past year, has left me thinking a lot about the disease. I know many of you have dealt with some form of this rotting, wasting, life-eating illness either yourself, or with a loved one. I realize the word itself provokes nightmarish fears for us and those we care about. My heart aches with each mention of it.
The year I turned 45, I was given the diagnosis of chronic lymphocytic leukemia which had already enlarged most of my lymph glands. I dreaded the diagnosis I would hear after one year of tests and a previous diagnosis of fibromyalgia. A dark cloud hung over me as I celebrated my grandson’s birthday, my youngest daughter’s glorious fall wedding on top of a mountain in Arkansas, my 45th birthday, itself. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. So much life to celebrate. I tried, but I was exhausted.
In between my birthday and Thanksgiving, I received a call from the surgeon who had done my biopsy. It was late in the afternoon. My friend, Marian had come to help me at my shop. Unpaid, she worked and held me up. When the call came and they insisted I come to their office that very day to talk to the doctor, I told Marian, “This can’t be good.” She said, “I’m coming with you.” And, she did. We closed up shop and drove about an hour to get to his office.
Once there, the doctor very gently told me the lymph gland was malignant, but if you have to have cancer, this is the best kind to have. “We caught it early”, he said. He referred me to an oncologist who in turn recommended bone marrow biopsies. This lead to a specific diagnosis of CLL and gave him a course of treatment to recommend. Dr. Kirby, kindness himself, said, “You can get another opinion, but this is what I would suggest to a member of my own family.” I told him that I believed that God was in charge and that this whole process had led me to him. I talked it over with my family, did my research on the proposed drugs, and decided to go with the chemotherapy regimen.
Ignorance is bliss—isn’t that what they say? I had done my research. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what was on my bumpy road. I sat in a recliner one week of the month for six months, tubes and needles feeding me poison and antibodies, playing card games with my oldest, pregnant daughter. She drove all the way from Arkansas and spent those weeks away from her beloved husband to keep me distracted and upbeat. My other children had jobs that prevented them from being there for every treatment, but they did many thoughtful things to give me comfort and were there for me when they could be. My grandchildren were like a golden trophy held out for me to obtain and live for. Once my course was set, I trusted God.
The poison went in and did its work. It killed off the cancer cells, but was no respecter of cells. It murdered the good ones as well. I received shots to boost my white count. They would rise weakly, only to fall flat on their faces. They were pooped. I had asked too much of them. It was during this time that death started to look like my very near future. Maybe I should have just rested knowing that heaven was on the other side, but I am a weak sinner. I love life. I love my family. There was so much that I felt I hadn’t done.
I read a book and found out about a holistic clinic in Dallas. They didn’t accept insurance because insurance companies won’t pay for holistic therapies. I felt like hope was wrapped up in their treatment plan. I was to detox and eat only certain foods, plus take supplements. I was a good patient and followed their plan to the letter. By the time I went back for my blood work at Texas Oncology, my blood count was finally out of the danger zone. Finally, I could do things, normal things, like go the movies, stay in my pew if someone had a coughing fit in church, floss my teeth, go shopping, shave my legs without worrying about cutting myself. It has never dipped back down. I am still in remission.
I wish I could say that I learned my lesson, that I take super-duper good care of myself, eat the perfect diet, do yoga and meditation, and pray…well, I do pray and I do half-heartedly try to be good. But, that “loving life” thing keeps getting me.
Well, like I stated from the beginning, this has all been on my mind—a lot. Thinking one thing usually leads to another and I’ve come to this conclusion, right or wrong. I think that cancer is like sin. There I’ve said it! Just mull this over: all of us, according to scientists, have cancerous cells dormant in our bodies. It plays nice with all the other cells, pretending it is harmless. Then, one day, you let the stress of business, children, marriage, or some other illness get you down and the evil cells say “Whoo-hoo!!! It’s time to take over, boys!”
Our souls, pure from birth, develop cracks like our skin develops wrinkles. Sure they are just tiny little cracks at first. You can’t even see them. Oh, but Satan is so tricky! A crack is all he needs. Just like cancer, or the opposing poison in my veins, he wants to take over. He sees that crack and waits, patiently waits until you open it just wide enough for him to get his wedge in. He works at it until he himself is in and BOOM, before you know it, the cancerous sin is trying to take over. Keeping sin at bay is a lot harder than fighting off cancer. A lost battle with either one is serious, but which would you rather lose—death to the body, or death to the soul?
How do you fight it? Same as cancer, friend. You get down on your knees and ask your God for help. You let Jesus’ blood wash you clean. And once He gets it out, you fill that space back up with Good. Let God’s Spirit direct your path. Stay on it. Stay in the Word. And if you wander off, (like I, to my shame, do) you fall back on your knees. God loves you. He wants you at home, just like my family did. He will be faithful to lift you up if you come to Him and worship Him.
I realize that all who want a cancer cure will not find it. I know many battles will be lost, because let’s face it, we all have to go some way, don’t we? I know this sounds extremely harsh to the ear. I am sorry. We may wish we could pick our fate, but all is not in our hands. The good news is, God has laid out a plan. He is the Kind Doctor. He knows what will heal our souls. Get out a bible, if you haven’t already done so, and see what treatment plan He has prescribed. Then, follow His steps. He will lead you to eternal life, where there is no sickness or dying. Isn’t that the healing we all really need?
“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” Revelations 21: 4 (NKJV)
Romans 6:3-5 says, “Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”(NKJV)
NEWNESS OF LIFE…personally, I like the sound of that!
