We have a big, beautiful maple tree in our front yard. It’s a vine maple, with huge, leaves. Every Autumn, we rake the leaves, make huge piles, and dive into their crispy depths. We love the tree.

When Bryan’s brother comes to visit, part of the tradition is that he takes a family picture in front of this tree. He has been doing it since his son Matthew, now 18, was an infant. And we laugh about it because he always does it on the last day, minutes before he leaves, so it’s always a rush, and people are always a little crabby about it (mostly me) and Bruce gets really flustered and funny. It has become a lovely family tradition, and we have eighteen years of beautiful photos depicting the growth of the tree, and our families.

Sadly, our tree has been gradually dying. This summer didn’t produce very many leaves, and we decided that it was time to have someone look at it. Bryan called in someone who knows about trees, and he confirmed our fears: the tree was sick, and needed to be cut down. Enormous limbs were dry and brittle, and he feared that if we didn’t remove the tree, that it would pose a danger in the winter months when around here, the wind blows six days out of seven. Really blows.

So, we talked to some people, and made some more calls, and booked someone to come and remove the tree. Remove it. From top to bottom. And then drill out the trunk. Until the only thing left would be piles of sawdust.

And we looked around, and decided that since they were taking out that tree, they may as well take out some other trees that had grown too big, and were now looming over the house, dropping cones, and needles, and branches on our roof; the roof that we are replacing in a couple of weeks.

It made sense to us.

But then we made a really big mistake.

We discussed our plans with every one who came over. That’s just what Bryan does; he is an oral learner, and it helps him process information if he can discuss it. Plus he is naturally very chatty, and he likes to get other people’s input.

We didn’t notice that at each retelling of the photos tradition, Anna became more and more intrigued with the tree. She asked if there were pictures of her near the tree. She remembered that it was one of the first trees she had ever climbed, and she noticed that the Robinsons were also cutting down some of her climbing trees. She has always been uber-interested in sickness and disease, and she obsessed about the tree.

“Daddy, what is wrong with the tree?”
“It’s sick, Anna.”
“But what KIND of sickness does it have, Daddy?”
“I don’t know, Anna – just a sickness that trees get. YOU can’t get sick from the tree.” (Lots of reassurance on this, because she always thinks that she will be infected by someone else.)
“I know that, Daddy.” (very scornfully.) “But why can’t the tree get better? People get better when they’re sick, right?”

**Yes. We should have had red flags flying high by now. Yes. We should have realized that this wasn’t really about the tree any more. Yes. We should have reined in our own talk about the tree, and how sad we were about cutting it down.

But we didn’t.

I had just had a treatment.
It was the first summertime treatment, when the kids couldn’t escape to school, and leave the sickness behind.
It was the first treatment without Elvera who makes them laugh.
It was the first treatment where Bryan was alone in the house, with a sick wife, and two frightened children. (albeit, children who for the most part, manage these fears very well.)
Our defences were down.

So, the day came for the tree cutters to begin. They were going to do the maple tree first, and then move on to the fir trees.
It was day three after treatment, and I was in bed, with a very foggy head, and no energy. In fact, I hardly noticed the noise, and I certainly couldn’t muster up any emotion. Disengaged – one of the worst side-effects of chemo; especially when you have an emotionally needy seven year old.

The saw began to cut, and Anna began to weep. And wail. And dissolve into a heap of hysterical seven-year-old on the floor.

Bryan came into my room, white faced. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.” he gasped. “I think we should make them stop.”

I gazed at him blankly; unable to process his words. Finally I grasped the meaning. “No! We’ve done all the discussion, and we need to cut down the tree. I don’t want to have to go through all this again. Why are you trying to make me think today? I can’t think today? I can’t make any decisions today? Go away!”

Nice.

So, Bryan phoned Laurie, and burst into tears on the phone. He had just had enough. And neither of us had ever really done any crying over this round of cancer. We hadn’t had time. Once we returned from Spring Break, we were launched into this crazy rollercoaster ride of hideous CT results, and toxic treatment, and hospital visits, and more. Bryan hadn’t had time to do his customary talk through, and processing. So he was just done. Even more so than Anna.

So, he sobbed.

And then Laurie sobbed.

And then, in typical Laurie fashion, she found some help.

Gord showed up ten minutes later with Timmy’s coffee and doughnuts. And they walked around the yard, and talked about the projects Bryan had planned.

I’m not sure when in the timeline he called a halt to the cutting, but when I came to my senses a few days later, I realized that the maple tree was still standing in the front yard. The top was gone, but the bottom was still there: the photo part, the climbing part.

“Hey, what up with the tree?” I said.

He looked at me sheepishly, and said, “I just couldn’t do it.”

And Anna came up and wound herself around me and said, “Daddy saved our tree, Mummy. He says that trees don’t recuperate when they are sick, but I think trees can recuperate, don’t you, Mummy? Because if people can recuperate, then trees can recuperate, right?”

And in a blinding flash, I saw that this had never really been about the tree at all; it was about me. And cancer. And a little girl who needs to believe that things get better when they are sick; a little girl who needs us to hope against hope; a little girl who needs us to choose life.

I looked over at Bryan, who still looked a bit sheepish. “Wow. You made the right choice. How did you do it, when everything was falling apart at the seams?”

He said, “I couldn’t break my baby’s heart.”

So that tree is now standing topless in the sunny patch of our front yard. It is more than a testimony of family, and growth, and good times. To me, it is a symbol of a father’s love for his child. I try to imagine sometimes, in my lesser moments, the expressions on the guys’ faces when this deranged father came stumbling out of the house calling, “STOP! STOP!” And explaining that he had changed his mind. It makes me laugh a little… and cry a little. Because I know that what people thought of him would never be a consideration that Bryan would entertain.

A symbol of a father’s love for his daughter. His desire to care for her heart; to protect, and nurture, and hold her safe.

A symbol of hope. Maybe the tree, (having been refined not by fire, but by saw), might sprout some new branches next year.

Like me.

Later, we were talking as a family, and everyone was catching me up with what had happened while I was away on chemo. And for awhile, it was all about Anna, and how she had suffered over the week with her many griefs.

But finally Nathan spoke up. We had never heard what he thought about the tree. He had never said anything.
But now he said to his sister, “Anna, a tree is like a person. If one person in your family is sick, and won’t get better, you have to look around, and find another one to help take it’s place. You should have looked for another tree.”

Knife to the heart.
Twist.

I looked at this profound little man, comprehension dawning on my face. All summer long, I had noticed that Nathan had begun to be very affectionate to the women in our life. Lots of hugs and snuggles. He has never been a snuggler with any one but me – not even with Laurie. But, suddenly he was snuggling everyone: Laurie, Elvera, Shannon, his aunties. Like he was looking around to see who might be able to give him the snuggles when he needed them; to see who could take the place of a mummy who has to leave.

My heart is going to break.

On the one hand, I’m appalled that my ten year old has such thoughts in his head; and on the other hand, I’m proud and happy to think that he is so mature, so profound, so aware of reality. I’m thankful that he has clear vision, and that he is taking initiative to form relationships that are going to be crucial to him in his future.

But it is one one those things that has shaken me up. A couple of days ago, I wrote about MY dream for the summer: to forget.

But events AND people (mostly unintentionally) have conspired against me, and have forced me to remember.

And THAT has shaken me up, too.

Because there must be a reason why.

And I hate not knowing.

But now again, I’ll have to suck it up, and take it to God, and place it once again in His hands.

Along with my tree, and my husband, and my children, and my friends.

And I’ll retreat once again to my hurricane llama where we can rest secure in the palm of God’s hand.

It’s a good place to be, even in the summer.

That’s not entirely true. I do think I hear Him through scripture. I think He directs me to verses, and speaks clearly through them.

Maybe I just don’t have the confidence to state clearly, “This is what the Lord said to me…”

I wonder if it’s linked to what I was talking about in my last blog. Maybe my mind is so filled with these idols I’ve erected, that I am blocked from hearing Him – or maybe just too full of my own stuff to listen.

And even now, I see that the deception has led me to focus once more on appearance, and not on what is really happening, which is a fight for my survival. – a fight for my healing, and the banishment of cancer. I’ve been so absorbed by the loss of beauty that I haven’t been paying attention to the other things happening around me. How is that for sad?

So, the other day, when a friend wrote to me, and said that she had a sense of urgency about prayer for me, I was taken aback. Who am I, that someone should pray so earnestly for me? And yet, there are literally hundreds of people fasting AND praying on my behalf. Faithfully, earnestly, DAILY. People I don’t even know! It’s overwhelming. I don’t even think I pray for myself so earnestly. So daily.

In fact, over the last few weeks, I haven’t really been praying at all for myself and my healing. I feel as though I’ve been asleep, or drifting aimlessly. Part of this is because it is summer, and summer tends to be an aimless sort of time; but I think part of it is that I want to forget that I’m sick; I want to play in the sun, and go to the lake, and have dinner with friends, and do all the summertime things I always do without thinking of my body and its disease.

So, I’ve drifted.

And maybe I’ve drifted because I’ve been focussed on the wrong thing.

I remember one summer when Bryan was concerned about two things regarding our house. One was a small leak that had developed on our roof, and the other was the need to paint some of the rooms inside. So, one concern was functional, and one was cosmetic. Needless to say, I convinced Bryan, against his better judgement, that painting the rooms, and making them pretty was MUCH more important than fixing the roof. Appearance was more important than function.

I focussed on the wrong thing. That winter the leak grew, and by the next summer, we had to replace the entire roof, rather than patch just a corner.

So when I say that I’ve been asleep, I wonder if my aimlessness is due to this idol I’ve been talking about; I can’t see reality clearly because my eyes and sensibilities are so clouded. Or, maybe it’s been a deliberate closing of my eyes to truths, or questions I haven’t wanted to face.

When people ask me how I am, I always say, “I’m okay”, or “Well, we’re taking one day at a time,” or something suitably vague like that. Because, the truth us that I don’t really know how I am. I don’t know if the chemo is working, I don’t know if the cancer is shrinking, I don’t even know most of the time how I am feeling because so much of how I’m feeling is because of chemo, or the drugs – so it’s difficult to say what part of my discomfort is because of chemo, and what part is because of cancer, and what part is because of being tired of it all, and wanting some reprieve.

So, I don’t know how I’m doing.

And I think I might have convinced myself that I don’t really care. I think maybe I made an almost unconscious decision to suspend those kinds of questions until summer was over. Certainly, I didn’t want to think about them on Hornby Island. I didn’t want to be ill, or discuss my illness on the island; I just wanted a holiday. I had one day when I felt very fatigued, and ill. I couldn’t explain how I felt, and I didn’t want to embrace it – I wanted to ignore it, and I resented my body for having the effrontery to let the cancer have a part of my time with the Robinsons, on our island. Part of the problem was that when I feel like that, my brain is very foggy, and I feel isolated and alone, and I can’t articulate my thoughts. So, while I wanted to let people in, I couldn’t do it, and the day ended up as a disaster for me (and for anyone else who figured out what was going on.)

But, for the most part, we were pretty successful in putting cancer away.

And then we came back. And I had to have chemo two days later, when we were still basking a little bit in the afterglow of holiday time.

I cried when I walked into the hospital.

Two days later, Anna had a breakdown (more about that in a blog to come).

As a result, Bryan had a breakdown while on the phone with Laurie.

A week of sleeplessness made Laurie hyper sensitive, and she had a breakdown.

It was a bit of a disaster all around.

For me, it wasn’t really worse than usual, except for the fact that it was so difficult for everyone else in my family. The beginning was hard, but apart from that, things went about the same for me. What WAS hard was that Bryan, Anna, and Laurie were struggling so much, and I was completely unable engage in their struggle, OR do anything to help them. The chemo makes me disengage with my emotions, and makes me very foggy, and unaware of others. So, when I came to my real senses a few days later, and realized what had happened in my absence, I felt that I had abandoned my family.

And then things started happening. People started asking questions about my treatment, and my future; about decisions they thought I needed to be making; people began e-mailing me, telling me about visions they had seen, and dreams they had experienced. Before I knew it, my doctor was calling, and asking me to make decisions, and giving me choices I wasn’t ready to make.

I was confused.
And a little angry.

The whole point was that I didn’t WANT to make any choices. Not in the summer. Not when the sun was shining. Not when I didn’t know where those choices would lead. I didn’t WANT to know. I wanted to pretend that it was summer as usual at the Glum home.

BUT, as I read more e-mails, and talked more rationally with the people around me, I realized that God was working, and that if I wasn’t careful, I would miss what was going on. Other people were clearly hearing from God on my behalf, and I had better listen.

And that’s when I realized that I been out to lunch for a few weeks. God had been moving, but I hadn’t noticed.

A couple of weekends ago, several people had dreams and visions, and upset sleep patterns all focussed on me. One friend had a vision of the cancer in my body; she took it and squeezed it; over the course of several days, she continued to squeeze it until there was nothing left but a dry, white stone; she crumbled that to dust, and then she plunged her hands into a cleansing stream, while reciting verses of healing that the Lord had shown her. Another friend saw my liver, and there was a demon on top; he asked the lord if there was a demon of cancer; when the Lord said, “Yes,” my friend said, “Well, that demon has no business in Sandy Glum,” and he cast it out; he says that out of the corner of his eye, he saw it leave. Another friend hasn’t slept for weeks, and we think, now, that her sleeplessness may have been due to some spiritual warfare that had been happening around our families. Many people have written to me with verses about healing, and several people have said that they feel a sense of urgency; that God is ready to move. Many had verses that God had given them over the week, and some of the verses coincided with verses that God had given me throughout the week.

I began to listen to God.

So, today, I have some ladies coming by to pray for me; and tonight I have some high school students coming to pray. These kids have been reading about healing miracles, and have been praying for me for months; and so when they called and said that they had a burden to pray for me, and a real sense that they need to come over and pray for a miracle, I told them that they should come soon; that God was working; and that others were feeling the same. A sense of urgency.

So, I am excited, and apprehensive. In typical Sandy fashion, I feel a little ashamed that I didn’t begin this; that I wasn’t the one who heard from God first, or rather, that I wasn’t the one listening to God; that I was looking somewhere else, and I was focussed on something irrelevant while God was working; that I wasn’t in the loop until the loop had finished.

That I wasn’t in control.

But, I think I’m over that now.

I’m awake again.
I’m praying again.
I’m awaiting God.
And I ‘m expecting Him to move…

That’s not entirely true. I do think I hear Him through scripture. I think He directs me to verses, and speaks clearly through them.

Maybe I just don’t have the confidence to state clearly, “This is what the Lord said to me…”

I wonder if it’s linked to what I was talking about in my last blog. Maybe my mind is so filled with these idols I’ve erected, that I am blocked from hearing Him – or maybe just too full of my own stuff to listen.

And even now, I see that the deception has led me to focus once more on appearance, and not on what is really happening, which is a fight for my survival. – a fight for my healing, and the banishment of cancer. I’ve been so absorbed by the loss of beauty that I haven’t been paying attention to the other things happening around me. How is that for sad?

So, the other day, when a friend wrote to me, and said that she had a sense of urgency about prayer for me, I was taken aback. Who am I, that someone should pray so earnestly for me? And yet, there are literally hundreds of people fasting AND praying on my behalf. Faithfully, earnestly, DAILY. People I don’t even know! It’s overwhelming. I don’t even think I pray for myself so earnestly. So daily.

In fact, over the last few weeks, I haven’t really been praying at all for myself and my healing. I feel as though I’ve been asleep, or drifting aimlessly. Part of this is because it is summer, and summer tends to be an aimless sort of time; but I think part of it is that I want to forget that I’m sick; I want to play in the sun, and go to the lake, and have dinner with friends, and do all the summertime things I always do without thinking of my body and its disease.

So, I’ve drifted.

And maybe I’ve drifted because I’ve been focussed on the wrong thing.

I remember one summer when Bryan was concerned about two things regarding our house. One was a small leak that had developed on our roof, and the other was the need to paint some of the rooms inside. So, one concern was functional, and one was cosmetic. Needless to say, I convinced Bryan, against his better judgement, that painting the rooms, and making them pretty was MUCH more important than fixing the roof. Appearance was more important than function.

I focussed on the wrong thing. That winter the leak grew, and by the next summer, we had to replace the entire roof, rather than patch just a corner.

So when I say that I’ve been asleep, I wonder if my aimlessness is due to this idol I’ve been talking about; I can’t see reality clearly because my eyes and sensibilities are so clouded. Or, maybe it’s been a deliberate closing of my eyes to truths, or questions I haven’t wanted to face.

When people ask me how I am, I always say, “I’m okay”, or “Well, we’re taking one day at a time,” or something suitably vague like that. Because, the truth us that I don’t really know how I am. I don’t know if the chemo is working, I don’t know if the cancer is shrinking, I don’t even know most of the time how I am feeling because so much of how I’m feeling is because of chemo, or the drugs – so it’s difficult to say what part of my discomfort is because of chemo, and what part is because of cancer, and what part is because of being tired of it all, and wanting some reprieve.

So, I don’t know how I’m doing.

And I think I might have convinced myself that I don’t really care. I think maybe I made an almost unconscious decision to suspend those kinds of questions until summer was over. Certainly, I didn’t want to think about them on Hornby Island. I didn’t want to be ill, or discuss my illness on the island; I just wanted a holiday. I had one day when I felt very fatigued, and ill. I couldn’t explain how I felt, and I didn’t want to embrace it – I wanted to ignore it, and I resented my body for having the effrontery to let the cancer have a part of my time with the Robinsons, on our island. Part of the problem was that when I feel like that, my brain is very foggy, and I feel isolated and alone, and I can’t articulate my thoughts. So, while I wanted to let people in, I couldn’t do it, and the day ended up as a disaster for me (and for anyone else who figured out what was going on.)

But, for the most part, we were pretty successful in putting cancer away.

And then we came back. And I had to have chemo two days later, when we were still basking a little bit in the afterglow of holiday time.

I cried when I walked into the hospital.

Two days later, Anna had a breakdown (more about that in a blog to come).

As a result, Bryan had a breakdown while on the phone with Laurie.

A week of sleeplessness made Laurie hyper sensitive, and she had a breakdown.

It was a bit of a disaster all around.

For me, it wasn’t really worse than usual, except for the fact that it was so difficult for everyone else in my family. The beginning was hard, but apart from that, things went about the same for me. What WAS hard was that Bryan, Anna, and Laurie were struggling so much, and I was completely unable engage in their struggle, OR do anything to help them. The chemo makes me disengage with my emotions, and makes me very foggy, and unaware of others. So, when I came to my real senses a few days later, and realized what had happened in my absence, I felt that I had abandoned my family.

And then things started happening. People started asking questions about my treatment, and my future; about decisions they thought I needed to be making; people began e-mailing me, telling me about visions they had seen, and dreams they had experienced. Before I knew it, my doctor was calling, and asking me to make decisions, and giving me choices I wasn’t ready to make.

I was confused.
And a little angry.

The whole point was that I didn’t WANT to make any choices. Not in the summer. Not when the sun was shining. Not when I didn’t know where those choices would lead. I didn’t WANT to know. I wanted to pretend that it was summer as usual at the Glum home.

BUT, as I read more e-mails, and talked more rationally with the people around me, I realized that God was working, and that if I wasn’t careful, I would miss what was going on. Other people were clearly hearing from God on my behalf, and I had better listen.

And that’s when I realized that I been out to lunch for a few weeks. God had been moving, but I hadn’t noticed.

A couple of weekends ago, several people had dreams and visions, and upset sleep patterns all focussed on me. One friend had a vision of the cancer in my body; she took it and squeezed it; over the course of several days, she continued to squeeze it until there was nothing left but a dry, white stone; she crumbled that to dust, and then she plunged her hands into a cleansing stream, while reciting verses of healing that the Lord had shown her. Another friend saw my liver, and there was a demon on top; he asked the lord if there was a demon of cancer; when the Lord said, “Yes,” my friend said, “Well, that demon has no business in Sandy Glum,” and he cast it out; he says that out of the corner of his eye, he saw it leave. Another friend hasn’t slept for weeks, and we think, now, that her sleeplessness may have been due to some spiritual warfare that had been happening around our families. Many people have written to me with verses about healing, and several people have said that they feel a sense of urgency; that God is ready to move. Many had verses that God had given them over the week, and some of the verses coincided with verses that God had given me throughout the week.

I began to listen to God.

So, today, I have some ladies coming by to pray for me; and tonight I have some high school students coming to pray. These kids have been reading about healing miracles, and have been praying for me for months; and so when they called and said that they had a burden to pray for me, and a real sense that they need to come over and pray for a miracle, I told them that they should come soon; that God was working; and that others were feeling the same. A sense of urgency.

So, I am excited, and apprehensive. In typical Sandy fashion, I feel a little ashamed that I didn’t begin this; that I wasn’t the one who heard from God first, or rather, that I wasn’t the one listening to God; that I was looking somewhere else, and I was focussed on something irrelevant while God was working; that I wasn’t in the loop until the loop had finished.

That I wasn’t in control.

But, I think I’m over that now.

I’m awake again.
I’m praying again.
I’m awaiting God.
And I ‘m expecting Him to move…

One of my friends had been fretting about how much I was running. She asked why I did it. “I Love it!” I said.
“Why?” she asked.

I thought for a long moment, and then sort of had an epiphany: I didn’t really love running. In fact, most of the time I hated it. And it took serious commitment, a certain inflexibility of routine, and concerted planning for me to ensure that I did it three times a week. It was always hard, and it always involved a lot of self talk and encouragement for me to do it. So why did I say so positively, “I love it?” when that was patently untrue? Well, I did love how I felt afterwards. I did love the changing strength and fitness of my body. I did glory in the accomplishment of something I had never thought I would do in life.

And I felt powerful.

So after that long moment of thought, I finally said, “I think that if I run, I won’t get sick again.”

So there you have it: it’s all about control. If I do this…. then this will happen. It’s all about me, and what I can do with my body.

Obviously, I wasn’t conscious of this thought everytime I ran, but it certainly became the anthem of my fitness routine. Even more so than the weight loss benefits, flexibility and beauty issues.

I know that fear of aging plagues many people, particularly in the Western world; but I’ve never really been troubled by the thought. To me, aging is a natural progression of the body and the spirit; it’s a sort of rite of passage; a treasure that you discover as you gain the wisdom and serenity of self discovery, and spiritual maturity. And the wrinkles, and kinks, and foibles of the body are outward manifestations of this wisdom.

That’s been my philosophy, anyway. Aging didn’t seem to be something to be either mourned or feared. I had witnessed my mother age with grace and serenity, always happy to be the age she was, never looking back with regret, or forward with fear. Unlike her best friend, who spent the morning of each new birthday, locked in the bathroom, sobbing. Each birthday was a cause for celebration for my mom, and I always honoured her for that.

And this was a woman who understood the physical pain of aging. When I say that I was never concerned about growing old, I realize that had I suffered the effects of old age – the often painful deterioration of the body – I might have been singing a different tune. OLD age might be something to fear. The complete breakdown of the body, and total reliance on others for your physical needs – THAT might be something to fear. But my mom understood the physical pain of aging. She had suffered debilitating arthritis for years, she had diabetes, and in the end, used a colostomy after a botched surgery. And yet, other than saying that “It’s a bugger to get old,” she had very few complaints about aging.

So, I’ve known my whole life, that it is possible to age with grace and dignity.

But, facing a terminal illness, seems so different than merely growing old. And I guess the difference might be that unlike aging, which is a gradual process, the physical degradation of the body in an illness is steep and precipitous. There is very little time to become accustomed to one major body change before another encroaches upon you. Six months ago, I noticed that my torso was swelling, and that I seemed to have gained weight around my middle – but, it wasn’t weight gain, it was a liver, rapidly growing cancerous tumours.

And then I began chemotherapy. And along with that came all sorts of physical woes. Nausea. Loss of appetite, weight loss, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, hair loss. Steroids, prescribed for the nausea, and the liver pain immediately caused swelling of my face, and upper torso.

And then the news that that chemo had been useless, and ineffective, so a new regime was introduced – one that was even more toxic, and dangerous. Because it is so highly allergenic, I needed much higher doses of the steroid, and the immediate effects on my body were devastating. My face became swollen and moon-like. My cheekbones disappeared, and my features blurred. The flesh around my eyes became puffy and distorted. All my hair fell out, and there was nowhere to hide: the classic, steroid engorged cancer look. My appetite soared, and between that and the steroid puff, I gained twenty pounds. I had no clothes that fit. I bought more, and tried not to look too carefully in the mirror as I tried them on.

All these changes didn’t really disturb me at first. In fact, when my appetite returned, and I was able to eat properly again, after those first two devastating rounds of chemo, I rejoiced. I would MUCH rather be able to eat anything and everything, that not to be able to eat at all. And that it the truth. So, I was happy, and I celebrated. With food. Lots and lots of food. And I thought to myself that these physical changes were the least of my worries. At that point, three months ago, I really thought I was going to die very soon. I didn’t have a lot of hope, because I was so sick. So, a little puffiness and weight gain didn’t seem so bad.

But now, two months later, I’m having some issues. Not all the time. But every now and then – like when I catch a glimpse of myself unexpectedly in a mirror. Or when I see someone I haven’t seen for awhile, and they kind of do a double take. Or when I am getting dressed, and the swelling for one reason or another is particularly bad that day, and I can’t fasten up the larger size I just bought, and I don’t think these shorts come in a bigger size. Or when I’m going out, and I want to look pretty.

It’s not that I was used to being pretty. I’ve never had a lot of confidence in my outward appearance. I’ve never been sought after, or admired, or lauded for my beauty. BUT, I was a pretty snappy dresser, and I liked how my style had evolved over the years, and I had come to a place of peace with myself and my looks, after a lifetime of learning to accept myself and my physical foibles. So here I am now, after all these years of hard fought struggle, and these little tendrils of grief and regret about my appearance are winding themselves around my heart. And I’ve cried about them. And I’ve felt like a lesser person.

That’s really sad.

It’s sad that it has such a hold on me.

It’s sad that it took cancer to show me that I still have issues with this one thing I thought I had finally conquered. Because for years, I’ve been content to be me, and to look like me, no matter the size.

I was talking about this the other day with the same friend who had asked me about my running. I was gripping about the puffiness, and the weight gain, and the general blobbiness of my body. She said that she had noticed that looks seemed to be really important to me, and that I seemed to spend a fair amount of time thinking about how I looked, and carefully choosing my wardrobe, and accessories. I agreed, because it was all true, and I liked it. I liked dressing well, and putting a look together, and feeling attractive.

And then there was a long pause. And then finally, she said, “Do you think it might be a little bit like your running?”

I looked at her blankly for a moment.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you said that your running was all about control. You, trying to control your own health. Do you think this might be all about control, too?”

Another long pause. Another moment of epiphany. Another realization that CONTROL is the idol I’ve erected time after time in my life, and that no matter how many times I think I’ve torn down the Asherah pole, somehow I put it up again, and worship at its feet.

Another egotistical deception that needs to be stripped away.

Just when I think that here, exposed on the high places, with nowhere to run or hide, where every possible sin must have been stripped away by now because I feel so exposed, and vulnerable, I see that there is more. More layers of gunk that I’ve built up over the years as a sort of defines against – against what? Against the world? Against public opinion? Against God? Against myself maybe. If I control how I look, maybe people will like me better, and I won’t be lonely, or feel judged, or be teased. I don’t know.

The essential me is NOT in toned tummy muscles, and firm thighs, and smooth skin and sculpted cheekbones. It is not in eternal youth, and good looks and lovely outfits, and good accessories. It is not in outward appearance. I tell my daughter this every day. I try to model it in my speech. BUT I have failed.

And even as I write this, I feel so shallow. How can this be a source of grief to me in a world like this, where children die of starvation in the streets where I grew up; where refuges swarm to camps already overflowing with desperate, needy, frightened people; where wars ravage the countryside, and people die in ditches; where God is mocked, and babies are killed.

And yet, I do mourn it. And the deception obviously has a hold on my heart.

And so, that’s sad.

But, I also know that God knows that I am made of dust. And dust is not very clever.

I feel a little like Frodo Baggins at the end of the world, when he is facing his final test in the fiery furnace of Mount Doom. He knows that he needs to destroy the ring of power; he knows he needs to wrest it off his finger and throw it into the fiery furnace, or Sauron will win, and the world will be enslaved in agony and despair.

But he can’t do it.

The ring is precious to him. More precious than his freedom. More precious than his friends. More precious than his life. He fears it, and worships it. He cannot let it go. It has become part of him, and he feels that to destroy the ring is to destroy himself.

In the end, he never does let it go. He simply cannot do it. He is not the hero who saves Middle Earth. He is the frightened little hobbit who clings to the deception, and cannot let it go.

He is made of dust.

In the end, it is Gollum who saves Middle Earth.

Gollum. Hopeless, helpless, morally depraved, sinful.

He didn’t mean to save anyone. But when Frodo couldn’t, or wouldn’t destroy the ring, Gollum leapt to action. With a single-minded frenzy, he seized Frodo’s hand, chewed off his finger, and with a cry of victory and despair, fell into the abyss, and was devoured in a sea of lava.

He didn’t save the world in any conscious, or deliberate way. Like Frodo, he just couldn’t let go of his idol, and he preferred to die rather than give it up. At the end of all things, right at the mouth of Hell, He couldn’t let go. And he died.

Sometimes I feel that I am standing at the edge of the abyss, looking down into the river of lava at the centre of Mount Doom. It is the end of all things. My feet are torn and dusty, my lips cracked and parched. I am tired, filthy, crabby and confused.

But. I am not alone. And what I’ve learned more than anything in this journey through the barren places of Mordor, is that even though the layers are being stripped away, and my soul is exposed and vulnerable, I am in no way diminished. in fact, paradoxically, I am renewed.

Henri Nouwen wrote, ” The first step to healing is not a step away from the pain, but a step toward it.”

I might be tempted to run away. In fact, I AM tempted. I’ve made quite a practice of it in my lifetime. But, this time I don’t want to. This time the stakes are too high, and eternity looms too near. This time I need to turn and face it; and in facing it, finally be free.

And I am content, because God is with me, and He can do it.

Because something extraordinary had happened. All around the school.

First, classes throughout the school started taking certain times of the day – different times, so that the whole day was covered; and during that time, no matter what they were doing, the class would stop, and the whole class would take time to pray for me, for my family, for my healing.

Then I heard that in a high school chapel, students had been challenged to step up, to fall on their knees, humble themselves and really get serious with God.
And it happened.
Students went forward for prayer. They wept, and cried out, and repented, and made things right, and asked God what to do – what to do in their own lives, and what to do to help me and my family.

So, the fasting wall was born.

The fasting wall is a bulletin board in the hallway upstairs. The days of the week are listed, and underneath, students anonymously signed up to show that they were fasting and praying on that particular day. They wrote, or left pictures showing how they were fasting, or what they were giving up; for some it is a day of food, for others, their favourite sport, or gaming system, or cell-phone, or ALL media.
On the day I saw it, the wall was almost full, but students were still trying to cram their pictures on the wall.
God was moving.

So, on the last all-school chapel, I wanted to go to the students and tell them that God is listening.
I wanted them to know that He is working.
I wanted them to see that I am alive, and to tell them that my heart is being healed, and renewed, and changed, and restored.
And that my body still needs some work.

Mostly, I think I wanted to thank them for their love, and to commend them for opening their hearts to God.

I wanted them to know that whatever happens to me, God is still GOOD.

I needed to tell them that God is GOOD no matter what. Even if my body dies.

And I wanted to tell them how God has helped me through their prayers.

So, I told them about the vision God had given me a few month earlier. I’ve written about it before. It’s the vision of me and my family settled in the palm of God’s hand. The hurricane winds are blowing all around, and buffeting the earth, but we are safe and secure, because we are in the centre of His hand, and He has surrounded us with a glass cylinder, like a hurricane glass. We know that we are safe, and we are calling to all our friends and family to join us right there, in the glass, in the centre of His will.

And I told them that God had given us the word HOPE, and that day by day He has been showing us how to access the vast depths of His hope in the midst of sickness and sorrow, and hopelessness.
And I said that even when we don’t have any answers, if the question starts with God, the answers don’t really matter anymore.

And that’s all I said. I was pretty choked up by then,and I had promised my children that I would really try not to cry.

The next day,a mother of one of my students came to me and said that she had been in chapel and had heard me speak. She seemed a little teary, and overcome. As I looked at her questioningly, she handed me a gift, and her eyes were wide.
“Sandy, I bought this gift for you at the beginning of the week. I was out with the kids, and we popped into this store, and we decided to buy you a gift just to let you know that we love you, and we are thinking of you and praying for you every day.”
She grabbed my arm, and said, “I bought it BEFORE that chapel.”
I must have looked confused.
“When you open this, you’re going to laugh. It’s a present from God.”
And she said again, “I bought it BEFORE I heard what you said at chapel, and I didn’t really know why I bought it, I just knew I had to buy it for you.”

So, I took it home, but forgot to open it until the next morning.

Bryan wasn’t home, but Nathan and Anna were, so, I gathered them to me, and asked them to help me open the gift. It was in a big white box, filled with rumpled white tissue. I pulled out the gift, and started to unwrap all the tissue layers.

When I was finished, I held this thing in my hands, and looked at it blankly.

“I don’t get it, ” I said.

“I don’t get it either,” said Nathan.

“Me neither,” said Anna.

“She said it was a present from God,” I said.

And then, without knowing why, I began to weep these deep rending sobs from the depths of my heart. I still wasn’t quite sure what I was holding, but I knew it was from God. And then the scales fell from my eyes, and I saw that I was holding a glass cylinder, shaped like a hurricane lamp, and inside was a white feather, still and safe; secure from the buffeting winds all-around.

Two days before she heard about it, Lisa walked into a store, and chose – out of all the items in a very extensive gift shop – a physical manifestation of the vision God had given me months earlier.

And just to blow the top off your head a little more:

The white feather.
The feather was not a part of my vision; I saw my family clearly, and realistically. However, when I first got the news that the cancer had returned, Nathan and Anna were learning Psalm 91. Almost every night, in his prayers, Nathan would say, “Lord you said that you will cover us with your feathers, and under your wing we will find refuge. Lord, we need those feathers to cover us now.”
The feather is for Nathan, and for Anna because they have hidden His word in their hearts, and because the image of sheltering under the wing of God is so powerful for them.
The feather is God, inside with us, comforting us and keeping us warm.

The poem.
While the feather was not a part of my vision, as soon as I saw it, I thought of a poem by Emily Dickinson. The poem is entitled “Hope is the Thing with Feathers.”
God gave us the word HOPE.
Here’s the poem:

Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

God knows about this poem, and He knows that I know about the poem. And He gave it to me to hang in my living room, to remind me that hope is the thing with feathers.

The timing.
On the day I spoke in chapel, I was very weak and tired. I didn’t really want to speak. I wasn’t sure if I really had anything to say after all. Sometimes it’s hard to maintain any faith at all, and my only prayers in the last few days had been, “Lord, I believe; help, Thou my unbelief.”
On that day, I didn’t feel that I had any insights to share, or any great words from God. I didn’t even really know if I had any hope myself.
God knew that I needed to have my hope renewed. And He did it in a very personal way, just for me. And this leads me to…

The method
People talk about love languages; these are the ways in which we experience love. For some people, words of affirmation are important; for others, it’s time together, doing an activity; for others, it’s acts of service. For me, because I am obviously a shallow and needy individual, my love language is presents. I love to receive gifts. Gifts of any sort, and any size. Surprise gifts, expected gifts, serious gifts and funny gifts. Gifts are my language of love.

And God knows it.

And He choose to affirm my faith, and re-establish my vision, and flood me with His extravagant love with a gift. Wrapped in tissue and tied with a bow.

I read this verse the other day, and I had to go back and read it about seven more times. The phrase that struck me was “he who has suffered in his body is done with sin…”

How can anyone be done with sin?

In this state of being refined – day after day, more of the dross being stripped off my soul – I’m left wondering what I’m to do. It’s an odd existence. I feel so close to God, so clear minded, so intent on eternity, so aware that my citizenship is in Heaven.
And then on the other hand, sometimes so lonely. I’m sort of walking a path that can have no companion except Jesus. No one has been this way and returned. No one is guiding me or walking alongside. All of my friends are willing to go with me, and in their hearts, they ARE walking alongside; BUT they can’t really come along; their lives are still pretty firmly planted in the world in which they live.

But I don’t really know where I belong anymore. Most of me is still in this world: doing laundry, making lunches, playing with my children, tidying my house; but at the same time, the rest of me is in this new place, a place where making long term plans seems presumptuous, and where I don’t really know what to do with myself. It’s a place of transition, maybe.
Part of me wants to forget that I’m sick, and go on as before. And maybe that’s what I SHOULD do; maybe I should just continue on as if nothing had happened, and live my life as best I can until I can’t, anymore, or until I’m restored to health.

But that seems so dishonest. So, then I think that maybe I need to prepare in some way for what is to come. The problem is that I don’t know WHAT is to come, so I don’t know what to do. And this is a source of anxiety to me. I like to know what’s coming. I like to prepare, and make lists, and check things off, and accomplish things. So, this state of transition is sometimes very stressful. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I SHOULD be doing. So, I become restless and agitated.
Part of me thinks that I need to be preparing myself for Heaven. But, I don’t know how to do that.

Another part thinks that I need to prepare myself for pain and suffering. If I am going to get more sick, and eventually die, then, I need to be ready for that – somehow I need to store up my resources, and get ready for the long road of suffering to come. If, I am dying, then I probably need to face the fact of long term hospital time, drug induced stupors, pain, loneliness…..Sigh. I don’t know how to do that either. And how ridiculous to think that it’s possible to do such a thing? But that’s me. I like to be prepared for any eventuality.

And then I need to prepare my children for life without a mother. But, I don’t know how to do that either – does that mean writing lists? Does that mean shopping for Christmas presents? Does that mean writing a journal of my life? Does that mean composing letters for every major event in their future? I don’t know.

So, I came to a point last week, of utter bewilderment.
What do I do?
What SHOULD I do?
What does God want of me?
How should I then live?

God has brought me so far in the last two months – I’ve shed years of bondage to so many things; I’ve relinquished strongholds, and given up control. I’ve opened up, and let go. And yet, I’m not done with sin.

The sin of thinking that I need to act. The sin of thinking that my future is in my control. The sin of taking over from the God who has all things in His grip. The sin of needing to DO, and not merely BE.

Many years ago I worked in the kitchen of a summer camp. One summer, the cook was a very high stress individual. She was restless, and anxious. She worked really hard, and was always striving to keep several steps ahead of the game. I understood why: she was feeding two hundred people three meals a day. It WAS stressful. Add to that ovens that didn’t always work, program staff that sometimes ran late, food orders that arrived at mealtimes, and you can see why every day brought challenges that seemed sometimes overwhelming. One day this woman just snapped. The ovens had overheated, and the macaroni was ready 40 minutes early. Program staff couldn’t possibly ring the lunch bell so early, especially since the campers were scattered all over the island. In despair, and thinking that this overcooked lunch somehow reflected on her abilities, or her personhood, she just slammed down her wooden spoon, and stalked out of the kitchen, never to return.

A few days later, Elvera walked into the kitchen. She had been to camp as a nurse volunteer, but she had never worked as a cook. Ever. And here she was, walking into a strange kitchen, and cooking three meals a day for two hundred campers and staff.

She was remarkably cool about it.

I remember on day two, I stood bedside her as she stirred a pot of soup on the stove (mouthwatering soup, I ‘d like to add.)
“This is nice,” I said.
“Oh, I’m glad you like it,” she said, thinking I meant the soup.
“No, not the soup,” I explained, “The atmosphere in this kitchen. It’s so calm.”
“What makes the difference?” she asked.
“There’s no striving,” I said.

She smiled at that, and then she explained that when she had been praying about this opportunity, she had asked God what to do. She wanted the job, but had no real experience, and while she felt confident she COULD do it, she wanted to know what God thought.
He said to her that she needed to take one day at a time; in fact, that she should take one meal at a time
He told her NOT to prepare ANYTHING for the next day. He said that each day had enough for itself, and that’s what she needed to turn her attention to.

It might be that I’ve thought of this story because Elvera has been a huge presence in my house lately: she comes for my chemo treatments and stays for the week.

It may be that I’ve been reflecting on my past, and thinking of all those who have guided and mentored me: she is my Jedi Master in the kitchen, and in the things of Jesus.

Or, it may be that this is God’s word to me, as I ponder what I should be doing. Maybe God is saying to me that I don’t need to do anything for “the future.” Maybe I need to do one day at a time. Or, better yet, maybe I need to BE in one day at a time, and not DO at all. The desert wanderers gathered enough manna for ONE DAY; the disciples learned to ask God for DAILY bread.
No advanced preparation. No homework. No complicated lists, or hoops to jump through. No performance.
Daily bread.

So, what do I do in this season of transition, or how do I live? I received the answer as I read Pslam 27. “One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and seek Him in His temple.”
Simple. Just BE. Find Him where I know He lives, and soak in His beauty.

And what will happen when trouble comes? What will happen, if I haven’t done any preparation?
“For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle and set me high upon a rock.”
I am already there, where He lives, and so He does the work of saving me. It has ALWAYS been His job to do the saving. Why would it be any different at the end of my life, than it was at the beginning? At the beginning, I didn’t even have faith by myself. My faith is a gift from God. My salvation has always come from Him, and it always will.

My role is to wait upon Him. To BE.

“I am still confident of this; I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and take heart and wait upon the Lord.”

Again, God met me in a way I had never met Him before. I knew I had to go there; that God hadn’t finished with me yet, but I didn’t really know what to expect.

As always, the prayer partners met me with words that I knew came from God; they always pray before they come out to greet you, and then they pray with you you. Every time I have met with them, they have always had a word for me, or a picture for me that confirms that they have spoken to God, and that God has spoken truth to them.

This time the woman said to me, “When I was praying, I got a picture. It was a hurricane, or tornado… you know how there is a still, quiet place at the centre? That’s where you are, and the wind is raging all around you, but God has you there, at the centre.”

I started to cry, because for weeks, when ever I pray, I get a picture that I am in a glass cylinder that’s standing in the palm of God’s hand, and the wind is howling around me, but I am safe. And I keep calling out to my friends who are fighting in the wind, to come in where it is safe and peaceful. “Come in here!” I yell, “God is here. Right here!there’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

Moments like that confirm to me that God is working.

And then we prayed together. We prayed for the healing and restoration of my liver; we prayed for the cancer to leave my body; we prayed for God to fill me and my family to overflowing.

And then came something I was sort of expecting, but not really.

I knew that God wanted me there that day, and that He had something for me that day. The last time I had been to the healing rooms, I knew that He had met me in a deep and profound way, but I hadn’t quite let down all my defences. I had opened up to Him on a deeper level than ever before, but I had still held back that tiny bit.

WHY? Why do we hold out on God? Why are we so afraid to let Him in completely? What are we afraid of? Or let me just speak for myself, because maybe I’m alone in this. What am I afraid of?

Before I came to faith in Jesus Christ, I had a friend who often invited me to church activities, and I always declined. I was afraid then, that God would GET me. I don’t even know what I meant by that, but those were always the words that came to mind: “God will get me.” I don’t know if I thought He would change me, or get inside me, or make me do things I didn’t want to do, or what. But I always knew that if I went to church, God would GET me.

I was both attracted to, and horrified by the idea. In one sense, I WANTED God to get me. I had always believed that He existed, and I craved more; but on the other hand, He was so mysterious that I dreaded being GOT by Him. What if He didn’t like what He saw? What if He destroyed me, like He did the people in Noah’s day? (I was secretly haunted by the illustrations I had seen in a children’s Bible at my dentist’s office – pictures of terrified, drowning people begging for mercy while Noah and his family floated away in the ark. What if this mean, silvery bearded God had no mercy for me?)

Eventually, God DID get me. And He DID change me, and get inside me, and ask me to do things that made me uncomfortable. But it wasn’t what I had imagined. It wasn’t horrifying.

But I think I always held out on Him a bit. I think that old fear made me hold out on Him, and deny Him access to my innermost being. I let Him in a bit, but not completely.

I never wanted to lose control. I feared the Holy Spirit’s power.

But after praying at the healing rooms, the woman said to me, “Have you ever been baptized by the Holy Spirit?”

I’m not going to get into the theology of anything here, except to say that I knew that the Holy Spirit lived within me because by faith I had received the gift of salvation God had given me all those years ago. But, I also knew that I had never allowed the Holy Spirit to have full reign in my heart. I had always held something back. I had always felt a check; a nervousness; I had left a guard because I was afraid of letting go, of losing control.

But that day, I knew it was time to say, “Yes.” to God with no reservations.

So, I told her that I had not been baptized by the Holy Spirit, that I had never spoken in a different tongue, but I wanted to. I wanted to be filled, and I was ready.

She explained that the language I would receive was really a prayer language to be used between me and God – it was a language for prayer, and praise, and supplication. It was a language that would help me express to God all those inexpressible thoughts and feelings, and requests that we feel so deeply, but cannot express in words. These new words express them, and God understands.

So, I asked God to baptize me, and to give me the gift of speaking in tongues.

And then my two prayer partners began to pray in their languages; the woman sang, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, like some angelic chorus.

I didn’t know what to do. I kept saying, “I don’t know how.” And she kept saying, “You don’t have to know how. Just open your mouth.”

And then, she asked God to remove my fear. To help me give up, let go, open to Him.

And then I felt the wind.

It rushed through my head, and it was hot, like fire.

And I opened my mouth and spoke words I had never spoken before. And somehow I knew that I was speaking right to the heart of God. He heard me, and He understood me.

I wept.

We prayed and cried, and prayed and cried for a long time. And when it was done, I felt so quiet, and peaceful; exhausted, but at rest. I knew that God had a purpose for me that day, and that’s why I had felt such an urge to go to the rooms that day. He wanted me to give myself to Him finally, and without reservation.

I’ve always known that there have been some things in my heart that I haven’t been willing to give over to God. Sins that I thought I could keep. Nothing big, or horrific, except that they kept me from fully opening to God. So, in that sense, HUGE.
I think I felt that I had given most things to God, and it wouldn’t hurt to keep these. I convinced myself that I had tried to give them up, but I just couldn’t. I convinced myself that they didn’t hurt anyone but me anyway, so they didn’t really matter. I said to God, “I can’t let go,” but what I really meant was, “I WON’T let go. I WON’T give them up. They are mine, and I am going to keep them.”

But God has been doing a mighty work in my heart. He is searching me out, trying me, challenging me, cleansing me.

It’s funny that when you come to the end of yourself, God is there. And He gently teaches, and asks, and guides, and changes. What I thought I couldn’t give up, just went without me even fighting anymore. Suddenly the things I was holding on to seemed so insignificant, so stupid in the face of eternity. How could I hold on to THAT thought, or THAT desire instead of God? What could THOSE things possibly have for me that God didn’t have? How could I continue to say, “I won’t!” to the God who suffered and died for me; to the God who said, “I will,” for me?

And then I thought of Isaiah 55:
“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you, who have no money, come buy and eat! Come, buy wine and and milk without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labour on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.”

I’ve spent so much of my resources on bread that does not satisfy, and I’ve filled my minds with thoughts that may delight for a moment, but have no lasting value. And now, here at the end of all things, I begin to see as I’ve never seen before, that God and God alone satisfies the soul.

Yesterday at church, Stan talked about Romans 12, and what it means to offer our bodies as living sacrifices. The Israelites offered the WHOLE animal, not just a part of the animal; the animal was pure, and without blemish; and when the sacrifice was complete, the animal was changed.

So, how does that translate to me? It means that I must give myself to God without reservation; I must be whole in body, soul, and spirit; whole in mind, and heart. I cannot hold anything back, or make excuses, or hold on to something that I think is valuable. I cannot lift my soul to another, while I am saying that I am worshipping God. There IS NO OTHER!

THAT is worship.
And I don’t think I ever worshipped God with such a clear and single-mind until that day, in the healing rooms, when all my checks and reservations were swept away by the Holy Spirit.

Later, my friend said to me, “Do you think this would have been possible, if you hadn’t gotten sick?”

No.
I just would not give myself completely. I would not give up those thoughts. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t give them up, and it didn’t matter anyway. God had most of me, and that would have to suffice.

It’s not the healthy that need a physician; it’s the sick, and the weak. And it wasn’t until my body became so sick and weak that I began to understand the sickness and frailty of my faith.

And it’s all very bittersweet. Because what is happening here is what I’ve been praying for: that God would show me eternity; that He would give me glimpses into the inheritance He has for me; that He would prepare me for my journey. The veil is thinning, and this world’s attractions are fading.

Or, maybe, He has a message that He wants me to share: a message of hope, and faith; a message of mercy and reconciliation; a message of renewal; a message of God’s purpose for those who love Him.

“Seek the Lord while He may be found; call on Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn to the Lord, and He will have mercy on him; and to our God, for He will freely pardon.
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.
Isaiah 55:6-9

How do you know when you’re dying? How do you know it’s time? Do you wait until you DO know, or do you just start saying things, and hope that you get to repeat yourself?

Because I still have hope that I’m going to stick around for a little while longer. I believe that God is at work in my body, touching me, healing me, restoring me.

But maybe not. Maybe the healing I see in my future is the complete healing package. The ultimate healing. The moment that God flings open His kingdom to me and says, “Behold, the famine is ended. All you see before you is yours.”

And so, maybe I need to start saying some things.

Someone asked me to describe what it is like to begin to come to terms with my finite-ness.

I don’t know. I don’t know if I can come to terms with it yet.

But I’m thinking about it.
I’m praying about it, and I’m asking God to show me.
Show me the inheritance he has for me, which is still a mystery.

Last night, while I rested, sleepless in bed, I thought of my mother-in-law. My beloved Lois. I remembered the first time I met her. It was Christmas, and Bryan had picked me up at the airport in Saskatoon, and taken me to her home. She was in the living room; we walked in the back door, and I heard this really deep, smokey voice say, “Weeeeeeellllllll, Darlin’”

And there she was, holding out her little gnarled hands, face wreathed in a welcoming smile.

I think going to Heaven might be like that.

I keep picturing it as a journey, but like no journey I’ve ever undertaken.

I ALWAYS over plan my holidays. I over pack for my holidays. I over buy, overdo, over think.

But there is really no planning for this journey. No packing. In fact, I said to someone the other day that I feel the need to unpack for this journey.

We accumulate so much stuff in this life. So much flotsam and jetsam. So many superfluous items, and ideas, and opinions, and feelings. So many resentments and pettinesses. So much stuff. And for so long we think it’s important. We cling to it. We grasp it.

But what do we have at the end of our lives? What can we bring to Jesus that He needs, or wants? What can we take with us into eternity?

Nothing. Just our empty hands held out in supplication to the one Who fills us and redeems us.

That’s what it’s like to face my finite-ness. To realize that after 47 years on this earth, I still have nothing to give Him except my heart.

And to know that my heart is all He has ever really wanted.

I had never been to the Healing Rooms before. I always maintained that God could heal me anywhere – not solely at rooms labeled THE HEALING ROOMS.
But I misunderstood.
No one at the Healing Rooms limits God.
No one thinks that healing only happen there, and nowhere else.
No one thinks the rooms are anything more than just a venue, a meeting place.

I went a couple of weeks ago, and God did a powerful work in me. He showed some burdens that I was carrying; burdens that I needed to release to Him. While the people were praying (just two people, not a throng), I envisioned God reaching into my heart and pulling out a thick, black stump with long, gangly roots encrusted with dirt. I knew it was the burden I had been carrying for thirty years: the burning sense that it was MY responsibility to bring my dad to a saving faith in Jesus.
I let that burden go, and since then God has shown me others that I also needed to release to Him.

So, I decided to go again. I took Laurie with me.
I somehow knew she needed to be there too. She is a part of me, and what is happening in me right now is happening in her.

Today they wanted me to come in alone. Mostly because they pray in advance of prayer with the client, and they need to feel a sense of agreement in prayer, and when they don’t know the people involved, this can be difficult.
But I knew that Laurie had to come in, too. So I did what I very rarely do; I insisted. They thought it was because I was afraid to come in by myself, but I knew that God wanted us to be together.

This story could go on forever, so I’ll try to condense.

They talked about taking things slowly, and spending time listening and waiting for God. They spoke of the complexities of healing, and how it is so much more than the physical body. They spoke of bringing hope, and speaking words of peace into the trauma.

Then they began to pray.

At first the man said, “Sandy, I’m sensing that today has so much to do with your heart. Does this resonate with you?” So, I told them about what had happened last time, and how God had already been working in my heart.

Then he prayed for a bit, and he said, “Sandy, I sense that you have always been a giving person… that you love to give… but you have had a very difficult time receiving… in fact, you hate to receive. I sense that your giving has come out of a place of control. It makes you feel safe… in control. Receiving makes you feel vulnerable. Even receiving from God.”

And then I felt something break inside me.
I took in a great, deep, shuddering breath, and I cried out in a loud voice, “I repent! I repent Lord! It’s true!”

It was kind of funny because the whole situation is not a situation that I would ever place myself in – NEVER! I would NEVER be alone in a room with strangers yelling out my repentance. When I came to the Lord 30 years ago, I was alone, in my room, just me and God. And that’s the only way I have ever really met with God.

But not today.
I kept shouting, “It’s true, Lord, I repent. I repent.”
And it WAS true; I had given out of a deep sense of control. And love. Love was always there, but I see now that control was there, too. Maybe a need to measure out my response; to prove my love for people and for God; to be worthy, or to make me feel as though I deserved my salvation; to work out my salvation, maybe. I don’t really know yet what it was all about. I think it will take days for me to see what really happened today, but that’s how it started.

And the woman said, “Okay, now Sandy, it’s gone. You repented, and it’s gone. Part of the past, remembered no more. Let it go.”

So, we did that for awhile.

And then she asked me how I was feeling.
I said, touching my upper tummy, “I feel a huge heaviness. And crowding. It’s hard to breathe.”
So she prayed for God to touch my body; for the cancer cell to disappear; for healing; for restoration.
And that went on for awhile.

And then the man turned to Laurie, and he said, “And Lord, I pray for this dear woman too, that you would meet her needs.”
And I said, “Yes, Lord, thank you.”
And Laurie grasped my arm and said, “Sandy, have you let go of me, too?”

And I felt something break inside me, and I too a deep, shuddering breath, and I shouted, “Yes!! Yes! Yes, Lord, I release Laurie, and all the responsibility I feel for her!”

And the woman said, “Has this been an issue for long?”
Yes. I have not been able to bear the pain that I have been inflicting on her because of this illness. The pain of losing another friend to cancer. The pain of having to do this long, hard walk again, and to come out on the other side alone.

But today I let her go.
Thank you, Jesus.

The woman said, “And how do you feel now?
“I feel light.”
“I feel that I am made of light.”
“I am new.”

Today I surrendered all.
And I laughed.
I laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
I was drunk in the spirit.

I went outside, and I looked at Laurie, and I said, “I’ve never been here before.”
She said, “What?”
I said, “I’ve never been here before. With God. I am completely FREE. I am free, and new, and whole.”

On the drive home I said, “You know, they told me to come back anytime I wanted.”

“Good,” Laurie replied.

But I always used to think that is was rather insulting to keep asking God for the same thing over and over again. It implies that He has a hearing problem, or that He forgets, and needs to be reminded, or that He can’t be trusted to act.

The one story that I have always hated is the story of the persistent widow. If I were God, I would hate that persistent widow; she was so annoying. When my children ask me the same thing over and over again, it just grates on my nerves, and makes me want to do the opposite of what they are requesting.

Maybe that story isn’t really about what God needs, but about what we need. God doesn’t need to be reminded of our needs. In fact, He doesn’t need to be asked at all; He knows what we need before we know it.
We need to say our needs over and over again because it help us to remember that we are utterly reliant on God. Without Him we are nothing. Without Him we have nothing. Without Him we are lost, and naked, and alone.

When I was a child, going off to visit a friend, the last words my dad always said to me were, “Don’t outstay your welcome.”

So, as a child I learned that if you stay too long at your friend’s house, you won’t be welcome there anymore.
If you are troublesome while you are at your friend’s house, you won’t be welcome.
If you ask for anything while you are at your friend’s house, you won’t be welcome.

Many of my friends have probably noticed that my visits to their homes have always been rather brief. To this day, I am afraid of outstaying my welcome.

And I think I have been afraid of outstaying my welcome with God.
Of asking too much.
Of asking too often.

But not today.
Today I surrendered all.
ALL.
And I am going to keep on asking for healing.

This morning I read about Elijah under the juniper tree asking for rain.
He bowed himself to the ground, and hid himself in his mantle, and kept on asking for rain.
He sent his servant to look over and over again; and each time his servant came back and told him that he could not see rain.
And Elijah kept on asking.

And finally, the servant said that far off in the distance, he could see a tiny little rain cloud.
It rained.

Doing the Hokey Pokey.
The more I thought about it, the more I came to think that there is a grain of truth in that statement.
What do you do in the Hokey Pokey?
You put your right hand in,
you take your right hand out,
You put your right hand in
And you shake it all about.
You do the hokey pokey, and you turn yourself around,
That’s what it’s all about.

BUT that’s NOT what it’s ALL about, because then you have to do it all over again with your left hand.
And then you think, “Okay, I get it… THAT’S what it’s ALL about.”

BUT you’re NOT done.
You have to put your right foot in, and then your left foot in, and then your head.
And you think you’re finally done.
But you’re not, because then you have to put your whole body in.

It’s very exhausting.
Which is why teachers of small children like it.

I wonder if I could get junior high kids to do the Hokey Pokey?

I think one of the reasons why the Hokey Pokey is so exhausting is because you keep thinking that it’s over… that you’ve done all the verses, and that you’re finally finished. But you’re never finished.

Life IS a little bit like doing the Hokey Pokey.
Have you ever been through something difficult? A time when you had to rely on God for something – strength, patience, safety, health? A time when you knew that it was just you and God? And you knew that if you didn’t cling to Him, you would just slide into the abyss?

If you’re alive, and if you have a relationship with God, then I’m sure you’ve had times like this. It might have been just a moment, or it may have lingered for months, or even years.
And sometimes, when it is all over, we can look back and see how God touched our life in the midst of that darkness. We see a truth we learned, or a little growth spurt we experienced, or a deepening of our relationship with God.
And we might be tempted to think that we figured it all out. That we know the WHYS.

I can’t tell you how many times I have figured out what life is all about. Or, at least, what my life is all about.
And I’d say to God, “OH! I get it! THAT’S what this is all about!” And I’d refer to the lesson, I thought I had learned through it all.

Have you ever read The Bike Lesson by Stan and Jan Berenstein? I’d be like those little bears, “Thank you, thank you, now I see. That was a very good lesson for me.”

But, like the Hokey Pokey, I’d turn myself about, and find myself learning the same lesson again later on. The circumstances might be different, but the “lesson” was similar.

It’s like there’s an overarching theme to my life.
It’s different for all of us, but for me, this overarching theme has often had to do with learning how to let go of my expectations about what my life is going to be like.
Learning how to relinquish this obsessive need to control everything, and to make everything go MY way.

So, thinking in terms of this overarching theme, I’ve begun to think of my life as a book. Divided into episodes, or short stories, linked by a coummon theme – or a number of common themes. And these stories are building to some sort of climax.

I’ve always thought in stories. At night, before I went to sleep, I would make up stories in my head. Of course, I was always the main character, and I was always heroic, and adventurous, and talented and beautiful.
Did I mention that the stories were always about me?
And I was always heroic.

So, realizing that my life is like a book, sort of a collection of short stories that build on a theme is not really a new thing.
What IS new, is that I’ve just had a startling epiphany.

I really did have this epiphany.
It happened last week.

I am NOT the main character of my stories. In fact, my life story isn’t really about ME at all.
AND, I’m not going to really know what it was all about until it’s over, and I get to sit down and have a cup of coffee with the author.

There have been lots of times when I thought I knew what it was about, or at least what the recurring themes were, but now I’m not so sure. Its plot is much more intricate, and its themes more far-reaching that I can possibly imagine.

Proverbs 19:21
Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails.

I was not the One who picked up a pen and began the story, and I won’t be the One who writes “The End” on the last page.
God is the author of my life story.
He is the finisher of my life story.
AND
He is the main character.

And so, as a mere supporting character, it’s not really up to me what belongs in the story. I don’t get to say to the author, “You know that plot twist you’re planning on page 27? Yeah, that’s not going to work. I don’t want to be married for eleven years before I finally get to have a baby. Because then I’ll be OLD, and the whole Abraham and Sarah thing has already been done.”
OR
“I don’t think that cancer plot-line is the way to go. I mean, haven’t we all read enough stories about mothers dying of cancer? It just sounds so cliche, so cheesy. Let’s not go there. You’re going to have to do a major rewrite”

Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails.

I read a book last summer that gave me some new insights about the Fall.

So, there’s this tree in the Garden of Eden. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
A tree of knowledge, or understanding, or comprehension, or expertise.

And God says to Adam, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden;but you must not eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die.”

I noticed a couple of things when I read this the other night: first, Eve wasn’t there. She hadn’t even been created yet, Second: God did not say “for IF you eat of it you will surely die.” He said, “for WHEN you eat of it you will surely die.”
He already knew the plotline. He wasn’t making it up as he went.

So, Eve was created, and the man and his wife were naked, and were content with that.
And soon, along came the serpent, and convinced Eve that God had a hidden agenda in his decree about the fruit. The serpent convinced Eve that God did not want them to know that the fruit would open their eyes, and that they would be like God, knowing good and evil. That is, UNDERSTANDING good and evil; COMPREHENDING good and evil; having an EXPERTISE about good and evil

And so, Adam and Eve, desirous of gaining that “wisdom,” or “expertise” ate the fruit.

As soon as their lips touched that fruit; in that instant of their disobedience, something momentous happened.
They had a fallen nature.
They could never “be like God,” as the serpent had said.
AND, they could never have a knowledge of good and evil. Not a true knowledge. Their understanding, their comprehension, their expertise was filtered through their fallen nature.

Because what did they do first? They looked at themselves, and at each other and said, “Wow. We’re naked. Naked is bad. We need to cover up.”
Now, who told them that naked is bad, or that seeing your husband or wife naked is bad? No one. They made a judgement based on their so-called expertise, filtered through their fallen nature.

And humankind has been doing the same for thousands of years. We think we know what is good and what is evil.

We have a propensity to make judgements about the things that come into our lives; to declare whether something is good or bad in our life.

Going back to my story illustration, we make judgements about what happens in our story based on whether things make us happy or sad. If it makes us happy, it must be a good thing. If it makes us sad, or causes pain, it must be a bad thing.
And, we think we can figure out what it all means. We do the hokey pokey, and we turn ourselves around – and we decide “THAT’S what it’s all about.”

Two years ago, I had rectal cancer. I had surgery, and months of radiation and chemo.
And God was there in power, refining me through fire.
And I was better.
And I went back to work.
And I was so happy.

But about two months ago, I received confirmation that the cancer had returned. And this time, it is not curable.

When I started telling people that the cancer had returned, there were a lot of different responses.
But one response that I found a bit puzzling was when people said to me, “Cancer is NEVER part of God’s plan!”

Really?
Well, it certainly wasn’t my plan.
But, I’m not the one writing the book.

Hebrews 12:2 says, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of God.”

He is the AUTHOR and PERFECTER of my FAITH
* Notice that it says FAITH not LIFE – this tells me that my faith is more valuable to God than my life is.

So, maybe God will write some really hard things into my life to perfect my faith, or to “finish” my faith, as the King James version says.
So, I don’t want to say that cancer is a bad thing in my life; that it’s evil. I don’t want to say that if God’s big plan is to use cancer to perfect my faith.

And not just my faith.

My little baby girl is seven years old; her brother is ten. MY plan is to be a mother to my children, and to raise them as best as I can: to help my daughter choose a wedding gown; to watch my son deliver the valedictory address at his graduation. MY plan is to grow old with my husband.

Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails.

But God is writing a really big story, and I am not the main character. HE is the main character of my story. And He has already designed my story to perfect my faith.
It’s not just my faith that’s being finished here. The little collection of short stories that makes up my life is connected to the stories that make up Laurie’s life, and her collection is connected to Lynay, and Lynay’s are connected to Tammie’s, and so on.

The story God is writing is HUGE.

A couple of weeks ago, my surgeon said to me, “You must feel as though you’ve landed in the deep water without a life preserver. I wish I could throw you a life preserver, but I don’t know which one to throw.”
They can’t get to the bottom of this cancer. It’s a tricky one, and they don’t know how to treat it yet.

So I went home, and thought about what he had said; and a few days later I wrote him a note. I said: I already have a life preserver. His name is Jesus, and no matter how deep the water gets, or how rough the waves, I know that He will encircle me with His arms, and keep me safe. He holds my life and keeps me from sinking.
I told him that my children are praying for God to dissolve the cancer and make me whole. I let them pray like that, and I told him that whether God heals me or not, my life is in His hands and I trust Him.

My surgeon’s faith is part of the story, too. And God’s plans will prevail.

Just after my son was born, the labour and delivery nurse turned around and said, “Is everyone in this room a Christian?” She had heard us praying during the labour.
We all laughed and said, “Yes!”
She picked up my little baby boy, and prayed a beautiful prayer of anointing. She prayed that the Lord would raise him up to be a prophet of God.
Today I know that the beautiful faith of this little ten year old boy is being refined by the fire.
I’ve heard him pray, “Oh Lord, it says in the Psalms that you will cover us with your feathers, and under your wings we will find refuge. Oh, Lord, we need those wings and feathers now.”
And I think to myself, well, Nathan is part of this big huge plan of God, too. Maybe this is part of how God plans to equip him for his life’s work.

Nathan’s faith is part of the story.

When I first heard the new diagnosis a few weeks ago, I was lost in despair for a few weeks. This is not a curable situation. I can be treated for a time, but I cannot be cured.
Not by medicine, anyway.

So, that was a little hard to take.

I just didn’t understand.
I didn’t understand why God would allow me to have to little babies, only to take me away from them before they are grown.
I didn’t understand how He would let me do the job I love, only to make me give it up.

I wasn’t angry at God; I just didn’t get it.
So I said to Him, “I just don’t get it. I need you to help me.”
He said, “Trust me.”
He said, “You need to turn from your despair. I don’t want ‘incurable ‘ to be your word. I am giving you a new word.”

HOPE

And as soon as He impressed that word upon me, I felt it flutter to life in my heart.
I know a lot of people have been praying for that to happen; for me to release my fear and despairt to God, and be filled with HOPE.
And it happened.

The very next day I went to school. It was chapel day, and I walked in a bit late. I almost didn’t go. I almost stayed behind to get caught up on some things. But, I felt a little tug, and I went.
I walked in just in time to here Stephanie Wilkenson say, “We need to humble ourselves right where we are and get on our knees and pray that she will be healed.” And she said that anyone who wanted to could come to the front and pray.
I thought, “Uh oh, I think she’s talking about me.” So I went over to my friend Sarah, who’s in grade twelve, and said, “Is she talking about me?”
She nodded.
We threw our arms around each other and stood there crying.
And I thought of how thankful I am for this young woman. I first met her when she was a baby, and now she is holding me close and sustaining me. My story is part of her story, too.

Up until the day before, whenever anyone said that they were praying that God would heal me, I would say, “You go ahead and pray that. I can’t pray that yet.”
It wasn’t in my heart.
I had no hope.

But God had given me a new word.

Romans 4:18
Against all hope, Abraham in hope believed and so became the father of many nations,
Even when it didn’t make any sense, God helped Abraham to act in hope.

And so in hope, I grabbed Sarah’s hand and we went to the front of chapel. We knelt down and began to cry and pray, just slently at first. Within seconds, I could feel kids crowding around me, kneeling down, reaching out to touch me, praying out in loud voices asking God to heal me. Soon most of the chapel band had stopped playing, and were clustered around me, praying. It was powerful, and God was moving.
It went on for awhile, and then we returned to my seat.

What I didn’t know, but found out by talking to some of the other kids later in class, was that kids all over the room just dropped to their knees right where they were, to pray. Kids that I would never had expected to be so bold were praying right there, on their knees.
And I was completely overwhelmed.
First because, I felt so loved and cared for.
But more importantly because I saw a glimpse into that big huge plan of God’s.

He is not just perfecting my faith.
He is perfecting the faith of all those kids at the Christian school.
And together we are learning that His hope, “is an anchor for the soul, firm and secure…” as Hebrews 6:19 says.

I told the kids that I was searching out HOPE verses in the Bible; and every day or so, I bring a new one and put it on my white board.
And you know what?
Now kids are bringing me hope verses, and writing them on the white board.

So, I don’t want to make judgements about what is good and what is bad in my life anymore.
How can cancer be bad, if that’s what God brings about?
It can be painful, and sorrowful, and hard.
But it’s not bad.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not going to do the Hokey Pokey anymore.
I’m not going to turn myself about, and decide what life is all about.

I’m just going to say that it’s all a lot bigger and more complicated than I thought.
And I’m just going to leave that with God.
He knows the plotline, and the themes.
He knows whose stories belong together, and He is going to make sure that they touch.
I just need to trust Him
Deuteronomy 32:4
He is the Rock, his works are perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God who does no wrong, upright and just is he.