Empty hands

I had coffee last week with someone who has just finished treatment for cancer. 

It was an incredibly uplifting conversation. It's clear that God really can bring something wonderful out of the most depressing and ominous of circumstances. The cancer was stage three - it had spread to lots of lymph nodes and the doctors have no way of knowing whether it has crept further on still in the bloodstream. Time will tell. 

Isn't that the human condition? Time will tell. We don't know. Technology doesn't know. Modern medicine doesn't know. The best that we can offer is 'time will tell.' And we think we're really clever. 

And yet, in that inexplicable way that we hear about occasionally, it's not all bad news.

The cancer has brought this lady closer to her family. She understands her body more than she did before and has learned to listen to its needs with more care. She has been forced to reassess her priorities; both in terms of tasks that need doing with limited energy, and also on a larger scale, not knowing what the rest of her life looks like; what is really important? She has been in receipt of such care and kindness from the people round her that she now knows that she is loved after years of doubting it. 

All these things are precious gifts. I wonder, is it possible to receive these gifts without the imperative of grave illness? 

I found myself nodding in agreement as she spoke of priorities, of understanding the important and the trivial and learning to tell the difference, and yet I wonder if it's really possible to see such things as they are from a position of full health (as far as I know; time will tell). 

Is it? Is it possible?

We spoke of those moments where something that you've always 'known' becomes real heart knowledge - the moment that the penny drops. The eyes widen slightly; something falls into place. You turn to another person and tell them of the mini-revelation you've just had and they look at you, bemused, because yes, they've known that too, but they don't see like you do. It's obvious... and yet it suddenly means something wholly different and more profound. 

The realisation that this is not all there is.

This life can be full of joy, or full of pain, or a mixture of both and many other things, but when you're in a place of grief and loss and fear and helplessness, it's a tremendous comfort to know that this is not all there is. CS Lewis said in his Narnia book 'The Last Battle', I think; this life is only the cover and the title page of the story of our experience. It's only when we reach heaven that the real story begins. A lifetime seems long (though only time will tell) and yet it is just fleeting in comparison with eternity, where the story will begin in earnest, and each chapter is better than the last... 

The realisation that any sense of control we have in this life is an illusion.

When all is well and life is trundling along uneventfully, we think we have everything sorted. All is well. I know what today is like, what tomorrow is likely to bring. I have plans. I know what I'm capable of, and I am full of hopes and dreams and expectations.  I want to be in control more than anything. I want to be able to decide what I do, what will happen and when.And then... I am not well. The doctors will do their best and my body will do it's best to handle the medicine that might be worse than the illness itself, but suddenly tomorrow is not guaranteed after all. Suddenly the hopes and dreams might have to be shelved. Suddenly I can do nothing about any of this. I am even too weak to climb the stairs unaided. 

When I open my hands to Jesus because there is no-one else, and nothing else to do (because I've looked around for something else - anything) I find that my hands are empty. They've always been empty. I've been grasping tight in my fists... nothing. Holding on to something that never existed.

My hands are empty. 

I am trying to be fit. I am trying to lose weight, to eat healthily, to get exercise to feel and look better. I think it's working a little bit - last night at swimming I paused at the end of my lane to catch my breath and I put a hand on my heart and felt it beating so, so fast - and I thought to myself how grateful I am that it can do that. I ask it to pump oxygen around my body faster, faster, more, more.... and my heart rises to the occasion. That is a miracle, and I can't do a single thing about it. One day it will stop beating completely, and I can do nothing about that either.

(I hope I'm not in the pool at the time.)

I'm not trying to be morbid or focus on the inevitability of death, though I imagine perhaps that's how it sounds.  As we had our coffee and my friend told me how different the world looks when you have a diagnosis of cancer, it was not a pathetic, frightening thing, though both fear and sadness were things we discussed. The 'penny-drop' moments that she described made me realise one thing, and it's a good thing, a reassuring thing, a very, very precious thing. Really, it is. 

Our lives are in His hands. 

In His hands, and there is no safer place. They are not our own, and we take every breath because of Him. 

I read somewhere one of those pictures with inspiring words on it that someone created, and it said, 'When Jesus is all you have, that's when you realise that Jesus is all you need.' 

When you have no certainties left - when your very life is threatened, none of the things we chase after in our affluent western world; wealth, position, influence, comfort... those things don't seem important. Not even the good, wholesome things like health, family, love. None of them will help when we glimpse death, and told that he might be coming soon. No, only one thing comes into clear focus, and that is Jesus. 

The only decision we make that truly matters is this. To open our empty hands and lift them to Him. And, as my friend testifies, the treasure that He fills them with makes us realise that we have never before known true riches.

That's what's real. 

Make it alright

"We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." 
— C.S. Lewis


I like this little quote, and for the most part it's true for me, but I could do with some explanation as to how stuff that's going on at the moment is exactly the best for me. Or for Katy, or for Bryan or Elizabeth or my Mum. It doesn't seem to make sense to me at all. I don't want it to be painful. Why does it have to be painful?  Does it have to be? Why is it, sometimes?


We went to the hospital for a scan, Katy and I, this morning, and the consultant sonographer, if that's his title, pored over the grainy little image of her bump and declared that it was smaller (hooray!) but still needed removing, in his opinion (hmmph). It has changed shape and now might have a fistula which heads somewhere deeper in her neck, but looks as if it might be an abscess, now, not a lymph node or a gland or a cyst. The truth is they still don't know, and despite it's slightly shrunken appearance they're taking no chances.  We see the consultant maxillofacial surgeon tomorrow and she has the final say. The surgery date is booked for June 3.


What will be the state of play with other things by June 3, Lord?  Will all be well, and all we have to concentrate on is little Katy and her operation? Or is life going to come crashing down again tomorrow? How many worries am I going to have to cope with all at once?


What is it all about?  Character building?  I know that you can bring good out of any situation but I just don't see why we have to have so much crap for you to bring good out of. I know that you can manage it from a standing start so you don't have to allow all this to go so wrong just to bring about something good. To be honest I thought that this year was trundling along just fine and I was making progress without the necessity for adversity to toughen me (or my family) up. There's been so much that's gone wrong this year and I've done so well so far, haven't I? I thought I had, anyway. But it's just getting a bit much for me now.


You know that bit in the Bible about sharing in your suffering? Of course you do, you wrote it. How can anyone want to share in your suffering?  I don't understand.  I don't want to suffer.  If I have to, I will, as I have no choice, and I'll go through it clinging as tightly to you as I can, but to stand up and say, 'I want to share with you in your suffering,' - I don't understand it. I am considering the possibility of impending suffering right now and I want no part of it. I want you to sort it out; take it away. Does this show you how inadequate I am as a Christian? Isn't it normal? I am apprehensive, pessimistic, anxious. I might have something wrong with the body in which I live and I'm afraid. I'm not embracing it with any enthusiasm. Surely that's not possible. 


I know that you are my friend and that you love me. I know that you love Katy even more than I do, and you want the best for us all. I just don't like it very much right now. I've just run into my two lovely ceramic penguins with the vacuum cleaner and smashed them into several bits and it felt like the last straw. 


While we were away it was easy to put all this on a back burner because life in a hotel near the sparkly sea with the sun shining and all the family around isn't real life in so many ways.  I knew as we drove away and left the sea behind that coming back was going to be a bit difficult but these three days since we got back have been interminable.  And now it's Wednesday night and tomorrow is Katy's appointment and then mine and I don't know what happens after that and the fact that I don't know leads me to explore the possible outcomes far too much for comfort. 


I met up with an old, old friend for coffee yesterday; someone I hadn't chatted with in maybe twenty-five years; and before then when we were both at school we had a somewhat stormy friendship at times.  We had a lovely time talking and found experiences in common over the last few years, and she told me that she, too had had scans for breast lumps and also had one removed.  And both had been fine. You work in mysterious ways, Lord God. To bring someone like this back into my life and for me to receive some comfort from that source particularly is a wonderful thing. Healing. 


It brings me back to the 80% of breast lumps are benign thing. That leaves one in five that are not benign. The likelihood is that it's nothing. I'm even starting to bore myself.


I'm tired and snappy and I've just broken a couple of ornaments that were special to me. My youngest daughter is going to see a doctor tomorrow who stuck a needle in her last time and may well do it again, before making arrangements for her to be anaesthetised while they operate on her. And then me - tomorrow has the potential to be a reason for great celebration, deepening anxiety, or who knows what?  Forgive me for being cross and argumentative.


I don't think that this is my finest hour. I'm not accepting my lot with stoicism and grace, am I? I know the 'Why me?' thing could just as easily be 'Why not me?' but I don't like it. I'm not having a good time. 


Take it away, Lord, will you?  Make Katy better so she doesn't need surgery and when they see this lump of mine tomorrow just make it clear that it's nothing to worry about. Then I can get on. I can go away this weekend with Ruth and everyone and concentrate on you. I won't let you down. Well, I probably will, but I'll try not to. Oh dear, I'm bargaining now.


I give you all my anxiety and worry and sleeplessness and fear and uncertainty and melodrama and patheticness.  I give it all to you because you know what's coming and you will be at my side when I find out for myself. Father, please hold me up and give me your peace; the sort of deep, deep peace that isn't shattered to smithereens if someone tells me something devastating. Hold Katy close as the doctor prods and pokes and talks about her over her head to me. I know she understands so much more than we think; she must be anxious and worried and frightened too. She doesn't know what's coming, and neither do I. We're in the same boat, my Kate and me. So walk alongside just as you always do and I might dare to say it'll be alright. Let us feel you with us, please. I'm Katy's mummy but I'm your little girl too.


Because I do trust you. I know that you love me and my daughters. I know that you love my Mum and Bryan and my family altogether. I know that there's nothing I could go through that you haven't been through. You did it without doubting and without whimpering. Help me to do that too. 


You know, if its alright tomorrow, Lord, don't let me forget this. Don't let me forget this feeling of uncertainty and helplessness; I don't just want to throw off my reliance on you because I feel in some mistaken way that I'm back in control. I want to continue to hand it all over to you when the day is sunny as well as when it's raining. I want to be what you want me to be. 


I just want to be well and take care of my children and get us through all this so we can move on to the next thing. 


Lord, here's Thursday. Make it alright.

Let's not do it yet, please

Oh God. It's probably going to be alright.

I know that statistically it's more likely to be alright than not alright, but I'm anxious nonetheless. Who wouldn't be?

I went to the GP last week with a lump in my breast and he examined it and told me that he was unable to reassure me.  I haven't detected any reassurance from you either, unless you count the warmth and concern and love of several wonderful people that you have put round me; so I suppose you have indeed reassured me, but you haven't said anything clear about whether or not this lump is cancer.

I feel like I might come out in a cold sweat just talking about it. My Grandma, if ever she needed to say the word 'cancer' in conversation, used to mouth it silently as if speaking the word might bring about something horrific.  Grandma was very superstitious. I'm not, but I still find that I don't want to talk about it very much. Still, I talk about everything else, so why choose right now to shut up, hey?

It's probably going to be alright, isn't it?  80% of breast lumps turn out to be non-life-threatening. The other 20% turn out to be life-threatening. Of those 20% of unfortunate people, I've read statistics about one, five and ten year survival rates, but I can't take it in. Why are there no statistics stretching further than ten years from diagnosis and treatment? I don't want to think that I might have ten years left; that's nowhere near enough. I was expecting thirty or forty more. 

I'm frightened. Last week I saw the doctor, did a load of errands, fetched the girls from school and nursery, spoke to people, wrapped presents and packed for our lovely weekend away and generally got on with things, but there was one evening where I sat at my computer where I'd been googling 'breast lumps' and 'biopsy' and so on and suddenly I was engulfed in a wave of fear. It was fear, not anxiety, not sadness - I was terrified.  It lasted about twenty minutes and I was cold and I cried and I trembled. I planned my funeral (and saved it as a Word document). Over and over in my head I kept hearing that I might not see my precious girls grow up. It was awful. And all unnecessary if next Thursday goes fine and the doctor sees straight away that this lump is nothing sinister. Of course, it's probably going to be alright, isn't it?

We went to Southwold for a weekend by the sea to celebrate my Mum's 80th birthday and it was lovely. We met up with the other half of the family there and we all paddled together and skimmed stones and drank coffee and ate fish and chips and walked and laughed in the sun and it was so easy to put all my worries on one side because it was a weekend away from reality. It really felt unreal. Coming home has been a crash landing and I'm bruised and hurting and I can't think straight. I can't be sensible. My imagination is in overdrive.

I feel as if I'm sinking. When I was away I slept fine (when the children let me) and last night after we got back I spent most of the night awake. All I can think about is this lump; I keep touching it, or sitting with my arms crossed in front of me as if I'm trying to protect myself. I'm finding it hard to hold a thought in my head; they sort of slither away and my conversation is more distracted than ever. The end of a sentence seems to slip out of reach while I'm still trying to concentrate on the beginning. And all because the doctor said he couldn't reassure me.

'It is a worry,' he said.
'I'm going to refer you as a matter of urgency,' he said.
'I have referred people before when it looked bad and it turned out to be nothing...'

I didn't hear the 'turned out to be nothing' bit, just the 'when it looked bad' bit. So it looks bad, then?

But you know that, you were there.  I know you are close to me because you've said you will be and you don't break promises.  Forgive me, Lord, if I'm finding it hard to formulate prayers. I'm not thinking very straight. Not that my prayers are usually particularly eloquent, but at the moment they are very staccato and consist largely of, 'Let it be alright, please'. 

I keep looking it up on the internet or in books. I keep googling different words and seeing what the statistics say. I always do this; it's how you made me. I need to learn all I can about everything. You've seen my bookshelves. Books on getting pregnant, books on pregnancy, books on birth, books on babies, books on feeding, books on childhood, books on behaviour, books on schools, books on everything I've ever needed to learn about. As if knowledge and understanding can stop bad things from happening or make them better when they do happen.  Ha.

Does it help? Yes.
Does it solve the problem? No.
Am I more prepared? Yes.
Am I reassured? No. 

I've said on several occasions that sometimes I get a glimpse of the wonder of heaven; and I know that an eternity with you is going to be amazing. Part of me longs for that; and those times when I do find my eyes opened to see and taste it for a moment, my soul sings. But not yet. I thought I would look after my girls, and be the best wife I can be, and take care of my Mum, and turn more into who you want me to be, to do something for you here, first.  I haven't even got to the bottom of what's going on with Katy's lump yet! I've got to get my littlest girl through surgery first, please, Lord. This is a bad time for me, Lord. There's too much. I don't want to do it now. 

I don't want to do it at all, please. Early on this year when I became so aware of your working in my life I wondered exactly what it was you were preparing me for - to begin with I thought there was something specific - a job, a role, a mission.  More recently I thought maybe you were healing me, changing me, developing me to be all I could be. I didn't really think that I might die any time soon.

But it might be nothing. Probably it will be alright. Won't it?

I have a two hour appointment at the hospital on Thursday. A biopsy and a scan or two. I don't know when I'll get results. I'm hoping I won't have to wait over the weekend. I'd like whoever does the scan to take one look and say, 'Ah, this is nothing! Don't you be worrying about it one little bit,' if that's ok. Something so obviously not sinister that I am reassured and all is well.

Lord, please take this away. Don't leave it hanging over me. For someone with a chronic anxiety problem the spectre of cancer is looming very large. I don't want to be ill. What will happen if I do have something serious?  How can Bryan do his work if I am sick enough to be unable to take care of Elizabeth and Katy? Mum can't do it all. How can I keep getting up in the night and keep going all the time if I'm having horrible treatment for something? Even if it all turns out alright and they cut the lump out and it hasn't spread and they discharge me from hospital, there's always the possibility that it might come back to finish the job. For someone like me, how do I live like that? Is it some way of getting my attention? Is this some lesson in coping with worry? If I have to live my life under the shadow of recurrent terminal illness, I will need to learn to deal with it, won't I? 

But you don't work like that, do you? You don't send misery to teach people lessons. So can I speculate that you might not choose to take it away so that I can prevail against the odds and turn more closely to you? Is that you bringing good out of a bad situation? If so, I'm not liking that set up, if you don't mind. If it's all the same to you I'd rather bring glory to you by a miraculous healing, or by means other than life-threatening illness. I can do something with my life without cancer, please.

It'll probably be alright, won't it?  Everyone has a story of someone they know who had a biopsy and it turned out to be nothing bad. So it probably will be the same for me, won't it? 

I have plans, Lord. I know you have a plan for me, too, but I thought we were sort of thinking the same way on this one. My little girls are four and five, Father God. I have a long way to go with them. Please don't take them away from me. Don't take me away from them. Don't hurt them. Don't allow them to be hurt. I know I'd be ok; I'd be with you and there would be no more tears, but I don't right now understand how heaven could be so much better than cuddling my girls so close that we disappear into each other, their arms round my neck, inhaling their beautiful scent and hearing them say 'I love you Mummy'.

The idea that I might miss decades of that breaks my heart. I can't leave them. I can't. Please don't make me. I can't watch from on high as they grow up and do exams and go to university and get married and be happy and sad and afraid and celebrate and grieve and work and have children of their own without me. Please please don't let that happen. I love them so much. 

And Bryan? My Mum? My friends? I showed my funeral plan to a friend today and she read it and said something like, 'Yeah, it's good, but let's not do it yet, hey?' That's about it. 

I'm sure it'll be nothing, won't it?  Please let this lump be benign. Please don't let it be cancer. I don't want to have to come to terms with serious illness. I don't want to choose treatments and make arrangements to step out of life for a while because the medicine is worse than the disease. I don't want to lose my hair. I don't want to lose part of me. I don't want to get a season ticket for the hospital.  I don't want to be a statistic. I don't want to die. One day, I want to be with you. I do. 

But Lord, let's not do it yet, hey?