On Cancer and Hope

Six years ago, cancer made me grimace a bit. Say, "I'm sorry." Certainly feel sympathy for the person unfortunate enough the receive such a life altering diagnosis.

Then, for two years, I cried.

I cried as my daddy walked me down the aisle and gave me a big hug, then smiled as I married the man of my dreams.

I cried when my mom called to tell me my successful, intelligent father was unable to compose an email, was dizzy when running as he trained for a marathon, was confessing to her that he was worried that something was not right.

I cried on a Friday evening in Holy Family ER as we received the news we'd expected; we'd feared. A brain tumor.

I cried the following week as he underwent surgery, praying that as the skilled surgeon removed a portion of his left temporal lobe, he would not be forever changed.

I cried as we received word that the surgery was successful, the tumor was removed, and he was in recovery.

I cried later, home in Loren's arms, at the doctor's words to us in a secluded room. Glioblastoma Multiforme. An incredibly aggressive brain cancer with a life expectancy of one to two years.

I cried, alone, in the parking garage of the Sacred Heart doctor's building, after the bumps and clangs of the MRI machine battered my heart, and the appointments following told us the inevitable, that the tumor had grown, that there was a new tumor, that there was not much time.

I cried as the smallest, most meaningless things were taken. The ability to walk. The ability to talk. Sleeping in his own bed, in his own room. Each indignity brought fresh tears in the solitude of my car, my childhood bedroom, my home.

I cried when I heard the news that his pastor, Chris Merkling, came and preached the gospel to him, quoting Romans 10, and my dad, with his limited speech, professed Christ.

And I cried that last weekend, as the two men I loved most in the world, my daddy and my husband, sat on the deck in the cool October air and smoked one last cigar together. Inside, Jaime and I held each other, and she wept, "I'm going to miss grandpa." Me too, baby.

And finally, I cried as he miraculously overcame the insidious tumor long enough to awaken, squeeze my hand, look me and his youngest grandbaby at the time, Abby, in the eyes, and say, "I sure love you guys." His last words.

And so tonight, I cry again for a man who does not know my name, who I have never met. Matt Chandler is an amazing pastor in Texas who I've linked a few videos to. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and from the pathology report, it appears to be the same aggressive form that my dad died from. I cry for his wife, for his small children, for a church whose hearts must be breaking as the news continues to get worse for him. I cry that words like chemo wafers, gamma knife, and astrocytoma will become routine.

And I cry from the hope of his message, recorded before he went into surgery, that I just summoned the courage to watch tonight, after prodding from Loren and other friends. It's the hope we cling to, even in the midst of an impossibly aggressive brain cancer with no cure, very little treatment, and unfortunately, no hope.

But even as I cry, this is NOT where our hope is. My dad's hope was not in his physical body before cancer, and it wasn't after. Our hope is in Christ. I pray that you will take four minutes to watch the video of a man staring in the face of a death sentence. And that you, too, will find hope in something much, much bigger than yourself.


http://fm.thevillagechurch.net/blog/pastors/?p=363